Radha, Just Radha
by M. Mukundan
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In this haunting, surreal short story by M. Mukundan, a college girl named Radha suddenly finds that no one recognises her. Delighted to spot Suresh, with whom she had walked on the beach the evening before, she greets him, but he stares blankly and asks, 'Who are you, girl?', insisting he has never seen her. Shaken, she hurries home, only to face the same nightmare: her own father asks 'Who are you, please?' and her mother treats her as a troubled stranger. Desperately she reminds them of shared memories, eighteen years of meals, her writing ceremony, help with her maths, a Sunday film, but they call these 'fairy tales' and gently insist, 'You are not our daughter… You are not Radha.' Weeping, she is turned out of her own home. As she walks away into the gathering darkness, even nature, the birds, trees, ocean, sky and land, sing in a single voice: 'You are not Radha. We know you not.' The story is a powerful, modernist exploration of identity, alienation and the terror of losing one's very self when the world refuses to acknowledge it.
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'Radha, Just Radha' by M. Mukundan, one of the pioneers of modernity in Malayalam literature, is a surreal, deeply unsettling short story about identity and alienation. It follows a young woman whose entire world suddenly stops recognising her.
A friend who does not know her
Radha, a college student, is delighted to see Suresh at the bus stop, the young man with whom she had walked along the beach the evening before. But when she greets him warmly and offers him a magazine, he stares blankly and asks, 'Who are you, girl?' He insists, 'I've never seen you before in my life,' and denies ever visiting her college or the beach.
Bewildered and upset, Radha watches him board his bus and disappear, telling herself, 'Everything will be okay, if I can just get home.'
Parents who deny her
But home brings the same nightmare. Her father, reading the paper on the porch, looks up and asks, 'who are you, please? I'm afraid I don't know you.' Her mother, too, treats her as a stranger, 'It seems she's from a good family. Poor girl!', and both gently try to help the 'confused' girl.
Desperate, Radha pours out their shared life: 'haven't you cooked rice for me these past eighteen years?'; 'wasn't it you who performed my writing ceremony… helped me with my math… took me to the cinema last Sunday?' But her father only smiles: 'What wonderful fairy tales you tell!' They insist, 'You are not Radha,' and suggest she leave before dark.
Cast out, unknown even to nature
Heartbroken and weeping, 'I have no one except you and Daddy', Radha is turned out of her own home. She steps onto the street as darkness pours 'across the sky and the land'.
In the story's chilling climax, even nature refuses to know her: the birds returning to their nests, the swaying trees, the ocean gusts, the sky and the land all 'in a single voice… sang: "You are not Radha. We know you not."' Radha is left utterly alone, erased from the world's memory, a devastating image of lost identity.