My Name Is Radha

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  KARIM: May God bring him back safely.

  BEGUM SAHIB (almost screaming): What do you mean by that?

  KARIM (scared): Just that, just that . . .

  (ASGHARI is heard screaming offstage, “BEGUM SAHIB! BEGUM SAHIB!”)

  BEGUM SAHIB (apprehensively): What’s happened?

  (ASGHARI enters, shaken.)

  ASGHARI: Begum Sahib! Begum Sahib!

  BEGUM SAHIB (tightly clutching her crutches): What?

  ASGHARI: Majeed Mian has called . . . to say that the train . . . the train was in an accident!

  BEGUM SAHIB (grasping the crutches even tighter): And . . .

  ASGHARI: Amjad Mian and his bride were injured. They’re in the hospital!

  BEGUM SAHIB (Her grip loosens and the crutches fall from under her arms. For a moment she stands there frozen, then a small tremor runs through her and she moves towards the door.): Tell Kamal to get the car out. We’re driving to Rawalpindi.

  (THE BEGUM is walking towards the door while GHULAM MUHAMMAD and ASGHARI watch her, stunned. ASGHARI screams and THE BEGUM whirls around to look at her.)

  BEGUM SAHIB: What is it?

  ASGHARI: You’re . . . you’re walking! You can walk!

  BEGUM SAHIB: Me . . . (Noticing she is no longer on her crutches) How? How can I be walking? (All at once she collapses on the floor, unconscious.)

  ASGHARI (to GHULAM MUHAMMAD as she walks over to THE BEGUM): Go telephone the doctor.

  (GHULAM MUHAMMAD exits. ASGHARI tries to revive THE BEGUM.)

  ACT II

  The same room as in Act I. The furniture appears dull and devoid of its earlier sheen. Now everything looks well used. It is morning. The silk curtains on the windows are fluttering gently in the light morning breeze. SAEEDA, the bride, lies covered with a blanket on the teakwood bed to the right. On the side table the alarm clock showing nine o’clock begins to ring. There is some movement under the blanket. SAEEDA rolls over and opens her eyes. She looks over at the clock and smiles. In doing so, her thick lashes flutter on her beautiful face. She flips back over, props herself up on the pillows and looks out with childlike glee at the alluring view of the hills spreading out endlessly before her. Then, suddenly, she kicks off the blanket, jumps out of bed, draws the curtains and looks outside. She hears a bird’s musical trilling and becomes lost in her thoughts. She is young. Although the silk nightgown hanging loosely on her body is attractive in itself, it nonetheless shows to good effect the curves beneath it. She is ravishing, and aware of it. Suddenly ASGHARI’s raucous voice rises in the background, contrasting sharply with the sweet sound of the singing bird. SAEEDA starts. When ASGHARI is visible she gives her a look as though asking, ‘What was that?’

  ASGHARI (entering): Majeed Mian has just returned from the hospital. He said to see if you were up yet.

  SAEEDA: What news does he bring?

  ASGHARI: I’ll send him in.

  (ASGHARI exits. SAEEDA withdraws from the window, goes over to the dressing table and looks at herself for a moment, then casually smoothing her mussed hair with her hands, she slowly moves towards the canopied bed, removes her white georgette dupatta hanging from it and very inattentively throws it around her shoulders. The creaking sound of heavy leather boots is heard coming from outside. With slight hesitation she looks over towards the door through which enters MAJEED, a robust young man of medium height with a light almond complexion, his features showing a maturity far beyond his years.)

  MAJEED: Salaam, Bhabhijan.

  SAEEDA: Salaam.

  MAJEED (going over to the sofa): How are you feeling?

  SAEEDA (listlessly): All right, I guess. (Sits down on the sofa.) Tell me, what’s the news from Rawalpindi?

  MAJEED (coming up close in front of SAEEDA): Nothing much. (Lets out a half-sigh.) Well, they’re bringing him home.

  SAEEDA: Why?

  MAJEED: He’s tired of languishing in the hospital. (Pulls over a wicker chair and sits down.) Had I been in his place . . . I would have probably killed myself.

  SAEEDA (getting up and walking to the window): Who would have imagined this would be my fate . . . So many people died . . . Why didn’t I die with them?

  MAJEED: That was not God’s will.

  SAEEDA (looking at the hilly scene outside): Yes, it wasn’t God’s will. Rather, God’s will was that I escape with just a minor scratch on my leg but my whole life be crippled. (Tears well up in her eyes which she delicately dries with her white dupatta.) God’s will was to cut short my days of bridal happiness and let me float in the wind for the rest of my life like a kite severed from its string. (Sobs.)

