Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

When he undid the clasps of her tight-fitting bra Randheer noticed that it had creased her back and the soft flesh of her bosom. And the cord of her shalwar had been done up so tightly it left a mark around her waist. The sharp edges of her heavy, jewel-encrusted necklace had apparently grazed the delicate skin of her bosom in many places, as if unforgiving nails had scratched it.

Indeed, it was just like that other day. The rain was producing the same sound as it pelted down on the tender leaves of the peepul — the same pitter-patter that had filled his ears that other night long ago. The weather was divine. A cool breeze was blowing softly. . but it was laden with the cloying scent of henna.

Of course his hands had roved over the girl’s milky-white bosom for a long time, like the breath of a gentle breeze; he’d felt her body quiver in intermittent waves under his touch, felt the suppressed passions stirring within her. When he pressed his chest to hers every pore of his body heard the notes rising from her body — but where was that call: the call he had sensed in the strong odour emanating from the ghatan’s body, more compelling than the cry of an infant thirsting for milk, the call that had gone beyond the limits of sound and needed no words to convey it.

Randheer was looking out through the grillwork of the window, somewhere far beyond the trembling leaves of the peepul, into the distance where he could make out an unusual subdued glow enmeshed in the dark grey of the clouds, the same glow he had seen radiate from the breasts of the ghatan, hidden like a secret, but discernible all the same.

He looked at the inert body of the girl stretched out beside him, as soft and white as flour kneaded with milk and butter, the scent of henna leaping from it now fading. He found it immensely revolting — this exhausted smell in the throes of death, somewhat tangy, oddly tangy, like the sour belches of indigestion. A pathetic, sickly smell!

He glanced at the girl lying next to him again. The femininity in her being seemed strangely compressed. . the way white globs float listlessly in colourless liquid when the milk has gone bad. Actually, the smell that flowed from the ghatan so naturally, unbidden and without effort, still pervaded his senses. It was a smell infinitely more subtle and pervasive than the perfume of henna, not at all eager to be smelled, but flowing quietly into him to settle into place.

In one last attempt, Randheer ran his hand over the girl’s milky-white body but felt no tremor. His new bride, the daughter of a distinguished magistrate, with a bachelor’s degree, the heart-throb of countless boys at her college, failed to rouse her husband’s passion.

From the dying scent of henna he desperately tried to retrieve the smell that had wafted from the ghatan’s unwashed body and flooded his senses on just such a rainy day when the leaves of the peepul outside the window were bathed in a downpour.

The telephone rang. Manmohan, who was sitting beside it, picked up the receiver and spoke into it. ‘Hello, this is 4457.’

A delicate female voice came from the other end. ‘Sorry, wrong number.’

Manmohan hung up and returned to the book he was reading.

He had read this book nearly twenty times already, even though its last pages were moth-eaten; not because it was especially interesting, but because it was the only book in this barren office.

For the past week he had been the sole custodian of this office. Its owner, a friend of his, had gone away somewhere to arrange some credit. Since Manmohan had no place of his own, he had moved here temporarily from the streets. During this one week he had read the book nearly twenty times over.

Isolated here, he bided his time. He hated any kind of employment. Otherwise, had he wanted it, the job of director in any film company was his for the taking. But working for someone was slavery and he didn’t want to be a slave. Since he was a sincere, harmless person, his friends saw to his daily needs, which were negligible: a cup of tea and a couple of pieces of toast in the morning, two phulka s and a little bit of gravy for lunch, and a pack of cigarettes that lasted the whole day — that’s all.

Manmohan had no family or relatives. He liked solitude and was inured to hardship. He could go without food for days on end. His friends didn’t know much about him, except that he had left home while still very young and had found himself an abode on the Bombay pavements for quite some time now. He only yearned for one thing in life: the love of a woman. He would say, ‘If I’m lucky enough to find a woman’s love, my life will change completely.’

‘Even then you won’t work,’ his friends would say.

‘Work?’ He would answer with a deep sigh, ‘Oh, I’ll become a workaholic. You’ll see.’

‘Well then, fall in love with someone.’

‘No, I don’t believe in love that is initiated by the man.’

It was almost time for lunch. Manmohan looked at the wall clock opposite him. Just then the phone rang. He picked up the receiver, ‘Hello, this is 4457.’

A delicate voice asked, ‘4457?’

‘Yes, 4457,’ Manmohan confirmed.

‘Who are you?’ the female voice asked.

‘I’m Manmohan. What can I do for you?’

When there was no answer, Manmohan asked, ‘Whom do you want?’

‘You,’ said the voice.

‘Me?’ he asked, somewhat surprised.

‘Yes, you. Do you have an objection?’

Manmohan was flummoxed. ‘Oh no, none at all.’

The voice smiled, ‘Did you say your name was Madan Mohan?’

‘No. Manmohan.’

‘Manmohan.’

Silence ensued. After some moments, he asked, ‘You wanted to chat with me?’

‘Yes,’ the voice affirmed.

‘Well then, chat.’

After a slight pause, the voice said, ‘I don’t know what to say. Why don’t you start?’

‘Okay,’ Manmohan said, and thought for a while. ‘I’ve already told you my name. I’m temporarily living in this office. Before, I used to sleep on the pavement, but now I sleep on the desk here.’

The voice smiled, ‘Did you sleep in a canopied bed on the pavement?’

Manmohan laughed. ‘Before I go on any further, let me make one thing clear. I’ve never lied. I’ve been sleeping on pavements for a long time. But, for about a week now, I’ve had this office all to myself, and I’m having the time of my life.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I found a book here. The pages at the back are missing. All the same, I’ve read it. . oh, about twenty times. If I ever get hold of the whole book, I’ll find out what became of the hero and heroine’s love.’

The voice laughed. ‘You’re an interesting fellow.’

‘Thank you,’ he said with mannered formality.

After a pause, the voice asked, ‘What’s your occupation?’

‘Occupation?’

‘I mean your work. What do you do?’

‘What do I do? Nothing, really. An idle man has no work to do. I loaf around all day and sleep at night.’

‘Do you like your life?’

‘Give me a few moments,’ Manmohan started to think. ‘The truth is, I’ve never thought about it. Now that you’ve put the question to me, I’m asking myself whether I do or not.’

‘So did you get an answer?’

Manmohan took some time to reply, ‘No, I didn’t. But since I’ve been living it for so long, I suppose I must like it.’

The voice laughed.

Manmohan said, ‘You laugh beautifully.’

‘Thank you,’ the voice intoned shyly and hung up.

Manmohan stood holding the receiver for some time, smiled and returned it to its cradle. He closed up the office and went out.

Next morning at about eight o’clock, while he was still asleep on the desk, the phone rang. He yawned and took the call, ‘Hello, 4457.’