My Name Is Radha

Martyr-Maker

I am a native of Gujarat, Kathiawar, and belong to the bania caste. Recently, when tanta broke out over the partition of India, I happened to be unemployed. Forgive me for using the word tanta. But does it matter? I should think not. After all, Urdu should accept non-Urdu words, even if they are borrowed from Gujarati.

So yes, I was unemployed, except for my small cocaine business, which still yielded a dribble of an income. When the country split and people from both sides started moving across the border in thousands, I thought, why not go to Pakistan. Even if I couldn’t deal in cocaine there, I would at least be able to set up some other business. So I set out for Pakistan, doing all kinds of small deals along the way.

I arrived in Pakistan with the intention of starting a big business. After studying the situation closely I decided to get into allotments.^* I was already adept at easing my way using flattery and bootlicking. I licked butt and sweet-talked, struck up a friendship with some fellows, and managed to get a small house allotted to me. I made a great deal of money by selling this property, and my success gave me the courage to visit different cities and acquire more allotments of residential houses and shops.

Every kind of job requires hard work. I had to run around quite a bit for allotments: sucking up to one person, greasing the palm of another, taking a third to dinner, and yet another to music and dance shows. In short, I had to go through a hell of a lot of trouble. I would wander around sizing up spacious bungalows all day long, scouring the entire city to decide on a big beautiful house whose allotment would bring in a sizeable profit.

Hard work never goes unrewarded. Within a year I’d made piles of money. By God’s grace I had everything now: One of the finest bungalows in the city, hoards of maal-pani in the bank — forgive me for using the peculiar Gujarati jargon, but what’s the harm. Urdu must welcome non-Urdu words. So yes, by God’s grace I had everything that one could hope for: the finest bungalow, servants, a Packard, two and a half lakh rupees in the bank, not to mention several factories and shops. Yes, I had everything, but for some reason my peace of mind had vanished. Even during the days of my small cocaine business I had sometimes felt a certain heaviness sweep over my heart; now, though, it seemed as if I no longer had a heart, or that if there was one it had been pressed under a heavy weight.

What was this weight?

I’m an intelligent man. If a question agitates my mind, I try to look for an answer and always find one. I started thinking with a cool head about what was causing this garbar-ghotaala,^* but where was my head?

A woman? Could be. But I had no woman of my own. The one I used to have had met her lord already in Kathiawar Gujarat. However, there were others, but they belonged to other men, for instance, the wife of my gardener. Well, everyone has their own taste. If truth be told, all I care about in a woman is that she must be young — her being educated or a dancer isn’t a must. As long as she’s young, any woman will do for me.^†

I’m an intelligent man. Whenever I’m confronted by a thorny problem, I try to get to its root. My factories were running smoothly, my shops were doing extremely well; money was being generated as if on its own. I put all these aside and thought objectively about the matter. All this garbar, I concluded after much thought, springs from my never having performed a good deed.

In Kathiawar Gujarat, I had done many good deeds: such as when my friend Pandorang died, I sheltered his widow in my own home, thus keeping her from selling herself for two full years; or when Vinaik’s wooden leg broke and I bought him a brand-new prosthesis, for which I had to spend forty rupees; or when Jamna Bai came down with venereal disease — saali (forgive me for using it) had no idea what it was — and I took her to a doctor and paid for her treatment for six months. But I hadn’t done anything good for humanity in Pakistan so this had to be what was causing all this garbar in my heart.

So what shall I do, I asked myself. I thought of giving alms. I wandered through the city one day and saw that just about everyone looked like a beggar. Some were starved, others were without a scrap to wear. Whom to feed? Whom to clothe? There were so many. I might just as well have opened an almshouse. But what would a single almshouse accomplish? And where would I get the grain to feed all these people? Should I buy it on the black market? Which begged the question: What’s the point of sinning with one hand and doing a pious deed with the other?

For hours I listened to the woes of countless people about their hardship and suffering. In truth, everyone was suffering: those who slept on shop stoops at night as well as those who slept in their tall mansions. A barefoot fellow was unhappy because he didn’t have a proper pair of shoes, while someone who had a car was losing sleep over not having the latest model. In his own way each person was right about what was eating away at him, and everyone’s needs made perfect sense.