  MAJEED (rising): Have some courage, Bhabhijan. Who knows, he might still get well.

  SAEEDA (reproachfully): Majeed, you of all people trying to deceive me! He’s been lying glued to a hospital bed for six months. I know very well what the doctors say his prognosis is. He’ll never get well . . . both of his legs are utterly useless now . . . but . . . but I’ll grant you that he’s a very courageous man. Whenever I go to see him, he makes me sit close to him and tells me, ‘Saeeda, don’t you worry. I’m going to get well soon—very soon. Then I’ll take you out for a walk in those hills I’ve told you about so often in Karachi. I love those hills so much that if I talk about them any more you might get jealous.’ And then he attempts to boost my sagging spirits by saying, ‘Saeeda, what is life but a series of accidents? I thank God that I didn’t die or else . . . or else . . .’ But what he says next gives me the creeps.

  MAJEED: Like what?

  SAEEDA (staring off into space with moist eyes): Like ‘You will come to love someone else and marry him.’ (Suddenly trembles.) Why does he think of such things, why, Majeed?

  MAJEED: I don’t know.

  SAEEDA: You should know. (Walks slowly over to the sofa and sits down. Her dupatta slides down; her heaving bosom presses against her silk nightgown, transferring to it all its velvety rise and fall.) You’re a man . . . you’re his brother . . . What if you had such an accident?

  MAJEED: I would never have thought of the things that cross Amjad Bhai’s mind.

  SAEEDA: Why?

  MAJEED: We’re both men, we’re even brothers—but we feel and think differently.

  SAEEDA (mumbling): Feel and think . . .

  ASGHARI (entering): Majeed Mian, Begum Sahib wishes to see you.

  MAJEED: Go on, I’ll be there.

  ASGHARI: She said to come right away.

  MAJEED: All right. (Looking at SAEEDA) I’ll be right back. (Exits.)

  (ASGHARI sits down on the rug at SAEEDA’s feet; she’s about to massage them.)

  SAEEDA (pulling her feet away): Don’t bother, Asghari.

  ASGHARI (nearly wrapping herself around SAEEDA’s feet): It’s no bother, Dulhan Begum. (Begins to press her toes.) What news did Majeed Mian bring?

  SAEEDA: He said Amjad wants to come back home.

  ASGHARI: Good news.

  SAEEDA (with a stab of pain): Yes.

  ASGHARI: Begum Sahib was quite annoyed that Majeed Mian stayed so long.

  SAEEDA: Where?

  ASGHARI: Here . . . with you.

  SAEEDA: With me? What exactly did Begum Sahib say?

  ASGHARI: Nothing much. She’s become very irritable these days. Nothing, absolutely nothing pleases her . . . She feels a lot sorrier for you than she does for Amjad Mian. She’s always thinking about you . . . So, has Amjad Mian gotten better?

  SAEEDA (pulling her feet away in a huff and standing up): Yes, he’s gotten better. (THE BEGUM enters the room; ASGHARI springs up.) Salaam, Khalajan.

  BEGUM SAHIB: Salaam, child. (Comes over and affectionately strokes SAEEDA’s head.) Majeed’s told you—hasn’t he?

  SAEEDA: Yes.

  BEGUM SAHIB: He really grew to hate it there in the hospital. (Looks over at ASGHARI) Asghari, you can go now. (ASGHARI exits.) He wants . . . he wants to be with you. He told me, ‘If I must die, then let my Saeeda be before my eyes.’ (SAEEDA’s eyes brim over with tears and s
he throws herself in the begum’s arms.) He . . . (tears trickling down her face) he loves you so very much, but . . . he told me to make sure you wouldn’t mind his returning home.

  SAEEDA: Mind . . .

  BEGUM SAHIB: Yes, child. It could make you feel even worse. You know . . . it’s possible.

  SAEEDA: Why must he think that way, Khalajan, why?

  BEGUM SAHIB: Child, he’s just that sort of person . . . always concerned about others.

  SAEEDA: He should come, why shouldn’t he come? (Her voice sounding almost like a groan.) He mustn’t think like that!

  BEGUM SAHIB: The doctors say that if he stays happy, then, God willing, he should be able to get around on crutches in a month or two. (Suddenly begins to cry inconsolably.) Crutches . . . I got rid of them after I heard about the train wreck. Had I known they were about to enter his life, I’d have held on to them tightly. But, child, the strongest boat gets sucked down into the whirlpool we call life while a mere straw takes one safely to shore. (After a pause) Saeeda, child, Amjad wanted me to ask you one more thing.

