Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

He kept mumbling over and over, ‘She was smiling, the saali!’ To him her smile seemed as naked as her body. In fact, both looked contrived.

Khushia’s thoughts repeatedly went back to his childhood when a neighbour often asked him, ‘Khushia, my son, run along and fetch me a bucket of water.’ After he filled the bucket and brought it back, she would tell him from behind the threadbare screen of her dhoti, ‘Bring it here and put it next to me. I have soap on my face; I can’t see.’ When he lifted the dhoti to place the bucket near her, he would see a naked woman covered in soapsuds, but that sight had never stirred up such excitement.

‘Well, I was just a little boy then. There’s got to be a big difference between a simple, innocent little boy and a grown man! Who hides their body from a mere boy? Now I’m almost twenty-eight years old; not even an old hag would stand naked in front of a twenty-eight-year-old man.’

What the hell had Kanta taken him for? Did he lack any of the things a strapping youth could lay claim to? It’s true that the unexpected sight of Kanta’s naked body had thrown him off balance. But had he not surreptitiously scanned the assets of that body, which in spite of being subjected to repeated harsh treatment had retained their shapeliness and firmness? Had the thought not crossed his mind, because he was a man, that she was a steal at ten rupees? And hadn’t he labelled that bank clerk who visited her on Dussehra an unlucky fool because he left without touching her when he couldn’t get her to lower her rate by two rupees? On top of all that, hadn’t all his muscles felt a strange sensation of tautness, so much so that he thought his bones would crack under the pressure? Then why hadn’t this dusky girl from Mangalore considered him a man , not ‘just our Khushia’, and had let him see all of her?

In a fit of anger, he spat out a stream of paan juice, which splashed on to the sidewalk painting flowery patterns. Then he got up, hopped on the tram and went home.

He took a bath and donned a brand new dhoti. One of the shops in his building was a barbershop. Khushia went in and began combing his hair in the mirror. Then, giving in to a sudden impulse, he plunked himself down in one of the chairs and asked the barber earnestly for a proper shave. Since this was Khushia’s second request for a shave that day, the barber reminded him, ‘Khushia, did you forget, I just shaved you this morning?’ Khushia quickly ran the back of his hand along his cheeks and said in all seriousness, ‘Yes, but it isn’t close enough.’

After he got a close shave and a little bit of powder dusted on his face, he left the shop. There was a taxi stand directly across from it. He hailed a taxi in the peculiar manner of Bombay-wallahs, calling out ‘Chhi-chhi!’ After he sat down, the driver turned around and asked, ‘Where to, Sahib?’

These three words, but especially ‘Sahib’, sent a wave of exhilaration through Khushia. He smiled and said in an exceedingly friendly tone, ‘I’ll tell you in a second, but first go towards Opera House. . by way of Lamington Road. Got it?’

The taxi driver pushed the red flag on his meter down and headed for Lamington Road with a honk. After they had come to the tail end of the road, Khushia instructed him, ‘Turn left.’

The taxi turned left. Before the driver could switch gears, Khushia abruptly ordered, ‘Stop for a minute, there, near the lamp post.’ The taxi pulled up right in front of the lamp post. Khushia got out of the vehicle and walked over to a paan-wallah’s stall. He bought a paan, exchanged a few words with a guy who was standing by the stall, guided him into the taxi and told the driver, ‘Now go straight.’

They drove for quite a while, the driver turning whichever way Khushia ordered, through several bustling bazaars full of glittering lights, finally entering a dimly lit lane with very little traffic. Some people had rolled their beds out on to the sidewalk and were stretched out on them. Others were getting a leisurely massage. The taxi motored past these people and came to stop outside a wooden house fashioned somewhat like a bungalow. ‘Okay, go. I’ll wait here in the taxi,’ Khushia told his companion in a hushed voice. Gaping at Khushia like a fool, the man got out, walked over to the bungalow and went inside. Khushia sank down into his seat, putting one leg on top of the other. Then he took out a biri, lit it, took a few drags and tossed it out of the window. He was feeling very restless. His heart was beating so wildly that he was certain the driver had left the engine running to boost the fare. ‘How much more do you expect to make by letting the engine run?’ he asked.

The driver turned and said, ‘But, Seth, the engine isn’t running.’

The realization that the engine wasn’t running only heightened Khushia’s agitation and he started chewing on his lip. Then, setting the boat-shaped cap tucked under his arm on his head, he tapped gently on the driver’s shoulder and said, ‘Look, a girl will come out soon. You take off as soon as she steps inside the cab. Understand? Don’t be afraid. There won’t be any trouble.’

Just then two figures came out of the wooden house. Khushia’s companion was in front and Kanta was right behind him, dressed in a screaming-red sari.

Khushia quickly moved to the part of the seat that was dark. His companion opened the door, helped Kanta climb in, and then shut it. Suddenly a perplexed voice, somewhat resembling a shout, shot from Kanta’s throat. ‘You — Khushia?’

‘Yes, it’s me, Khushia, so what? You got your money, didn’t you?’ His thick voice rose. ‘Driver, take us to Juhu.’

The driver turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered, drowning out whatever it was that Kanta said. The taxi lurched forward, leaving Khushia’s befuddled companion behind, and disappeared in the shadows of the dimly lit lane.

From that day forward no one ever saw Khushia on the stoop of the auto supply shop again.

A few years after Partition, the thought occurred to the governments of Pakistan and Hindustan that, as with ordinary prisoners, an exchange of lunatics was in order. Muslim madmen in Indian asylums should be sent over to Pakistan and the Hindu and Sikh lunatics languishing in Pakistani madhouses should be handed over to Hindustan.

Whether the proposition was smart or dumb only God knows. Anyway, following the decision of some wise men, a bunch of high-level conferences were convened on either side and concluded with the fixing of a date for the transfer. A thorough scrutiny was mounted. Muslim lunatics with relatives still living in Hindustan were allowed to stay there; others were shepherded to the border. In Pakistan, the question of keeping anyone didn’t even arise since nearly all Hindus and Sikhs had already migrated to Hindustan. The remaining Hindu and Sikh lunatics were rounded up and brought over to the border under police escort.

Regardless of what did or didn’t happen across the border, in the Lahore asylum the news of the coming exchange stirred up rather interesting speculation among the inmates. There was one Muslim lunatic who had never missed reading the newspaper Zamindaar during the last twelve years. When a friend asked him, ‘Molbi Sab, what is this thing called Pakistan?’ he gave the matter prolonged, deep thought and said, ‘It’s a place in India where they make straight razors.’

The explanation satisfied his friend.

Likewise, one Sikh inmate asked another Sikh, ‘Sardarji, why are we being sent to Hindustan? We don’t know their language.’

The latter smiled. ‘But I know the Hindustoras’ language. They are absolute rascals — these Hindustanis. They strut around.’