Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

I wondered what to say and looked at her. She lowered her face with an endearing blush. Without thinking I blurted out, ‘I think very highly of her.’

Babu Gopinath was pleased. ‘Manto Sahib,’ he began, ‘she is a very nice girl. She isn’t fond of jewellery or any of the other things women usually hanker after. I’ve asked her many times, “My dear, shall I buy you a house?” And do you know how she replied? “A house of my own, what for? I have nobody”. . Tell me, Manto Sahib, how much would a car cost?’

‘I don’t have the foggiest idea.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said incredulously. ‘Impossible, Manto Sahib, impossible that you wouldn’t know the price of a car. Please come with me tomorrow. We’ll buy a car for Zeeno. She can’t do without a car in Bombay.’

Zeenat’s face remained impassive.

Babu Gopinath was quite drunk now and growing increasingly more sentimental. ‘You’re a very erudite man, Manto Sahib. By comparison, I’m just an ignoramus. But tell me, please, how might I serve you! Yesterday Sando mentioned you in passing. I immediately sent for a taxi and told him, “Take me to Manto Sahib.” Please forgive me if I’ve offended you in any way. I’ve done many wrongs. . Shall I send for some more whisky?’

‘Oh no. I’ve had enough.’

He grew even more sentimental. ‘Have some more, Manto Sahib, please.’ He again took out the wad of notes and began peeling off a hundred-rupee note. I snatched the whole wad and pushed it back into his pocket. ‘What about the hundred-rupee note you gave to Ghulam Ali earlier?’

For some reason that wasn’t clear to me, I was concerned about Babu Gopinath. How a bunch of suckers had stuck to this poor soul like leeches! I had taken him for a gullible fool, but he caught my meaning all right, looked at me and smiled. ‘Manto Sahib, whatever was left of that note will either fall out of Ghulam Ali’s pocket or. .’

Just then Ghulam Ali entered and announced, painfully, that some bastard pickpocket had cleaned him out at the restaurant. Babu Gopinath smiled at me. He quickly peeled off another hundred-rupee note and gave it to Ghulam Ali. ‘Go, get some food. Come on, quick.’

It took me half a dozen meetings to discover Babu Gopinath’s true personality. While it’s not possible to know another person completely, I did discover quite a few interesting things about him. First, I must admit that my initial impression of him as an absolute moron turned out to be wrong. He knew well enough that Sando, Ghulam Ali, and Sardar who pretended to be his bosom buddies were, in fact, nothing more than a bunch of self-serving opportunists. He let them ride roughshod over him, accepted their curses and scorn, but never got angry. ‘Manto Sahib, to this day I’ve never turned down anyone’s counsel,’ he told me. ‘Whenever anyone offers his opinion, I say Subhanallah ! They take me for a dullard, but I consider them wise. At least they had the wisdom to recognize in me the kind of ignorance that allows them to take advantage of me. You see, from early on, I’ve hung out with mendicants and kunjar s. *I’ve developed a fellow feeling, a kind of affection for them. To tell you the truth, I can’t imagine myself living apart from them. I’ve already decided that when my fortune runs out, I’ll go and live in a shrine. A prostitute’s kotha and a pir’s mazaar —these are the two places that give me comfort and a sense of peace and serenity. Soon I shan’t be welcome at any more kothas for I’ll have exhausted all my money. But there’s no lack of pirs in Hindustan. I’ll retire to some mazaar or other.’

‘Why are you so attracted to kothas and mazaars?’ I asked.

After some thought he answered, ‘Do you really want to know why? Because deceit, nothing but deceit resides there from floor to ceiling. Can you think of a better place for someone who wants to indulge in self-deception?’

I asked him another question, ‘You’re fond of listening to singing girls; are you a music buff?’

‘No, not at all,’ he answered. ‘And it’s just as well. That way I can listen to the most disagreeable voice and still sway my head in appreciation. . Manto Sahib, I’m not interested in listening to music, but I do immensely enjoy pulling a ten- or hundred-rupee note out of my pocket and flashing it in front of the singer. I pull out a note and show it to her, she gets up to retrieve it with a delightful air, she draws near, I stick it into my socks, she bends over to pull it out — oh, you can’t imagine the kick I get out of the whole routine! People like me love these triflings, otherwise who doesn’t know that parents send their daughters to whorehouses to prostitute and people send their God to tombs and shrines to do the same.’

I don’t know much about Babu Gopinath’s folks except that his father was a penny-pinching moneylender who left him an estate worth ten lakh rupees. The minute he came into this fortune, he started squandering it however he pleased. He arrived in Bombay with fifty thousand rupees on him. Even though things were quite inexpensive, he still spent a hundred to a hundred and twenty-five rupees every day.

He bought Zeeno a Fiat car for, perhaps, three thousand, and hired a chauffeur for her, a goonish character. For some reason Babu Gopinath felt drawn to such people.

Over time our meetings became more frequent. While I merely found him interesting, he treated me with utmost deference, displaying greater courtesy and respect than anyone else.

One evening when I arrived at his place I was totally bowled over to find Shafiq hanging out there. Perhaps you will understand better if I spell out his full name: Muhammad Shafiq Tusi. Widely known as something of an avant-garde singer and an exceptional wit, there was an aspect of his life most knew nothing about: Before having relations with three sisters, one after the other for three or four years each, he had had their mother as a mistress as well. Still lesser known was the fact that he didn’t like his first wife, who had died shortly after they were married, because she wasn’t coy and flirtatious like professional prostitutes.

However, anyone even slightly acquainted with him knew that in his forty years (the normal lifespan for this period) literally hundreds of prostitutes had kept him as their lover. He dressed extremely well, ate the finest foods and drove the best cars, without spending a penny of his own money on any fille de joie .

His wit, which betrayed a trace of the ribald humour of the miraasi s, never failed to fascinate women, especially women of pleasure; they were instinctively drawn to him without his making any effort.

I wasn’t surprised at all when I saw him talking pleasantly with Zeenat; what did surprise me though was how he had managed to drop in here so out of the blue. Only Sando knew him, but the two hadn’t been on speaking terms for some time. (I later found out that it was Sando, in fact, who had hauled him along. Apparently, they had patched things up.)

Babu Gopinath sat in a corner puffing away at his hookah. I don’t recall having mentioned this before: He never smoked cigarettes. Muhammad Shafiq Tusi was rolling out his smutty jokes about miraasis. Zeenat appeared to be listening to them with only slight, and Sardar with great, interest. Shafiq saw me and shouted with gusto, ‘Welcome! Welcome! I didn’t know you too have a fondness for this alley!’

Sando exclaimed, ‘Come in, come in. . Here comes Mr Angel of Death. Dharan takhta !’

I got his drift.

A short gossip session ensued. I noticed that the exchange of glances between Zeenat and Muhammad Shafiq Tusi was more than just that. It was telling another story. She was a mere novice at this art, but Shafiq’s exceptional finesse more than made up for her lack of skill. Sardar was watching this exchange like a master trainer studying the manoeuvres of his pupils in the wrestling arena.