Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

We felt relieved, as did our laundry.

When the Congress party assumed power, alcohol was banned. Imported liquor and wines were still available, but home brews could neither be made nor sold. Now, about ninety-nine per cent of dhobis were habitual drinkers. They spent the whole day standing knee-deep in water and their evenings drinking anywhere from a quarter to half a bottle. Liquor had, in a way, become part of their lives. Our dhobi fell ill. He treated the illness with the home-brewed poison that was made illegally and sold surreptitiously, with the result that it ruined his stomach and brought him near death.

I was unusually busy with work in those days. I left early in the morning, at about six, and returned around ten or ten-thirty in the evening. When my wife learned about our dhobi’s life-threatening illness, she took a taxi and went to see him. She had the servant and the taxi driver carry him to the taxi and brought him to a doctor. The doctor was impressed by her concern for the dhobi and refused to accept his fee, but my wife insisted. ‘No, Doctor Sahib, you can’t claim the whole reward by yourself.’

The doctor smiled and said, ‘Well then, let’s split it fifty-fifty.’

He accepted half the fee.

The dhobi received proper medical treatment. A few injections took care of his stomach ailment. Nutritional supplements gradually restored his strength. Within a few months he had completely recovered. He was grateful and invoked God’s blessings on us all the time. ‘Bhagwan make Sab like Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar. Live in Colaba. Have children, lots money. Begum Sab came visit dhobi in car, took him to kila to see big doctor, who has mem . Bhagwan keep Begum Sab happy. .’

Many years, full of political upheavals, went by, yet the dhobi came every Sunday without fail. He was in robust health now. A long time had passed since his illness but he still remembered the care we had given him and never failed to invoke God’s blessings on us. He had given up drinking completely. Initially he did reminisce about his drinking days, but not at all now. He no longer felt the need for liquor after standing all day in water.

The situation in the country was deteriorating rapidly. Hindu — Muslim rioting followed Partition. Muslims were being slaughtered in Hindu areas and Hindus in Muslim neighbourhoods — not just in the darkness of the night but also in broad daylight. My wife left for Lahore.

When the situation grew even worse I told the dhobi, ‘Look, dhobi, you’d better stop work now. This is a Muslim neighbourhood. God forbid that someone should kill you.’

He smiled. ‘Sab, nobody kill me.’

Our neighbourhood witnessed several killings but the dhobi came regularly.

One Sunday, I was at home reading the newspaper. The sports page carried the cricket scores and the front page the tally of Hindus and Muslims murdered during the rioting. I was still wondering about the frightening similarity between the two counts when the dhobi showed up. I started checking the washed items against the notebook entry. Meanwhile, the dhobi kept chattering away light-heartedly: ‘Saaeed Shaleem Balishtar good man. When he go he give pagri, dhoti, kurta. Your Begum Sab also good person. Gone away, right? Her country, right? When you write her, give my salaam. She come my kholi. . in car. I had bad diarrhoea. Doctor put needle. Right away I good. When you write her, give my salaam. Say Ram Khilawan want you write him letter—’

I cut him off, rather sharply. ‘Dhobi, have you started drinking again?’

He laughed. ‘Drinking? Sab, find no drink now.’

I didn’t think it was right to say anything more. He gathered the dirty laundry in a bundle, said salaam, and left.

Conditions grew really critical over the next few days. A barrage of wires descended from Lahore making urgent pleas that I drop everything and head straight there. On Saturday I made up my mind to leave the next day. I wanted to leave early in the morning but my clothes were with the dhobi. I decided to go to his place and collect them myself before the onset of curfew. In the evening I set out for Mahalakshmi in a victoria carriage.

The curfew was an hour away. Traffic was still flowing in the streets and trams were rumbling on. When my carriage approached the bridge a commotion erupted and a stampede broke out. It looked as though bulls had come to blows. When the crowd thinned, I saw a whole bunch of club-wielding dhobis in the distance, dancing and making loud noises near the buffaloes. I was headed in that direction but the coachman refused to go. I paid him and started walking. When I came close to the dhobis they abruptly stopped their hullabaloo.

I stepped forward and asked one of them, ‘Where does Ram Khilawan live?’

Another dhobi, brandishing a club, came swaying his head and asked the one I had talked to, ‘What does he want?’

‘Wants to know where Ram Khilawan lives.’

This other fellow, completely inebriated, staggered forward and literally bumped into me in his drunken gait. ‘Who are you?’ he asked brusquely.

‘I?. . Ram Khilawan is my dhobi.’

‘Ram Khilawan’s your dhobi. And you’re the offspring of which dhobi?’

Some of the others in the group yelled, ‘A Hindu dhobi or a Muslimeen dhobi?’

All the dhobis, drunk to their teeth, gathered around me, ominously pumping their fists and swinging their clubs. I had to answer only one question — was I Muslim or Hindu?

I was frightened to death. It was impossible to get away as they had me completely surrounded. There wasn’t even a policeman anywhere in sight whom I might have called for help. I was at a complete loss, so I started babbling in disjointed sentences: ‘Ram Khilawan is Hindu. . I’m asking where he lives. . show me his kholi. . he is my dhobi for ten years. . he was very ill. . we treated him. . my wife. . my memsahib came here. . in a car. .’

My babble had gone only this far when I felt an immense wave of self-pity wash over me. Embarrassment gripped my heart; how low a man could sink to save his skin. The thought gave me the courage to say, ‘I’m Muslimeen.’

‘Kill him! Kill him!’

The dhobi who was dead drunk threw his glance to one side and shouted, ‘Wait! Let Ram Khilawan kill him!’

I turned around only to find Ram Khilawan standing behind me holding a stubby club in his hand. He looked at me and let loose with a tirade against Muslims, hurling the coarsest obscenities at them in his peculiar dhobi dialect. Raising the club above his head and mouthing abuses, he advanced towards me.

‘Ram Khilawan!’ I called out to him in a commanding voice.

‘Shut up! — you Ram Khilawan’s. .’ he thundered.

My last hope quickly ebbed away. When he was literally upon me, my throat went dry and I said in a hushed voice, ‘Ram Khilawan, don’t you recognize me?’

He raised his club higher to hit me. All of a sudden his eyes narrowed, dilated and narrowed again in quick succession. He let the club fall from his hand, came nearer, gaped at me and then shouted, ‘Sab!’ He turned to his people and accosted them, ‘No Muslimeen. He my Sab. . Begum Sab’s Sab. Come to me. . in car. . took to doctor. . he made my diarrhoea good.’

He reasoned with his fellows at length. But would they listen to him? Drunkards all. Soon they were arguing heatedly. A few sided with Ram Khilawan and the brawl escalated into fisticuffs. I quietly slipped away from the scene.

By nine o’clock the next morning my bags were packed and ready, only my boat ticket, which a friend had gone to buy on the black market, needed to arrive.

I was feeling anxious. Strange thoughts were colliding inside my mind. I wanted the ticket to fly over to me so I could set out for the pier at once. Even the slightest delay and I was convinced my flat would take me prisoner for life.