Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

Some days before the scheduled exchange of lunatics, a Muslim friend of Bishan Singh came to see him. He had never visited him before in all these years. Bishan Singh saw him but shrugged and started to turn back. The guards stopped him and said, ‘He’s come to visit you. He’s your old friend Fazl Din.’

Bishan Singh hardly glanced at the man and started to mumble something. Fazl Din drew closer and put his hand on Bishan Singh’s shoulder. ‘I’ve been thinking of visiting you for quite a while now but was pressed for time. All your relatives have safely left for Hindustan. I helped them as much as I could. Your daughter Roop Kaur. .’ He suddenly held back.

Bishan Singh looked as though he was trying to remember something and then mumbled, ‘Daughter Roop Kaur.’

Fazl Din said falteringly, ‘Yes. . She. . she’s all right. . she went with them.’

Bishan Singh remained quiet. Fazl Din continued, ‘Your family asked me to keep inquiring after your well-being. Now I hear that you’re also leaving for Hindustan. Give my salaams to brother Balbeer Singh and brother Vadhwa Singh. . and, yes, to sister Amrit Kaur as well. Tell brother Balbeer Singh that Fazl Din is doing well. The two brown buffaloes they had left behind — one of them gave birth to a male calf. The other also had a calf, a female, but it died after six days. . And if there’s anything more he’d like me to do, tell him I’m always ready. And this, here, a little morandas for you.’

Bishan Singh took the small sack of sweets and handed it to the guard standing nearby. He then asked Fazl Din, ‘Where is Toba Tek Singh?’

Fazl Din was a bit bewildered. ‘Where. . where it’s always been.’

Bishan Singh asked him again, ‘In Pakistan or in Hindustan?’

‘In Hindustan. . No, no, it’s in Pakistan.’ Fazl Din was flummoxed.

Bishan Singh left, mumbling, ‘ Upar de gurgur de aiynks de be-dhyaana de mung de daal aaf de Pakistan and Hindustan aaf de durfatte munh .’

Preparations for the exchange had been completed. The list of lunatics who would be swapped had been sent over to the country receiving them and the day when the exchange would take place had been fixed.

On a blistering cold morning, lorries packed with Hindu and Sikh lunatics started out from the Lahore asylum under police escort along with the officials overseeing the exchange. At the Wagah border, the superintendents of both sides met, concluded the preliminary formalities, and the exchange began, continuing well into the night.

Getting the lunatics out of the lorries and handing them over to the officials on the other side turned out to be a gruelling job indeed. Some resisted getting out, others who were willing to come out became impossible to control because they took off in different directions. As fast as the stark naked ones were clothed, they tore the clothes right off again. One rolled out a torrent of obscenities, another broke into song. Some got into fisticuffs, while others cried their hearts out, sobbing inconsolably. The hullabaloo was deafening. The female lunatics were raising their own separate hell. And all this in a cold so punishing that it made one’s teeth chatter non-stop.

The majority of lunatics were against the exchange. They couldn’t understand why they were being uprooted. Those who still had some sanity left were shouting Pakistan Zindabad! or Pakistan Murdabad! — which so enraged some Muslim and Sikh lunatics that they nearly came to blows.

When Bishan Singh’s turn came and the official across the Wagah border began to enter his name in the register, he asked, ‘Where is Toba Tek Singh — in Pakistan or in Hindustan?’

The official laughed. ‘In Pakistan.’

Bishan Singh jumped, withdrew to one side and ran to his fellow inmates. Pakistani guards grabbed him and started pushing him towards the other side of the border. He dug his heels in, refusing to budge. ‘Toba Tek Singh is here!’ and then he started to spew out loudly: ‘ Upar de gurgur de aiynks de be-dhyaana de mung de daal aaf Toba Tek Singh and Pakistan .’

They did their best to coax him into believing by saying ‘Look, Toba Tek Singh has now moved to Hindustan, and if it hasn’t yet, it will be sent there right away,’ but he stubbornly refused to accept that. When they attempted to drag him forcibly across the border, he dug in with his swollen legs with such determination on the patch of earth that lay in the middle that no force in the world could move him from it.

Since he was entirely harmless, the guards didn’t force him and let him stand where he was while the rest of the exchange continued.

Just before sunrise an ear-splitting cry shot out of Bishan Singh’s throat. Officials from both sides of the border rushed over to him, only to find that the man who had stood on his feet day and night for the past fifteen years was lying face down. There, behind the barbed wires, was Hindustan, and here, behind the same barbed wires was Pakistan. In between, on the thin strip of no-man’s land, lay Toba Tek Singh.

From isolated incidents of stabbing, news began to trickle down of full-blown skirmishes between parties in which kirpans, swords and guns were being used, not to mention knives and cleavers. Now and then one also heard of homemade bombs going off.

Everyone in Amritsar was of the opinion that these communal riots would not last long. Once passions had cooled down the situation would return to normal. Riots had erupted in Amritsar before, but they had had a short life. Deathly commotion, in which murder and carnage took place, raged for a few days and then subsided on its own. If past experience was any indication, people believed that the fire, after it had spent its fury, would die down. This, however, didn’t happen. The rioting grew worse by the day.

Muslim residents of largely Hindu neighbourhoods began to flee. Likewise, Hindus in predominantly Muslim areas abandoned their homes for more secure locations, convinced that such moves were temporary, only until the atmosphere had been cleansed of its rioting furore.

Retired sub-judge Mian Abdul Hayy was not overly worried. He was absolutely sure that the situation would normalize before long. He lived with his eleven-year-old son, a daughter who was seventeen, and a servant of about seventy who had been with him for a long time. It was a small family. Notwithstanding his confidence, at the first signs of rioting the prudent Mian Sahib had stockpiled food. He didn’t have to worry about food supplies in case the situation — God forbid — took a turn for the worse and shops closed down for an indefinite period. His daughter Sughra, on the other hand, wasn’t quite as relaxed about the matter. Their three-storey house was quite a bit taller than the surrounding buildings. You could easily see almost three-quarters of the city from its upper floor. Sughra had noticed that not a day passed without some conflagration or other starting somewhere in the distance or close by. Earlier, the blare of fire engines could be heard as they sped by, but no longer. There were just too many fires.

The view at night was something else again. In the pitch dark, tall flames shot up like so many devas spewing fire, followed by strange noises that sounded dreadful with their mixture of ear-splitting cries of Har Har Mahadev! and Allahu Akbar!

Sughra did not mention her premonitions and fears to her father. He had already advised them not to be afraid; everything would be all right. And since Mian Sahib had been right most of the time before, she felt somewhat reassured. However, when the power and water supply was cut off, she couldn’t hold back and mentioned her anxiety to him, diffidently suggesting that they move temporarily to Sharifpur where other neighbouring Muslims were headed. But Mian Sahib stood firm by his opinion. ‘No need to panic,’ he said calmly. ‘The situation will get better very soon.’