  SAEEDA: What is it, Khalajan?

  BEGUM SAHIB: Will you still love him?

  SAEEDA (stunned): Love him . . .

  BEGUM SAHIB (stroking SAEEDA’s head): I don’t want to trouble you any more. (Exits.)

  SAEEDA (delicately wiping away her tears with her dupatta, mutters): Love . . . Love his . . . heart, his mind? (Walks slowly over to her portrait above the fireplace and addresses it.) Tell me, will you love him?

  (The sound of teacups clattering on a tray is heard. ASGHARI enters with a teacart, wheels it over to the sofa and lays out the breakfast neatly on it.)

  ASGHARI: If Dulhan Begum won’t love Amjad Mian, what other woman will?

  SAEEDA (startled): What was that?

  ASGHARI: Oh, nothing . . . just talking to myself. Please have some breakfast.

  SAEEDA: Please leave me.

  ASGHARI: Yes, ma’am. (Glances at SAEEDA and then at her portrait as she exits.)

  (saeeda, deep in thought, walks slowly towards the sofa, but then goes and lies down on the bed).

  SAEEDA (staring at the ceiling and mumbling): If Dulhan Begum won’t love Amjad Mian, what other woman will? Dulhan Begum—if she won’t love Amjad Mian, then what other woman will? (In a louder voice) Who will? Who else can?

  (Curtain)

  ACT III

  The garden adjacent to Nigar Villa. In the centre of some neatly trimmed low shrubbery, a fountain spits out short spurts of water. The sun is bright, the sky without a wisp of cloud, the atmosphere is pristine, uninhibited in its glorious prime. Every element waits expectantly to be beheld and appreciated. The breeze wafting through the garden appears to have momentarily stopped: to allow the vines to straighten their tresses, the flowers to freshen up their bright faces, and the bees, who had been yearning to kiss the blossoms, to do so fearlessly. Chairs are laid out on the smooth carpet of grass. SAEEDA, in a pink dress, is sitting in one, looking as perfect as one of her own portraits. The bright warm sun sets her rosy cheeks still more aglow. In another chair sits MAJEED, serene, puffing a cigarette and blowing bluish smoke rings. In front of both is AMJAD, wearing a look of trapped immobility—very much like the wheelchair in which he sits—pale, but his eyes agleam, fired by SAEEDA’s beauty.

  AMJAD (looking around): Absolutely gorgeous weather!

  SAEEDA (turning instantly to face him): Yes, indeed, gorgeous.

  AMJAD: Go on, Majeed. Take Saeeda for a walk. Show her these hills. (Makes an effort to turn and look behind him but fails.) It’s a shame I can’t turn around. Majeed, get up and turn my wheelchair. I must have this scene in front of me—always.

  (MAJEED rises but SAEEDA has in the meantime got up and turned AMJAD’s chair around. All three are now facing the hills, washed by a brilliant sun to the horizon’s end.)

  AMJAD (taking in the scene before him): Saeeda, these are the hills I love. I love them so much that I can’t put it into words. (To MAJEED) Go on! Take Saeeda with you for a stroll. (To SAEEDA) Saeeda, when you start panting during your climb and feel as though you’ll never be able to catch your breath, you’ll know there’s no pleasure in the world greater than this. I really used to force Majeed into coming along, but he’d give up after just one slope, saying, ‘Bhaijan, I must say I don’t find this hobby of yours the least bit amusing—that a man should huff and puff and pass out—there’s no sense to it.’ (Laughs.) He never will understand the lure of the hills and the desire to conquer them. Right, Saeeda?

  SAEEDA (smiling): Yes.

  AMJAD (to majeed): Go on, yaar. Take Saeeda out. Do some work for a change.

  MAJEED (to SAEEDA): Let’s go, Bhabhijan. (To AMJAD) But I bet that after today she’ll never go into the hills again.

  SAEEDA: No, no! How can you say that?

  AMJAD: Because he has that sort of personality.

  SAEEDA: That sort of personality? What in the world is that sort of personality?

  MAJEED: You’ll find that out halfway up the first slope.

  AMJAD (laughs): Rubbish! Saeeda’s life has a mountain blocking its path. If she should be unnerved by a simple ordinary hill . . .

  SAEEDA: Let’s go now, Majeed Mian.

  MAJEED: Let’s go.

  (Both exit. AMJAD smiles. ASGHARI enters holding a plate of peeled and sliced apples. Throwing a meaningful look at the exiting MAJEED and SAEEDA, she comes over to AMJAD and addresses him.)

  ASGHARI: Here, have some apple.

