Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

Today as I recall Babaji, Nigar, Ghulam Ali, the ravishingly beautiful pandit girl, indeed the entire atmosphere of Amritsar, engulfed as it was in those days in the fine romantic haze created by the movement for independence — all appear like a dream, the sort one longs to have over and over again.

I still haven’t seen Babaji’s ashram, but I hate it as passionately today as I did then. I don’t care at all for a place where people are subjected to an unnatural way of life. To strive for freedom is fine. I can even understand dying for it. But to turn living people into mere vegetables, without passion or drive, is beyond me. To live in poor housing, shun amenities, sing the Lord’s praises, shout out patriotic slogans — fine! But to stifle in humans the very desire for beauty! What kind of humans have no feeling for beauty, no zest for life? Show me the difference between the ashrams, madrasas and vidyalayas that accomplish this and a field of horseradishes!

Babaji sat talking about the other activities in Jallianwala Bagh with Ghulam Ali and Nigar for a long time. Finally he told the couple, who, apparently, had not forgotten the purpose of their visit, to return there, and promised to wed them himself in the evening on the following day.

The two were elated. What greater fortune could there be than to have Babaji himself perform their marriage! Ghulam Ali later told me that he had become so overjoyed he thought it couldn’t be true. Babaji’s slightest gesture turned into a historic event. He couldn’t believe that such a great man would personally come to Jallianwala Bagh for the sake of an ordinary man, a man who had become the Congress’s ‘dictator’ merely by accident. Precisely the headline which splashed across the front pages of newspapers throughout India.

All day long Ghulam Ali wondered whether Babaji would really show up. Wasn’t he a terribly busy man after all? But the doubt, which he had raised as a psychological precaution, proved wrong. Promptly at 6 p.m., just as the bushes of raat ki rani were beginning to pour forth their fragrance, and a band of volunteers who had set up a small tent for the bride and groom was decorating it with jasmines, marigolds and roses, Babaji walked in, supporting himself on his lathi, with the patriotic song-spouting pandit girl, his secretary and Lala Hari Ram in tow. The news of his arrival came moments before when Lala Hari Ram’s green car pulled up at Jallianwala Bagh’s main entrance.

I too was there. In another small tent, lady volunteers were helping Nigar into her bridal attire. Ghulam Ali had made no special arrangements. He’d spent the whole day negotiating with the city’s banias for provisions to feed the volunteers, after which he’d stolen a few moments to talk briefly with Nigar in private, and then, as I recall, told the officers under his charge only that at the end of the wedding ceremony he and Nigar would raise the flag together.

Ghulam Ali was standing by the well when he heard that Babaji had arrived, and, if I remember correctly, I was asking him, ‘You know, Ghulam Ali, don’t you, how this well was once filled to its mouth with the bodies of people slain in the firing? Today everybody drinks from it. It has watered every flower in this park. People come and pluck those flowers. But strangely, not even a drop carries the salty taste of blood. Not a single petal of a single flower has the redness of blood in it. Why is that?’

I vividly remember that as I spoke I had looked at the window of a neighbouring house where, it is said, a young girl had been shot dead by General Dyer as she stood watching the massacre. The streak of blood had begun to fade on the old lime wall behind the window.

Blood had become so cheap that spilling it no longer affected people as it once had. I remember I was in the third or fourth standard at school, and six or seven months after the bloody massacre our teacher had taken us to see Jallianwala Bagh. It hardly looked like a park then, just a dreary and desolate stretch of uneven earth, strewn all over with clods of dried dirt. I remember how the teacher had picked up a small clod, reddened I believe from paan spittle, and showed it to us, saying, ‘Look, it’s still red from the blood of our martyrs!’

As I write this story myriad things keep coming to mind. But it is the story of Ghulam Ali and Nigar’s marriage that I want to write, isn’t it?

Anyway, upon hearing that Babaji had arrived, Ghulam Ali rushed to gather the volunteers in one place. Together they gave Babaji a military salute. The two inspected different camps for quite some time. All the while Babaji, who had a keen sense of humour, fired off numerous witty remarks during conversation with female volunteers and other workers.

In the meantime, the evening haze began to settle over Jallianwala Bagh and lights came on here and there in nearby houses. A group of volunteer women started to chant bhajans. They sang in unison, some sweetly, but most harshly and out of tune. Together, though, they sounded pleasant enough. Babaji was listening with his eyes closed. Roughly a thousand people must have gathered. They sat on the ground around the platform. Except for the bhajan-singing girls, everyone else was quiet.

The chanting tapered off into a silence which seemed anxious to be broken. So when Babaji opened his eyes and trilled sweetly, ‘Children, as you already know, I’m here to unite these two freedom lovers in marriage,’ the entire Bagh resonated with loud cries of jubilation.

Nigar, in her bridal attire, sat in a corner of the platform, her head bowed low. She looked very lovely in her tricoloured khadi sari. Babaji motioned for her to come closer and sat her next to Ghulam Ali, which caused more cries of delight.

Ghulam Ali’s face was unusually flushed. When he took the wedding contract from his friend and handed it over to Babaji, I noticed his hand was shaking.

A maulvi sahib was also present on the platform. He recited the Qur’anic verse customary at weddings; Babaji listened to it with closed eyes. The custom of ‘proposal and acceptance’ over, Babaji gave his blessing to the bride and groom. Meanwhile, the congratulatory showering of the couple with chhuwara s — dried dates — traditional at such events, had begun. Babaji snatched a dozen or so for himself and tucked them away.

Smiling shyly, a Hindu girlfriend of Nigar’s gave Ghulam Ali a tiny box as a present and whispered something in his ear. He opened the box and covered the parting in Nigar’s hair with powdered sindoor. The drabness of Jallianwala Bagh was enlivened again with a round of loud applause.

Babaji got up amidst all the noise. A hush instantly fell over the crowd.

The mixed fragrance of raat ki rani and jasmine wafted by on the light evening breeze. The scene was absolutely breathtaking. Babaji’s voice had acquired an extra measure of sweetness today. After congratulating the couple on their wedding, he said, ‘These two will work for their country and nation with even greater dedication now, because the true meaning of marriage is nothing but true friendship between a man and a woman. Ghulam Ali and Nigar will work together as friends for swaraj. Such marriages are commonplace in Europe — I mean marriages based on friendship and friendship alone. People who are able to exorcize carnal passion from their lives are worthy of our respect.’

Babaji explicated his concept of marriage at length. He firmly believed that the true joy of marriage was something above and beyond the bodily union of husband and wife. He didn’t consider sexual union as important as people generally made it out to be. Thousands of people ate just to satisfy their craving for flavour. But did this mean that to do so was incumbent on humans? Although few people ate solely out of the need to stay alive, they alone knew the true meaning of eating. Likewise, only those people who married out of the desire to experience the purity of this emotion and the sanctity of this sacred relationship truly enjoyed connubial bliss.