Saadat Manto - My Name Is Radha

‘Good morning, Manmohan Sahib.’

‘Good morning,’ he started. ‘Oh, you! Good morning.’

‘I guess you were sleeping,’ said the voice.

‘Yes, I was. Since I’ve come over here I’ve become spoiled. Settling back into life on the pavement will be difficult.’

‘Why?’

‘A person has to get up before five in the morning there.’

He heard a laugh and asked, ‘Why did you cut off the call abruptly yesterday?’

‘Why did you say I laughed beautifully?’

‘What a question! If something is beautiful, shouldn’t it be praised?’

‘No, never.’

‘You can’t impose such conditions on me. I’ve never accepted any conditions. If you laugh, I’ll certainly praise it.’

‘I’ll hang up.’

‘You’re free to do that.’

‘You don’t care about my displeasure?’

‘First off, I don’t want to displease myself. If you laugh and I don’t say that it’s beautiful, I’d be offending my own sense of beauty, which is very dear to me.’

There was a brief silence. Then the voice came back, ‘Sorry, I was talking to the maid. So you were saying you care a lot about your sense of beauty. But tell me, is there anything you love to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean. . some hobby or work. . or, how shall I put it, yes, is there anything you can do?’

Manmohan laughed. ‘Nothing much, but I do like photography a bit.’

‘That’s a fine hobby.’

‘Fine or not, I’ve never thought about it.’

‘You must own an excellent camera, then?’

Manmohan laughed again. ‘I don’t own a camera; I borrow from friends every now and then and satisfy my urge. I have a camera in mind though. If I ever make any money, I’ll buy it.’

‘What camera is that?’

‘Exacta. It’s a reflex camera. I like it a lot.’

There was silence. Then the voice came back on, ‘I was thinking about something.’

‘What?’

‘You haven’t asked for my name or phone number.’

‘I didn’t feel it was necessary.’

‘Why not?’

‘What does it matter what your name is? And you already have my phone number. That’s good enough. But if you want me to call you, then give me your name and number.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘That’s another matter altogether! If I’m not asking you, the question of giving doesn’t arise.’

‘You’re really a very strange man.’

There was a brief silence again.

‘Thinking again?’ Manmohan asked.

‘Yes, but I seem to have hit a dead end.’

‘Then why don’t you hang up? Call some other time.’

The voice became sharp. ‘You’re very brusque. Please hang up, or better, I should hang up.’

Manmohan smiled and put the receiver down.

Half an hour later, after he had washed his face, changed and was about to go out, the phone rang again. He picked it up and said, ‘4457.’

‘Is Mr Manmohan there?’

‘Speaking. What can I do for you?’

‘I just wanted to tell you that I’m not annoyed any more.’

‘I’m happy to hear that,’ he replied with good cheer.

‘As I was eating breakfast it occurred to me that I shouldn’t really be annoyed with you. Have you had your breakfast?’

‘I was just going to go out to have some. But you called.’

‘Then go and eat some.’

‘I’m not in any hurry. Besides, I don’t have money on me today. I think I’ll skip breakfast.’

‘Hearing you say all this. . Why do you say such things? I mean, is it because something pains you?’

Manmohan thought for a bit. ‘No. Whatever pains me, I’ve gotten used to it.’

‘Shall I send you some money?’

‘If you want to. You’ll be one more person added to the list of my moneymen.’

‘Then I won’t.’

‘As you wish.’

‘I’m hanging up.’

‘Fine.’

Manmohan put the receiver down and went out with a smile on his lips. He returned at about ten that night, changed, lay down on the desk and started to wonder who the woman who kept phoning him might be. Her voice betrayed that she was young and there was a trill, a singsong quality in the way she laughed. It was evident from her conversation that she was educated and refined. He kept thinking about her for a long time.

Just as the clock struck eleven, the phone rang. He answered it. ‘Hello!’

‘Mr Manmohan.’

‘Speaking. What can I do for you?’

‘I rang you up so many times during the day. . Where did you disappear?’

‘I may be jobless, but I still have things to do.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like loafing around.’

‘When did you get back?’

‘About ten.’

‘What are you doing now?’

‘I was lying on the desk, imagining what you must look like. But all I have to go on is your voice.’

‘Did you succeed?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t try. I’m very ugly.’

‘Pardon me, please hang up if you are really ugly. I loathe ugliness.’

‘In that case, let’s say I’m beautiful. I don’t want to foster hatred.’

Neither of them spoke for a while, then Manmohan asked, ‘Were you thinking?’

The voice started, ‘Well, no. But I was going to ask you. .’

‘Think hard before you ask.’

The sound of a refreshing laugh came on, and then, ‘Shall I sing you a song?’

‘Sure.’

‘Give me a minute.’

He heard her clear her throat and then start to sing the ghazal by Ghalib which begins with the line, ‘ Nukta-cheen hai gham-e dil . .’

She sang it in the entirely new style of Saigal. Her voice was soft and full of pathos. When she finished, Manmohan commended her heartily, ‘Very nice! Bravo!’

‘Thanks,’ the voice said shyly and hung up.

As he lay on the desk, the ghazal kept reverberating in Manmohan’s mind throughout the night. He got up quite early the next morning and sat in the chair, waiting for the phone to ring for a good two and a half hours. He gave up, feeling a strange bitterness in his throat. He started to pace up and down the room restlessly. Then he stretched out on the desk feeling pretty annoyed. He picked up the solitary book and began reading it all over again. The phone rang in the evening.

‘Who is it?’ he asked in a stiff voice.

‘It’s me,’ the voice replied.

‘Where were you all this time?’ he asked, still stiffly.

‘Why?’ the voice quaked.

‘I’ve been rotting here since morning. Haven’t had breakfast or lunch, even though I have money.’

‘I only call you when I feel like it. You. .’

‘Look here,’ he cut her off, ‘stop being whimsical. Fix a time to call. I can’t stand waiting all day long.’

‘I apologize. Starting tomorrow, I will call you in the morning and again in the evening.’

‘That’ll do.’

‘I didn’t know you were so touchy.’

Manmohan smiled, ‘I’m sorry. Waiting really irritates me, and when I feel irritated, I start punishing myself.’

‘Oh? How?’

‘You didn’t call this morning. Logically, I should have gone out. But I stayed cooped up here, fretting away all day.’

‘Oh, how I wish I hadn’t made this mistake,’ the voice was saturated with emotion. ‘I didn’t call on purpose.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Just to find out whether you would miss my call.’

‘You’re very naughty,’ he laughed. ‘Now hang up. I’ve got to go eat.’

‘Fine. When will you be back?’

‘Say, in half an hour.’

When he returned half an hour later, she called. They chatted for quite a while. She sang him another ghazal by Ghalib and he complimented her enthusiastically. They hung up.

She began to call him every morning and evening after that and he hurriedly leaped to take her call. Sometimes they talked for hours, but he never asked for her name or phone number. In the beginning he had tried to imagine her face from the sound of her voice. Now, though, he seemed to be contented with just her voice, which was everything — her face, her body, her soul.