Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

Day had given way to evening, with no trace of light left anywhere. The October heat was still intense, but a breeze was now blowing. Strollers, like exhausted travellers, made up most of the crowd. Behind me cars and more cars had lined up. All the benches were taken. Two chattering men, one Gujarati, the other Parsi, had settled on the bench next to me and were blabbering away in Gujarati, each with a different accent. The Parsi’s voice had only two notes, one shrill, one deep that he alternated. When they both talked rapidly at the same time, it sounded as if a parrot and a mynah were having a duel.

Getting tired of their endless chatter, I got up and was about to head towards the Taj Mahal Hotel when I saw him coming my way. I didn’t know his name so I couldn’t call him. But when he saw me his eyes locked on, as though he’d found what he was looking for.

There were no empty benches, so I proposed, ‘It’s been a long time since we last met. Let’s go over to the restaurant. All the benches here are taken.’

He said a few things by way of formality and came along. We walked a bit and then sat down in the large cane chairs in the restaurant. After I had ordered tea, I offered him my tin of cigarettes. Coincidentally, I had been to see Dr Arolkar just that day and he had advised me to quit smoking altogether, or, failing that, to switch to smoking better quality cigarettes, like 555. So, following the doctor’s advice I had bought this tin that very evening. He stared at the tin, then at me. He started to say something but then decided against it.

I broke into a laugh. ‘Don’t think that I’ve started smoking these on your advice. Actually you might call it coincidence. Today, I too ended up going to Dr Arolkar because lately I’ve been feeling this pain in my chest. Anyway, he advised me to smoke these, but far fewer.’

As I said this I stole a peek at him and realized that my words had upset him, so I took Dr Arolkar’s prescription out of my pocket and put it on the table. ‘I can’t read his handwriting but he seems to have crammed every vitamin into this one prescription.’

He glanced at the prescription which showed Dr Arolkar’s name and address embossed in black letters and also the date. His erstwhile look of agitation quickly faded. He smiled and said, ‘Why do most writers suffer from vitamin deficiencies?’ I replied, ‘Certainly not because they don’t get enough to eat. It’s more likely because they work a lot and get paid a pittance.’

Meanwhile the tea had arrived and we started talking about other things.

An interval of a month, maybe a month and a half, had passed between our first and second meetings. His face now looked even paler than before and there were dark circles around his eyes. Apparently he was suffering from some spiritual crisis which troubled him constantly. Every now and then he would stop short in the middle of his sentence and, quite unconsciously, let out a sigh. Even when he tried to laugh his lips hardly seemed to move.

Seeing him in this condition, I asked abruptly, ‘You look sad. . Why is that?’

‘Sad. .’ A faint smile, like one you might see on the face of a person who’s dying but wants to show that he isn’t afraid to die, appeared on his face. ‘No, I’m not sad. Could it be that you’re in a sombre mood yourself?’

He finished his tea in a single gulp and quickly got up. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to go. I have an important matter to take care of.’

I was certain that he didn’t have ‘an important matter to take care of’. Yet, I let him leave without trying to stop him. Once again, I had failed to find out his name, but I did find out that something was bothering him — mentally and spiritually. He was sad, or rather sadness had completely permeated his being. But he didn’t want anyone to know. He wanted to live two lives: one that was real and the other that he was busy creating every minute, every second. Both of his lives were a failure. Why? That I don’t know.

It was again at Apollo Bunder that we ran into each other for a third time. This time, however, I took him to my place. Although we didn’t say anything on the way, we did talk quite a bit once we reached home. The moment he entered the room a look of despair appeared on his face and lingered there for a few seconds. He quickly steadied himself and, unlike in the past, tried to appear unusually cheerful and chatty, which made me feel even sorrier for him. He seemed to be denying the reality of something as certain as death. What’s even worse, he sometimes seemed to be quite satisfied with his self-deception.

As we talked away, he noticed the framed photograph on my table. Getting up and moving closer to the photograph, he asked, ‘May I take a look. . with your permission, of course?’

‘By all means!’

He gave the photograph a fleeting look and then sat down. ‘Quite a good-looking woman. I guess she’s your. .’

‘No, no. It was a long time ago. I was attracted to her; rather, I should say I almost fell in love with her. Unfortunately, she never knew about it, and I. . No, she was married off to. . Anyway, this is a memento of my first love, which died even before it had a chance to be born.’

‘A memento of your first love! You must have had quite a few affairs since.’ He ran his tongue over his dry lips. ‘I mean you must have had many loves in your life — requited and unrequited.’

I was about to set him straight and tell him that this humble man was just as barren in the matter of love as he was. But, God knows why, I held back. Instead, I lied to him for no reason at all. ‘Of course! Such affairs do come along, don’t they? You must have had quite a few yourself.’

He didn’t say anything and fell completely silent, as though he had plunged into deep waters. After he’d been submerged in his own thoughts for a long time and his silence began to weigh on me, I said, ‘Well, sir, where have you gotten lost?’

He was startled. ‘I. . Nowhere. I was just thinking about something.’

‘Were you reminded of something that happened to you in the past?’ I asked. ‘Stumbled on a lost dream? Some old wounds starting to hurt again?’

‘Wounds? Old wounds? Well, not wounds. Just one — very deep and vicious. And I have no desire for more. One is enough.’ Saying that, he got up and attempted to pace inside my room. ‘Attempted’ because my place was small and cluttered with chairs, a table, a cot and what all — there was really no room to pace. He could only go as far as the table and then he had to stop. This time, though, he looked at the photograph closely and said, ‘How much she resembles her! Her face wasn’t quite as playful though. She had big eyes, the kind which can see as well as understand.’ He heaved a sigh and sat back down. ‘Death is beyond comprehension, especially when it seizes someone in the prime of their youth. I believe there’s another power besides God — extremely jealous and begrudging anyone’s happiness. But never mind. .’

‘No, no, please go on,’ I insisted, ‘if you don’t mind. To tell you the truth, I thought you had probably never fallen in love.’

‘What made you think that? A few minutes ago you said I must have had quite a few affairs myself, didn’t you?’

He looked at me with questioning eyes. ‘If I haven’t loved, then why this sorrow that keeps gnawing at my heart? Why this affliction? This sadness? This state of being oblivious to myself? Why am I melting away like wax day and night?’

Ostensibly he was asking me, but in fact he was asking himself.

I told him, ‘I lied when I said that you must have had quite a few affairs. But you lied too, when you said you weren’t sad and that nothing was bothering you. It’s not easy to know what’s inside another person’s heart. There could be any number of reasons for your sadness and, unless you choose to tell me yourself, I can’t very well come to any conclusion, can I? That you’re becoming frailer and frailer by the day is obvious. Surely you’ve suffered a big shock, and I do sympathize with you.’