Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

Rub Nawaz’s thoughts drifted off to the Muslim soldiers who had been forced to abandon their homes and property to come here. Whatever they owned had been taken away. And what had they found here? Nothing, except guns, of the same weight and calibre, even the same make.

Whereas before they had fought together against a common enemy, whom they had merely imagined to be their enemy for the sake of their stomachs and rewards and recognition, now they had themselves split into two groups. They were no longer Indian soldiers, but Indian and Pakistani soldiers. The thought that there were still Muslim soldiers back in India flummoxed his mind, and when he thought about Kashmir his mind became even more muddled. It just refused to think further. Were Pakistanis fighting for Kashmir or for Kashmiri Muslims? If the latter, why not also fight for the Muslims of Hyderabad and Junagarh? And if this was purely a war for Islam, why weren’t other Muslim countries fighting alongside of them?

After thinking long and hard, Rub Nawaz concluded that these matters were far too subtle for the intelligence of an ordinary soldier, who needed to be a little thick in the head if he wanted to be a good soldier. It was best not to think about them. There were times, though, when his disposition got the better of him and he did pursue these thoughts furtively only to have a hearty laugh about his lapse.

The battle for control of the road that led from Muzaffarabad to Kiran had been raging along the banks of the Kishan Ganga for some time. It was a strange battle. At night, rather than the sound of bullets, a crescendo of abuses, each one smuttier than the last, rose from the neighbouring hills.

One evening, as Subedar Rub Nawaz was getting his platoon ready for a surprise assault, a barrage of obscenities shot up from a trench below their position. Initially he freaked out. It seemed as if a gang of afreets were jitterbugging and laughing raucously. ‘Pig’s ass,’ he muttered. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

One member of his platoon responded with a filthy abuse and said to Rub Nawaz, ‘Subedar Sahib, the motherfuckers are swearing at us.’

At first, when he heard the provocative insults, Rub Nawaz thought of throwing himself headlong into the fray, but decided to hold back. His men couldn’t stay quiet for very long. Soon they had had enough and began returning the enemy’s noxious abuse with their own, equally hideous, invectives at the top of their lungs. It was a peculiar battle for Subedar Rub Nawaz. He tried a few times to restrain his men, but the profanities got so vicious it wasn’t possible to hold back.

Naturally the enemy couldn’t be seen at night, but it also couldn’t be spotted in daylight because of the cover of thick vegetation. Only their foul abuse rose from the foothills, crashed against the rocks and melted into thin air. Rub Nawaz felt that his men’s counter-abuses probably weren’t making it all the way down the valley but were simply evaporating overhead. This rattled his nerves and in a huff he ordered them to attack.

He noticed something rather peculiar about the hills. Some were densely covered with trees and vegetation on the upward slope and entirely barren on the downward, while others were the reverse, with tall, sturdy pines on the downward side. The needles on these pines were so damp that the boots of the soldiers lost all traction so his men kept slipping again and again.

On the hill occupied by the Subedar’s contingent, the slope provided no cover as it was completely without trees or brush. It was obvious the attack would be quite hazardous, but his men, chomping at the bit to get even for the blistering obscenities hurled at them, were more than willing to go for it anyway. As it turned out, they were successful. Their losses included two men dead and four wounded. The enemy lost three men and the rest took to their heels, leaving their provisions behind.

The Subedar and his men were terribly disappointed that they were unable to capture even a single enemy soldier alive whom they would have treated to their choicest profanities for as long as they liked. However, they did succeed in capturing a major enemy fortification. Rub Nawaz immediately relayed the outcome of the attack to his platoon commander, Major Aslam, over the wireless and received his commendation.

Almost every hill had a pond at the top, including the one they had captured. This one was quite a bit larger than the others and had crystal clear water. Everyone took a dip despite the frigid weather. Their teeth chattered, but they didn’t care. They were still splashing when the sound of a gunshot rang through the valley. They all immediately dropped flat on the ground, completely naked. A little while later Subedar Rub Nawaz scanned the downward slope with his binoculars, but failed to spot the enemy hideout. As he was looking, another gunshot rang out. He saw smoke rising from a relatively low hill just beyond the bottom of the slope. Without delay he ordered his troops to open fire.

A volley of bullets rained down and was returned from the other side. Subedar Rub Nawaz tried to study the enemy position through his binoculars. Most likely they were huddled behind a pile of large stones but this provided scanty cover. He was sure they couldn’t remain there much longer. The second any of them decided to make a move, they would come within range of his men’s guns.

Firing continued for a while. Eventually he ordered his men to save their ammunition and shoot only when the enemy made a move and was exposed. Just then he noticed his naked body and muttered under his breath, ‘Goddamn it. . Without clothes a man looks like an animal!’

Now and then the enemy fired a random bullet that was returned just as sporadically from this side. This silly game continued for two whole days. The weather had suddenly turned brutally cold, so cold that it froze your blood even in the daytime. Subedar Rub Nawaz got round after round of tea going to stay warm. The kettle was kept at a boil all the time, but they never took their eyes off the enemy. When one soldier had to move, another took the binoculars and kept watch.

A bone-piercing wind was gusting. When the soldier on lookout said there was some surreptitious movement behind the stone fortification, Subedar Rub Nawaz took the binoculars himself and peered through them. He didn’t detect any movement. Suddenly a call tore through the air, its echo ricocheting for a long time against the rocks in the clump of neighbouring hills. He couldn’t make out what it was saying. He fired a shot in exchange. Once the echo of his fire had died out, the same voice rose again. Clearly, it was calling him. ‘You pig’s ass!’ he shouted back. ‘What do you want?’

‘Don’t call me bad names, brother,’ the enemy shouted. Apparently he wasn’t too far away.

Rub Nawaz looked at his men and repeated ‘brother. .’ just as surprised as he was pissed off. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, ‘No brothers here, only your mottha’s, fuckers.’

‘Rub Nawaz,’ a wounded voice rose quickly from the other side.

Rub Nawaz trembled.

The pained voice kept crashing against the hills, repeating ‘Rub Nawaz. . Rub Nawaz’ like a refrain, each with a different cadence, before it evaporated into the freezing air.

Rub Nawaz came around after a long time. ‘Who might that be?’ he said to himself, and then muttered, ‘Pig’s ass!’

He knew that the bulk of the Tetwal front was made up of troops from the old 6/9 Regiment; he had been one of them too. But the voice — whom did it belong to? Many people had been his close friends, and there were others he bore enmity towards on account of some personal matters, but who was this person who had taken his abuse to heart and was calling out loudly to him? He brought the binoculars to his eyes and peered through them again. He couldn’t see anyone in the sparse, swaying vegetation on the hill. He cupped his hands around his mouth again and blared, ‘Who is it? This is Rub Nawaz. . Rub Nawaz.’