Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

Amrit Kaur was terribly disappointed when Joginder Singh finally explained the meaning of progressivism to her. She was under the impression that this subject so hotly debated by her husband with distinguished poets and fiction writers would be something truly great. But after she realized that all of India boasted only a smattering of progressive short story writers, a soft glint appeared in her eyes. When Joginder Singh saw it, his bushy-moustached lips quivered a bit in a faint smile. ‘Amrit,’ he said, ‘you’ll be pleased to know that a great man of India wants to see me. He’s read my stories and likes them very much.’

‘Is this great man a poet or a story writer like you?’ Amrit Kaur asked.

Joginder Singh promptly took out an envelope from his pocket. Patting the back of his hand with it he said, ‘He’s both. But he’s most famous for something entirely different.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘Well, he’s a wanderer.’

‘A wanderer?’

‘Yes, a wanderer. . he’s made drifting the sole aim of his life. He’s always on the go. Now in the chilly valleys of Kashmir, now on the sun-swept plains of Multan. Sometimes in Sri Lanka, other times Tibet.’

Amrit Kaur’s curiosity shot up. ‘But what does he do?’

‘He collects folk songs, from all over India. Punjabi, Gujarati, Marathi, Peshawari, Frontier, Kashmiri, Marwari. . However many languages are spoken throughout India, and whatever folk songs he can find in those languages, he collects them.’

‘So many songs! What will he do with them?’

‘He writes books, articles. . so others can also hear about those songs. Many English-language magazines have published his articles. To collect folk songs and then present them skilfully is no ordinary task. Amrit, he’s a very great man, a truly great man. And look how cordially he’s written to me.’

Joginder Singh read out the letter to his wife, the letter that Harendarnath Tirpathi had written to him at his post office address. Harendarnath Tirpathi had praised Joginder Singh’s short stories in a delightfully sweet manner and written, ‘You’re a progressive writer of India.’ When Joginder Singh read this phrase he couldn’t resist commenting, ‘Now see, Tirpathi Sahib also says that I’m a progressive.’

After reading the entire letter aloud Joginder Singh looked at his wife for a few seconds and then asked what she thought of it. ‘So?’

Her husband’s sharp, piercing gaze made Amrit Kaur blush a bit and then she smiled and said, ‘What do I know? This is big man’s talk, only a big man can understand it.’

Joginder Singh didn’t catch the subtlety of her comment; he was somewhat preoccupied with the thought of inviting Harendarnath Tirpathi to stay with him for a while. ‘Amrit,’ he said, ‘shouldn’t we perhaps invite Tirpathi Sahib? What do you think? I wonder whether he might turn down our invitation. After all, he’s a great man. He may think we’re just trying to flatter him.’

On such occasions he always included his wife in the project so the work involved in inviting someone might be shared by both. As soon as he used the word ‘our’ Amrit Kaur, no less naive than her husband, started taking an interest in this Tirpathi fellow, although not only was the man’s name something of a riddle for her, she also failed to comprehend how wandering around collecting folk songs could make someone great. When she was first told that Harendarnath Tirpathi collected folk songs, she was reminded of something her husband had once told her, namely, there were quite a few people in Vilayat *who earned a lot of money catching butterflies. The thought crossed her mind that maybe Tirpathi Sahib had learned collecting folk songs from some fellow from Vilayat.

Joginder Singh expressed his anxiety: ‘Who knows, he might think our invitation is just some kind of flattery.’

‘How could it be just flattery? Other great men come to visit you, don’t they? Write him a letter. Something tells me that he will accept your invitation. Why, he’s also eager to meet you, isn’t he? But tell me: does he have a family? I mean a wife and children.’

‘Family?’ Joginder Singh mumbled, his mind busy composing the contents of the invitation in English. ‘Perhaps. No, I’m sure he does. Come to think of it, I once read in an article that he has a wife and a little girl.’

Now that what he wanted to write in the letter had jelled in his mind, he got up, walked to the other room, took out a small letter pad — the one he used to correspond with only very special people — and started writing to Harendarnath Tirpathi in Urdu, or rather an Urdu translation of what he had thought up in English during the conversation with his wife.

In just three days he received Harendarnath Tirpathi’s response. Joginder Singh opened the envelope with a throbbing heart. Upon reading that his invitation had been accepted, his heart throbbed even faster. His wife was outside in the sunlight rubbing yogurt into their young boy’s hair when Joginder walked over to her with the envelope in hand. ‘He’s accepted my invitation. Says he was coming to Lahore anyway. He’s got some important work to do here. . Wants to arrange for the publication of his new book. He sends his greetings to you.’

A feeling of immense happiness washed over Amrit thinking that such a great man, who collected folk songs, had sent her his greetings. She thanked God from the depths of her heart for having been married to a man known to every great man in India.

It was the early days of a wintry November. Joginder Singh woke up around seven in the morning but lingered in bed with his eyes wide open. His wife and son lay on a cot nearby under a warm quilt. Joginder started thinking about how immensely happy he would feel meeting Tirpathi Sahib, and the latter no less happy meeting Joginder Singh, India’s youthful, up-and-coming short story writer and progressive man of letters. He would engage Tirpathi Sahib on every subject under the sun: folk songs, village dialects, short stories, recent events of the war, etc., etc. He would tell him how, despite being just a hard-working office clerk, he became a good writer. Amazing, wasn’t it, that someone who sorted mail was by disposition an artist?

Joginder Singh was mighty proud that even after toiling half the day like a common labourer at the post office he could still find the time to edit a monthly magazine, and contribute stories to two, even three publications, to say nothing of those long letters he sent off to friends weekly.

He lay in bed for quite a while, preparing himself mentally for his approaching meeting with Harendarnath Tirpathi. He had read his stories and essays and had also seen his photograph. Usually, just reading someone’s stories and seeing his photo made Joginder Singh feel that he had come to know the person quite well. But in Harendarnath Tirpathi’s case, he couldn’t trust himself. Sometimes he felt that Tirpathi was a complete stranger. In his fiction writer’s mind, the man appeared wrapped in reams of paper rather than clothes. And the paper reminded him of the wall in Anarkali bazaar. It was plastered from one end to the other with so many layers of cinema ads that it seemed as if a second wall had sprung up in front of the original.

What if Tirpathi Sahib turned out to be such a man — Joginder Singh wondered still lying in bed. In that case it would be very difficult to understand him. Later, when he remembered his own penetrating intelligence, all his uncertainties evaporated in an instant. He got up and began preparing for Tirpathi’s reception.

It had been settled in their correspondence that Harendarnath Tirpathi would make his way to Joginder Singh’s house himself; this because he hadn’t yet decided whether to travel by lorry or train. And that Joginder Singh would take Monday off and wait for his guest at home the whole day.