Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

So I told him, ‘You’re absolutely right.’

This made Mumtaz think again. He said with some unease, ‘No, I wouldn’t say “absolutely right”. I mean, yes, sure, this is all okay. But perhaps I haven’t been able to say it all clearly, the way I want to. By “religion” I don’t mean this religion, nor this dharm, which afflicts ninety-nine per cent of us. I rather mean that very special thing which sets one individual apart from all others, the special thing which shows that someone is truly a human being. But what is it? Unfortunately I can’t put it on my palm and show it to you.’ A sudden gleam appeared in his eyes and he said, as if to himself, ‘But what exactly was special in him? A staunch Hindu, who worked the most abominable profession, and yet his soul — it couldn’t have been more radiant.’

‘Whose soul?’ I asked.

‘A certain pimp’s.’

The three of us started. Mumtaz’s tone was natural enough, so I asked him in perfect seriousness, ‘A pimp’s?’

Mumtaz nodded in affirmation. ‘What a man! Amazing. And even more amazing that he was, as it is commonly called, a pimp — a procurer of women — and yet had an absolutely clear conscience.’

Mumtaz paused for a few moments, as if refreshing his memory of past events, and then added, ‘I don’t remember his full name. Something Sahae. He came from Benares. And he was extremely particular about cleanliness. It was a smallish place where he lived, but he had elegantly divided it into neat little sections. The customers’ privacy was scrupulously maintained. There were no beds or cots, but instead mattresses and bolsters. The sheets and pillowcases were always clean and spotless. And even though he had a servant, he did all the cleaning and dusting himself. Not just cleaning; he did everything himself, and he always put his heart into it. He was not given to cheating or deception. If it was late at night and only watered-down liquor could be had in the neighbourhood, he would say outright, “Sahib, don’t waste your money.” If he had a suspicion about one of the girls, he’d let you know upfront. He even told me that he had earned twenty thousand rupees in three years, taking a two-and-a-half-rupee commission from every ten. He only wanted to make another ten thousand rupees. Why only that much? Why not more? He told me that after he had made his thirty thousand he would return to Benares and open a fabric shop. I don’t know why he was so keen on opening a fabric shop, of all things.’

At this point in the narration I couldn’t hold back my surprise, ‘What a strange man!’

Mumtaz continued: ‘I used to think he was a fake right down to his littlest toe. A huge fraud. Who could believe that he called all the girls who worked for him his “daughters”. He had opened savings accounts at the post office for all the girls and every month he deposited all their income for them. It was just unbelievable that he actually paid out of his own pocket for the expenses of some ten to twelve girls. Everything he did seemed a bit too contrived to me.

‘One day when I went to his place he told me that it was both Amina’s and Sakina’s day off. “I let them go out one day every week so they can go to some restaurant and satisfy their craving for meat. Here, as you know, everyone else is a Vaishnava.” I smiled to myself thinking he was lying. Another day he told me that the Hindu girl from Ahmedabad whom he had married off to a Muslim customer had written him a letter from Lahore saying that she had made a request at the tomb of Data Sahib which had been granted. So now she had made another such petition on behalf of Sahae: that he might earn his thirty thousand rupees soon and return to Benares to open his fabric shop. I broke out laughing. I thought he was trying to win me over since I’m a Muslim.’

‘Were you wrong about him?’ I asked Mumtaz.

‘Absolutely! There was no difference in his word and his deed. It’s possible that he had some weakness and he may have erred before in his life, but on the whole, he was a very fine person.’

‘And just how did you conclude this?’ Juggal asked.

‘At his death.’ Mumtaz fell silent for a while. After some time he peered into the space where sky and sun had been gathered into a foggy embrace. ‘The rioting had begun. Early in the morning one day I was passing through Bhindi Bazaar. There were few people around due to the curfew. Even the trams weren’t running. I walked along looking for a taxi. Near J.J. Hospital, I saw a man rolled into a bundle by the large bin on the sidewalk. I thought it must be some labourer sleeping, but when I saw the blood and gore splattered on the cobblestones, I stopped. It was clearly murder. I thought it best to get out of there, but then I perceived a slight movement in the body. I stopped again. Not a soul was around. I peered down at the body. It was the familiar face of Sahae, but with blood all over it. I sat down beside him on the sidewalk and looked closely. His twill shirt, which was always spotless, was soaked in blood. The wound was perhaps in the area of the ribs. He started to moan faintly. I carefully shook his shoulder, as one does to wake someone from sleep. I even called him a few times by the only name I knew. I was about to get up and leave when his eyes opened. For a long time he stared at me with those half-opened eyes. Then his entire body started twitching and, recognizing me, he said, ‘You? You?’

‘One after another I asked him all kinds of questions: Why had he come to that area? Who had wounded him? How long had he been lying on the sidewalk? The hospital was right across from us — did he want me to let them know?

‘He was too weak to talk. Once I’d exhausted all my questions, he groaned out these words with the greatest difficulty: “It was my time. This is how Bhagwan willed it!”

‘Who knows what Bhagwan wanted, but being a Muslim, I didn’t want to see a man I knew to be a Hindu die in a Muslim neighbourhood, thinking that his murderer might be a Muslim, as was the man who now stood watching his life ebb away. I’m not a coward, but at the time I felt worse than a coward. On the one hand, I was afraid of being arrested for the murder, and on the other I was scared that even if I wasn’t arrested, I could still be detained for interrogation. It also occurred to me that if I took him to the hospital he might implicate me to avenge himself. After all, he was dying, why not take me along too? Assailed by such thoughts, I was about to flee when Sahae called my name. I stopped. I didn’t want to, but my feet simply froze. I looked at him as though saying, “Get on with it, mister, I have got to go.” Doubling over with pain, he unbuttoned his shirt with great difficulty and put his hand inside, but then his strength gave way. At that point he said to me, “In the waistcoat under the shirt. . in the side pocket. . there is some jewellery and twelve hundred rupees. It. . is Sultana’s property. . I’d left it with a friend for safekeeping. . Today. . I was going to send it to her. . you know it’s getting ever more dangerous these days. Please give it to her and. . please tell her to leave right away. . but. . be careful about yourself!”’

Mumtaz fell silent, but I felt as though somewhere far away, where the sky and the sea were curled up in a foggy embrace, his voice was slowly dissolving into the voice of Sahae as it rose on the sidewalk pavement near J.J. Hospital.

The ship’s horn sounded. Mumtaz said, ‘I did go and see Sultana. When I gave her the jewellery and money, she broke into tears.’

We said goodbye to Mumtaz and walked off the ship. He was standing on the deck by the guardrail, waving his right hand. I said to Juggal, ‘Don’t you feel as though Mumtaz is calling after Sahae’s spirit — to make it his mate during his trip?’