  AMJAD (absorbed in watching SAEEDA and MAJEED go down the slope): All right.

  ASGHARI (also looking at the two): How lovely Dulhan Begum looks today.

  AMJAD (suddenly turning to face ASGHARI): Looks?

  ASGHARI (a trifle discomfited): Yes, yes.

  AMJAD (looking back at the two receding figures): She is lovely! She doesn’t just look lovely. ASGHARI, there’s a vast difference between being lovely and just looking lovely.

  ASGHARI: Yes, so it is.

  AMJAD: Give me some apple.

  ASGHARI (offering the plate): Here. But . . . but they’ve been peeled.

  AMJAD: Are you trying to say something?

  ASGHARI: What’s peeled can deceive anyone. (Laughs.) Its blushing red cheeks have been peeled off.

  AMJAD (laughing): Asghari! You’re fast turning into a real devil.

  ASGHARI (becoming suddenly serious): Devil? Amjad Mian, didn’t you once tell me that the Devil was God’s foremost Angel and refused to bow to Adam—a mere clay doll?

  AMJAD: So I did.

  ASGHARI: And this ringleader of the angels was punished for it?

  AMJAD: Right.

  ASGHARI: Then this is right, too.

  AMJAD: What?

  ASGHARI: Oh, nothing. After all, what’s right? Something you think is right or try to think is right. Or a mistake you make once, confident that it will right itself in due time. Or something that is right but you turn it into a mistake and hope you can make it right later. But this is all nonsense. I’m a dense woman, Amjad Mian.

  AMJAD: Why are you talking like this today?

  ASGHARI: I said I was dense, but a woman nonetheless, Amjad Mian.

  AMJAD: I still don’t get you.

  ASGHARI (picking up a wedge of apple and holding it in front of AMJAD’s mouth): Here, you eat some apple.

  AMJAD (taking the wedge of apple in his teeth): You’ve never talked like this before.

  ASGHARI: It must be the weather. It’s so breathtakingly lovely!

  AMJAD: Isn’t it, though?

  ASGHARI (picking up another wedge): Here, have another piece. (Puts it into amjad’s open mouth.)

  AMJAD (pauses as he chews the apple slice): Asghari!

  ASGHARI (wrapped up in the mountain scene, jumps): Yes?

  AMJAD: Shouldn’t we get you married?

  ASGHARI: Married?

  AMJAD: Yes. It’s about time you got married.

  ASGHARI: But why, Amjad Mian?

  AMJAD: Marriage is a rea
lly great thing. Everything in the world should get married. There is no greater joy in life than being married, I’ll tell Ammijan to get you married right away.

  ASGHARI: No, Amjad Mian, no!

  AMJAD: Why not?

  ASGHARI: I’m afraid.

  AMJAD: Of what?

  ASGHARI (sitting down on the lawn, and speaking in a voice full of dark forebodings): Of marriage.

  AMJAD (laughing): You’re crazy.

  ASGHARI: No. I really am scared. Besides, the marriage of a maidservant isn’t such a big deal. Whether she marries or remains single, what’s the difference? But if marry she must and, by chance, the train derails and . . .

  AMJAD (anguished): Asghari!

  ASGHARI (continues) . . . and Asghari barely escapes being made into mincemeat: she loses one leg, one arm, and one eye—half of Asghari disappears and half survives. No, Amjad Mian, don’t even mention marriage. Marriage is something whole, something complete. Something one-half or one-fourth can’t be marriage.

  AMJAD (brooding): Asghari?

  ASGHARI (in a choked voice): Yes?

  AMJAD: You know, you’re right. (In an extremely pained voice) But don’t make me feel sad. I want to stay happy, in spite of my crippled legs. Please don’t torment me. It hurts.

  ASGHARI (throwing herself on AMJAD’s feet and grabbing them solicitously): Forgive me—please, Amjad Mian. (Her eyes fill with tears.) I don’t know what I was raving about. You stay happy! God keep you happy!

  AMJAD (acting brave): Don’t bring God into it. If He had wanted me to be happy, He wouldn’t have done this to me. And if He had done this, He would have killed me right off. Don’t even mention God; it’s all over between Him and me. If I’m to stay happy, it will have to be with what’s left of me. I’ll have to gather twigs and build myself a nest of happiness on these broken branches.

  ASGHARI: Happy . . . for your sake alone?

  AMJAD (in an extremely pained voice): Asghari! Please, don’t be so cruel! For God’s sake if you must speak, does it have to hurt me? Help me, I beg you. Help an invalid put the broken pieces of his life together to spend his last few remaining days in peace.