Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

I wanted to thank him but he continued, ‘In fact, I remember reading one of your stories just recently. I can’t recall the title though. It’s the one about the girl who’s in love with a man but the fellow deceives her. There’s another man in the story, the narrator, who’s in love with her. When he discovers the girl’s misfortune he tells her, “You must go on living. Turn the memory of the moments you spent engrossed in his love, when you were happy, into a foundation you can build your life on.” I don’t remember it word for word, but do tell me one thing: Is it possible. . forget possible, tell me straight up whether, by any chance, you are that man. Forgive me, I shouldn’t be asking such a question. I really shouldn’t. . but were you the person who had a tryst with her on the rooftop and then went downstairs to sleep in your own room, leaving her alone in the slumbering moonlight with all the passions of her youth?’ Here he suddenly halted and then added, ‘I really shouldn’t be asking this sort of thing. After all, who opens up his heart to strangers!’

‘I will tell you,’ I said. ‘But somehow it does seem a bit odd to be asking and telling everything when one has just met someone for the first time.’

His earlier excitement cooled suddenly. He said softly, ‘You’re right, but who knows whether we’ll ever meet again.’

I said, ‘Bombay is, of course, a very large city but we can meet again, not just once but many times. I’m an idle person, I mean short story writer. . you’ll find me here every evening, provided I’m not sick. Many young women come here to stroll and I come here to find one of them to fall in love with. Love’s not a bad thing!’

‘Love. . love!. .’ He wanted to say something more but couldn’t, and like a rope on fire he fell tortuously silent.

I had brought up ‘love’ just to be funny. And given the absolutely delightful surroundings, I would have had no regrets about actually falling in love with someone. When the waning daylight and evening shadows meet, when the rows of street lights begin glimmering in the encroaching darkness, when the air becomes slightly chilled and the feeling of romance permeates the atmosphere — a man naturally longs to be close to a woman. It is that feeling, that need, which lies hidden in our unconscious.

God knows which story he was referring to. I don’t remember all of my stories, especially the romantic ones. I’ve known very few women in my life. The stories I wrote about women were either because of a particular need or just to indulge in mental gratification of the senses. Since they lack sincerity, I don’t think much of them. I have observed women of a certain class and written a few stories about them, but those aren’t romances. In any case, the story he was alluding to must be one of those mediocre romances, the kind I might have written to calm my own ardour. But — what’s this? — I’ve started telling my own story.

So when he fell silent after uttering ‘love’, I felt the urge to expand further on that subject. I began: ‘Well, it just so happens that our forefathers have enumerated many kinds of love, but as far as I’m concerned, whether love is born in Multan or on the icy plains of Siberia, whether it’s born in winter or summer, in the heart of a rich man or a poor man, whether it’s beautiful or grotesque, or whether those who fall into it are degenerate or pious, love remains love. It doesn’t change. Just as the manner of a child’s birth remains basically the same, so does love’s. Of course, it’s an entirely different matter if Saeeda Begum gives birth in a hospital while Rajkumari gives birth in a jungle, or if a sweeper-woman stirs the feelings of love in a Ghulam Muhammad while a Natwar Lal is smitten by the love of a princess. Just as children who are born prematurely remain weak after birth, so too a love born before its time suffers from weakness. Some children are born after excruciating labour; well, so are some loves — they cause a lot of pain. Just as some women miscarry, so does love miscarry for some people. And just as sterility results in an inability to conceive a child, you will find people who turn out to be incapable of love. This doesn’t necessarily mean that the desire to love has completely vanished from their hearts, or that the feeling of love has been completely smothered. No, the desire may still be there, but they lack the ability to translate that into love. Just as some women are unable to conceive because of some physical problem, so these people are unable to ignite the spark of love in the hearts of others because of some spiritual handicap.’

I was finding my own harangue rather interesting, so I kept lecturing away without even looking at him. When I finally looked at him, I found him gazing off into space across the ocean, entirely lost in his own thoughts. I fell silent.

The sound of a particularly loud horn suddenly jolted him out of his reverie and he blurted out absent-mindedly, ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right!’

I thought of asking him, ‘Absolutely right?. . Forget that. Just tell me what I’ve been saying.’ But I kept quiet, allowing him a chance to shake off his weighty thoughts.

He went on thinking for a while and then said, ‘What you said is absolutely correct, but. . Let’s drop this topic. It. . well, never mind.’

I liked what I’d been talking about. I wanted nothing more than to have someone go on listening to me, so I repeated, ‘Well, as I was saying, some men, too, turn out to be barren when it comes to love. I mean they do desire to love, but are never able to fulfil that desire. I tend to think this is due to some spiritual shortcoming. What do you think?’

He turned even paler, as though he’d seen a ghost. The change came over him so suddenly that I became worried and asked, ‘Is everything all right? You aren’t feeling ill, are you?’

‘No. . no. .’ He sounded even more worried. ‘I’m not ill or anything like that. What makes you think I am?’

I replied, ‘Anyone who saw you now would assume that you’re ill, extremely ill. You look frightfully pale. I think you’d better go home. Come, I’ll take you there.’

‘No, I’ll go myself. But I’m not ill. . I do feel a slight pain in my chest now and then. Maybe it’s just. . I’ll be okay. You can continue.’

It didn’t look as though he would be able to concentrate on my words so I remained silent, but when he insisted, I resumed. ‘I was asking what you thought about people who are unable to love. I have no idea what they feel, what their inner thoughts are. But when I think of those barren women who, in the hope of conceiving a child, make fervent entreaties to God and, disappointed by Him, resort to spells and charms — bringing ash from cremation grounds, reciting night-long incantations that were given to them by sadhus, and making votive offerings — to gain the pearl of their desire, it occurs to me that a person who’s unable to love must experience a similar ordeal. Such people truly deserve compassion. I feel more for them than I do for the blind.’

His eyes brimmed with tears. He swallowed and quickly stood up. Turning his face away he said, ‘Oh, it’s late. I have an important errand to run and I seem to have lost quite a bit of time talking.’

I also got up. He turned towards me and pressed my hand but spoke without looking at me, ‘I really must leave now,’ and walked away.

The second time I met him was again at Apollo Bunder. Although I’m not one for taking walks, back in those days an evening stroll to Apollo Bunder had somehow become part of my daily routine. A month later, though, a longish letter from an Agra poet — which, among other things, made lewd comments about the beauties who crowded Apollo Bunder’s beaches and how lucky I was to be living in Bombay — pretty much destroyed whatever interest I may have had in the place. Now, whenever someone asks me to go there, I’m reminded of that poet’s letter and feel like throwing up. But I was talking about a time before that letter. Then, I used to go there every evening and sit on the bench next to the place where many people were in the habit of having masseurs give their skulls a good workout, rubbing and knocking.