I had once heard Ameena Bai Chitlekar of Solapur — may God have mercy on her — recite one of Ghalib’s ghazals, a line of which has stuck in my memory: Kis ki haajat rava kare ko’i (whose need should one fulfil). Forgive me, this is the second line of the she‘r, or maybe the first.

So there I was, wondering whose need I could take care of when a hundred out of a hundred were in need. Then again, the thought occurred to me that almsgiving wasn’t really a meritorious act. You may not agree with me, but honestly, my many trips to refugee camps and my close scrutiny of the conditions there convinced me that welfare aid had turned many refugees into perfect slobs who sat around doing nothing all day, or wasted their time playing card games or jagaar (forgive me, jagaar means gambling), shouting obscenities at one another, and freeloading — what role could these loafers possibly have played in giving strength to Pakistan. I concluded that almsgiving was absolutely not the right thing to do. But then what could I do that would be a virtuous deed?

People were dying from cholera and plague in great numbers in these camps. The hospitals were bursting already. The dearth of medical facilities tore at my heart. I thought I might establish a hospital, but on second thoughts decided against it even though I’d already devised the whole plan in my head: I would call for bids for the hospital building and a lot of money would pour in from prospective shareholders. I’d set up my own construction company and accept its bid. My idea was to spend one lakh rupees on the building. Obviously, it would have been built for only seventy thousand and leave me a neat thirty thousand. But the whole scheme came crashing down as soon as it dawned on me that my effort to save the dying would only lead to overpopulation in the country.

If you thought about it deeply, you would know that all this lafra was caused by overpopulation. Lafra means problem, dilemma, one that leads to scandal. Still I haven’t been able to capture the entire range of its meanings.

So yes, if you thought about it deeply, it would turn out that all this lafra was caused by overpopulation. It was not a given that an increase in population would, by some magic, result in a corresponding increase in the land area or in the expanse of the sky, or in a precipitous increase in rainfall so fields would yield more foodgrain. Well, I decided that building a hospital was definitely not the good deed to undertake.

Then the idea occurred to me that I might build a mosque. But thank God I was saved from the foolishness by the sudden memory of a she‘r sung by Ameena Bai Chitlekar of Solapur — may God have mercy on her — namely: Naam manjur hai to faij ke asbaab bana. She used to pronounce manzur as manjur and faiz as faij. The whole she‘r went like this: Naam manzur hai to faiz ke asbaab bana / pul bana chaah bana, masjid-o-taalaab bana.^*

What wretch was after celebrity or a good name? It wouldn’t be a virtuous act for someone to build a bridge if the underlying motive was to earn a good name, would it? Not at all. I told myself that the idea of building a mosque was entirely wrong. The presence of too many mosques, far away from each other, could in no way be good for the country. It would split up the population into many factions.

In desperation, I decided to go for the hajj. Just as I was making preparations for the trip, God Almighty showed me a way. A rally took place in the city which ended in a terrible commotion and in the ensuing stampede thirty people were trampled to death. The next day’s papers carried the news of the incident and mentioned that the victims hadn’t died, they’d achieved martyrdom.

That got me thinking. But I didn’t just think, I also consulted several maulvis. They enlightened me about the fact that victims of accidents received the status of martyrs — the loftiest status a mortal could ever achieve. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I thought, if people didn’t die but, instead, achieved martyrdom? Dying an ordinary death was like dying in vain. If people died as martyrs, well, that would be something — wouldn’t it?

I gave this delicate matter still deeper thought.

Wherever you looked, you only saw people in pitiable shape: pale faces, ground down by sorrow and worries over their livelihood, listless and with sunken eyes, tattered clothes, lying about in crumbling huts like kandam maal^* or wandering around bazaars aimlessly with their heads sticking out in front like stray cattle. They have no idea why they’re alive and for what, or for whom or how. An epidemic breaks out, thousands die. If not that way, by starvation and thirst; freeze in winter, shrivel up in summer. Lucky the one whose death provoked a few tears, but the majority remained unmourned.

Okay, you didn’t understand what life was all about. It’s also okay if you didn’t enjoy its pleasures, but — now whose line was it that Ameena Bai Chitlekar, may God pardon her, used to intone in such a heartbreaking voice, ‘Mar ke bhi chain na paaya to kidhar ja’inge’^†—I mean to hell with life if it still didn’t get better after dying.

