Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

‘The agitated young men paid no heed to his words and started advancing towards the Queen’s statue. “I said don’t waste your energy,” Thaila admonished them again. “Come with me. Let’s beat the hell out of the goras who murdered our innocent people. Together we can easily wring their necks. Come on!”

‘By then some boys had already left for the statue, the rest halted and followed Thaila as he started for the bridge. I thought to myself, these boys, their mothers’ darlings, are walking towards certain death. From my hiding place near the fountain, I called out to Thaila, “Don’t go, yaar, why do you want to risk your life and theirs?”

‘He let out a strange, raucous laugh and said, “Thaila wants the goras to know that their bullets won’t scare him away.” He then turned to his companions and added, “If you’re afraid, you’re free to leave.”

‘In a situation such as this it’s hard to go back once you’ve started, especially when your leader is going forward fearlessly, showing little regard for his life.

‘The bridge isn’t all that far from the Hall Gate, some sixty or seventy yards at most. Thaila was ahead of everyone. Twenty steps away, where the railings of the bridge began, two mounted goras stood on guard. When Thaila approached the railings, shouting slogans, a shot was fired. I thought he had fallen, but he continued to advance undaunted. His pals panicked and took to their heels. He turned around and shouted, “Don’t run away. Come on!”

‘He was facing me as he said that, but then he turned to look at the goras while reaching with his hand to feel his back. In spite of the distance, I saw that red spots had appeared on his white bosky shirt. He darted forward like a wounded tiger. Another gunshot rang out. He wobbled a little and then pounced on one of the mounted goras. Within a second, the saddle was empty and the gora was flat on the ground with Thaila on top of him. The other soldier, a bit confused at first, tried to rein in his horse, which was bolting from fright, and then started shooting wildly. I haven’t the foggiest idea what happened next for I blacked out and fell to the ground by the fountain.

‘When I came to, brother, I found myself in my own house. Apparently some people who knew me had carried me there. I learned from them that the crowd, after being fired upon at the bridge, had become so enraged that it had attempted to knock down the Queen’s statue. The Town Hall and three banks were torched. About half a dozen Europeans were butchered and widespread looting had ensued.

‘The Brits didn’t care much about the looting; it was the murder of half a dozen Europeans that raised their hackles. The result was the bloody massacre at Jallianwala Bagh. Deputy Commissioner Bahadur had handed over the city to General Dyer and, on 12 April, General Sahib marched with his troops through numerous bazaars in the city, arresting many dozens of innocent citizens.

‘The following day some twenty-five thousand people gathered at Jallianwala Bagh in a peaceful meeting. General Dyer arrived at the scene towards evening with a contingent of armed Gorkha and Sikh soldiers who opened fire on the unarmed civilians.

‘No one had a clear idea of the number of casualties. Later, when the matter was investigated, it was revealed that about a thousand people had been mowed down and three to four thousand were wounded. . But I was talking about Thaila. I’m telling you about what I saw myself. . God alone is perfect. Thaila, of course, couldn’t be. On the contrary, he had all four major shar‘i faults. Though a prostitute’s womb had nurtured him, he was exceptionally brave. I can now say without a doubt that when he turned around, looked at his companions and urged them to keep their spirits up, he had already taken the first bullet fired by that accursed gora. In the heat of the moment, he likely hadn’t realized that red-hot lead had penetrated his chest. The second bullet hit him in the back, the third again pierced his chest. I didn’t see it myself but I’ve heard that when Thaila’s corpse was disengaged from the gora, his fingers were still dug so deeply into the throat of the gora who’d already gone to hell that only with tremendous effort could the two be pulled apart.

‘The next day his body, riddled with bullet holes, was delivered to his family for burial. Apparently the other gora had emptied his revolver into a dead Thaila merely for target practice.

‘People say that when his corpse arrived it stirred up quite a commotion among the residents of his neighbourhood. True, he was not well liked by his folks, but the sight of his mangled body made everyone burst into loud crying. His sisters Shamshad and Almas fainted on the spot. As the bier was carried out for burial, their agonized wailing touched everyone so deeply that they couldn’t stop their tears — tears of blood.

‘Brother, I’ve read somewhere that it was a prostitute who was struck down by the first shot fired during the French Revolution. Muhammad Tufail was the son of a prostitute. No one has bothered to find out whether it was the first bullet, the fifth or the fiftieth that felled him in this struggle for freedom, likely because the poor man didn’t pull much weight in society and amounted to nothing. I doubt Thaila Kunjar’s name appears in the record of those who were drenched in this bloodbath of Punjab, or even that such a record was ever compiled.

‘Those were stormy days. A military government was in power. The monster called martial law was bellowing in every street and alley of the city. The poor man was interred in great confusion and a big hurry, as if his doleful relatives were guilty of this grievous crime and wanted to erase every last trace of it.

‘Brother, that’s how Thaila died. . and was buried. . and. .’

My fellow traveller hesitated and paused for the first time. The train was thundering along, the rattling wheels repeating the same refrain, ‘Thaila died, Thaila buried. . Thaila died, Thaila buried.’ It was as if there was no space between dying and being buried, as if here he died, here he was buried. The two words blended with the rattle with such a lack of feeling that I had to expel them from my mind. I asked my chance companion, ‘You were about to say something more.’

He looked at me with a start. ‘Yes, the most painful part of the story remains to be told.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘As I already mentioned, Thaila had two sisters, Shamshad and Almas, both stunningly beautiful. Tall, with very delicate features and big beautiful eyes, Shamshad was a superb singer of thumris. People say that she had taken lessons from Khan Sahib Fateh Ali Khan. Musically not much to speak of, Almas was an exquisite dancer, entirely peerless in her ability to express different emotional states through her movements. In mujra performances it seemed that every atom of her body participated in the dance and every gesture carried a meaning. The beauty of her eyes never failed to captivate her audience.’

My companion was taking more time than I thought was necessary in praising the accomplishments of the two sisters, but I didn’t interrupt him as it didn’t seem proper. After a while he broke out of this lengthy adulation and came to the most tragic part of the story.

‘Well, brother, it’s like this: Some bootlicker out to ingratiate himself with the British told the army officers about the ravishing beauty of the sisters. A memsahib — what was the witch’s name? Yes, Miss Sherwood — had been killed in the riots. It was decided to send for the sisters and. . and. . take it out on them for the death of the Englishwoman. . You know what I mean, brother?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

‘In times such as this,’ he said, heaving a deep sigh, ‘even dancing girls and prostitutes are like our mothers and sisters. Their honour must be protected. But, brother, would this country ever give a damn about respect and honour? The minute the police chief received the orders from his superiors, he immediately went into action. He went to the sisters himself and told them that the sahib-logs had summoned them. . to perform. Just think about it, brother. Thaila hadn’t been dead two days, the earth on his grave was still moist, and they were ordering: Come and dance in our imperial presence, for our entertainment. Could there be a more cruel method of exacting revenge? You won’t find any example of a more atrocious way of belittling someone! The people who issued these orders, didn’t they think that even a prostitute has, could have, her honour, her dignity? Of course she could — why not?’ He asked himself, though, clearly, I was his audience.