So the thought came to me: why not let these poor, ill-fated members of humanity who were spurned at every door they knocked on, who so desperately longed for every good thing in this world, find in that other world a station that will be the envy of those who would not deign to give them even a sidelong glance in this world. There was only one way to ensure that: They should be spared a common, ordinary death and be made into martyrs.

Now the question was: Would they consent to be martyred? Of course they would, I thought. What Muslim does not long for martyrdom? Even Hindus and Sikhs have caught up with Muslims in coveting this lofty status. But imagine my disappointment when I asked this emaciated half-dead old coot, ‘Would you like to become a martyr?’ and he flatly refused with a resounding ‘NO.’

For the life of me I couldn’t understand why he wanted to go on living. I tried to reason with him, ‘Look, old man, you’ll be dead anyway in a month or so at the most. You have no strength left to walk. When you lose consciousness in the throes of a hacking cough it looks as if you’re dead. You don’t have even a broken cowrie to your name. You haven’t seen any comfort in life and probably won’t see any in the future either, the question doesn’t even arise. Why do you want to live longer? You can’t enlist in the army in hopes of laying down your life for your country fighting at the front. Isn’t it better that you arrange for your martyrdom right here in the bazaar, or in the dump where you flop down for the night?’

‘And how might I do that?’ he asked.

‘You see that banana peel up ahead,’ I said. ‘Suppose you slipped on it. . It’s obvious that you would die. You’ll attain martyrdom.’

He failed to grasp my meaning. ‘And why would I want to do that? Why would I want to knowingly step on the peel when I see it clearly? Don’t you think I love my life?’

My, my, what a life! A pack of bones! A meshwork of wrinkles!

I felt sorry for the man, and sorrier when I heard that he, who could so easily have attained the lofty status of martyr, died, coughing away in the steel-frame bed of a charity hospital a few days later.

Then there was this decrepit old hag, practically toothless and in her last moments. I felt compassion for her. She had spent most of her life in abject poverty and suffering. I picked her up and brought her over to the railway paata (forgive me, back where I come from paata stands for railway tracks). But sir, what do you know, the moment she heard the whistle of the approaching train, she bounded clear of the tracks like a wound-up doll and fled.

It broke my heart, but I didn’t let go of my resolve. After all, the son of a bania doesn’t quit so easily. I didn’t let the clear Path of Virtue slip out of my sight.

A big compound dating from the times of the Mughals lay vacant. It had a hundred and fifty-one small chambers, now in an advanced state of decay. My experienced eyes immediately estimated that their roofs would cave in during the first blast of torrential rain. So I bought the enclosure for ten thousand rupees and settled one thousand indigent tenants there, charging them two months’ rent upfront at the rate of one rupee a month. Come the third month, as per my calculation, the roofs caved in during the first onslaught of heavy rains. Seven hundred people were martyred at one fell swoop, including old men and children.

That strange heaviness I was carrying around in my heart eased somewhat. The population decreased by seven hundred and the victims became martyrs in the bargain. Not a bad deal, eh!

I’ve been running this business ever since. Every day, according to my God-given ability, I manage to have two, sometimes three people quaff the wine of martyrdom. As I said before, everything requires gruelling hard work. For instance, this fellow whose life was as useless and meaningless as the fifth wheel of a rickety pushcart, I had to drop banana peels everywhere for ten full days to send him skidding to his martyrdom. But, I’ve come to believe now that just like death, the day of martyrdom is also foreordained. It was on the tenth day when this fellow finally fell over the peel on the hard cobblestoned ground and received martyrdom.

These days I’m having a gigantic building erected. The contract for two lakh rupees has gone to my own company. I’m sure I’ll be easily able to pocket a neat seventy-five thousand from that amount. I’ve also taken out an insurance policy on the building. By my calculations, the entire building will crumble when the work on the third floor gets going because of the poor quality mortar I’ve used. Three hundred men are working on it. By God’s grace, I dearly hope they’ll all perish as martyrs. If anyone walks out unscathed, I will think he must be the worst kind of sinner and his martyrdom is not acceptable to the Lord.