Saadat Hasan Manto
A Tale of the Year 1919
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A Tale of the Year 1919
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A Tale of the Year 1919
Saadat Hasan Manto, the most widely read and the most controversial short-story writer in Urdu, was born on 11 May 1912 at Samrala in Punjab’s Ludhiana district. In a literary, journalistic, radio scripting and film-writing career spread over more than two decades, he produced twenty-two collections of short stories, one novel, five collections of radio plays, three collections of essays, two collections of personal sketches and many scripts for films. He was tried for obscenity half a dozen times, thrice before and thrice after Independence. Some of Manto’s greatest work was produced in the last seven years of his life, a time of great financial and emotional hardship for him. He died several months short of his forty-third birthday, in January 1955, in Lahore.
Muhammad Umar Memon is professor emeritus of Urdu literature and Islamic studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He is a critic, short-story writer, translator and editor of the Annual of Urdu Studies. He has translated the best of Urdu writers. His most recent translation is Collected Stories, a selection of stories by Naiyer Masud.
A Tale of the Year 1919
‘This, brother, is about an event that occurred in 1919. All of Punjab— Amritsar, to be more exact—was in the throes of awful turmoil due to the Rowlatt Act. Under the Defence of India Rules, Sir Michael O’Dwyer had banned Gandhiji’s entry into the Punjab. Gandhiji was on his way there when he was stopped at Palwal, arrested, and sent back to Bombay. In my opinion, had the British not acted so rashly, the Jallianwala Bagh incident wouldn’t have added such a gory chapter to the dark history of their rule.
‘Whether Muslim, Hindu or Sikh, everyone held Gandhiji in the highest esteem and considered him a Mahatma. The minute the news of his arrest reached Lahore, all business came to a dead stop. And in Amritsar the news led to an almost immediate general strike.
‘It is said that the Deputy Commissioner had already received orders for the expulsion of Dr Satyapal and Dr Kitchlew on the evening of 9 April but he was unwilling to enforce them. He didn’t think anything untoward was likely to happen in Amritsar. Protest demonstrations had been generally peaceful so far; the question of violence didn’t arise. I’m telling you what I witnessed myself. It was the day of the Ram Navami festival. A procession was taken out, but no one dared take a single step against the wishes of the rulers. However, brother, this Sir Michael—he had lost his mind. Obsessed as he was with the fear that these leaders were simply waiting for a sign from Mahatma Gandhi to overthrow British rule, and that a conspiracy was lurking behind all these demonstrations and strikes, he ignored the wishes of the Deputy Commissioner.
‘The news of Dr Satyapal’s and Dr Kitchlew’s expulsion had spread through the city like wildfire. Every heart was tense with apprehension, fearing that something dreadful was about to happen. Yes, brother, there was a palpable feeling of heightened emotion everywhere. All businesses had come to a standstill and a deathly silence had enveloped the city, the kind that pervades cemeteries. However, the surface calm was not without the resonance of the passion raging beneath it. Following the news of the expulsion orders, people began to assemble in thousands, intending to march to the Deputy Commissioner Bahadur and petition him to rescind the orders seeking the banishment of their beloved leaders. But, my brother, those were not the times when petitions were heard; a tyrant in the guise of Sir Michael was the chief administrator. Would he hear the petition? Not a chance. He declared the gathering itself in violation of the law.
‘Amritsar, once the biggest centre of the freedom struggle, wearing the wounds of Jallianwala Bagh like a proud emblem—ah, what straits it is in today! But let’s not linger over that painful story. It weighs heavily on the heart. People blame the British for the ghastly events that were visited upon this great city five years ago. Maybe they were. But, brother, if the truth be told, our own hands were equally stained with the blood that was shed there. But that’s another matter . . .
‘Like every other big officer and all the toadies of the British, the Deputy Sahib’s bungalow was located in the exclusive area of the Civil Lines. Now, if you are familiar with Amritsar, you would know that a bridge connects the city with this quarter. Once you cross this bridge, you come on to the Mall where the British rulers had built themselves this earthly paradise.
‘Anyway, when the procession was nearing the Hall Gate it came to be known that mounted British troops were posted on the bridge. However, the crowd marched on undaunted. I can’t even begin to describe how excited they were. But every last one of them was unarmed; no one had even a measly stick on him to speak of. They only wanted to lodge a collective protest against the arrest of Dr Satyapal and Dr Kitchlew and press for their unconditional release. The procession kept advancing on the bridge. The goras opened fire when the protesters got close. Suddenly a stampede broke out. There were only a few dozen troops and the crowd numbered in the hundreds, but, brother, bullets can knock the daylights out of anyone. An unimaginable confusion erupted. Some were wounded by gunshots, others trampled underfoot.
‘I was standing near the edge of a filthy ditch on the right. A violent push threw me into it. After the firing stopped I pulled myself out. The people had scattered. The wounded were lying on the road and the gora soldiers were on the bridge, laughing. What my mental state was at the time I have no idea, but I couldn’t have been in full possession of my senses. The fall into the ditch had completely disoriented me. It was only after I had pulled myself out that the whole event began to slowly reconstruct itself in my mind.
‘I could hear a terrible noise rising far in the distance, as if some people were screaming and yelling angrily. I crossed the length of the ditch and, going through the tomb-sanctuary of Zahira Pir, arrived at Hall Gate. There I saw a group of thirty or forty extremely agitated young men throwing rocks at the big clock above the Gate. When the glass on the clock shattered and fell to the ground, one of the young men shouted to the rest of his mates, “Let’s go and smash the Queen’s statue!”
‘Another one suggested, “No, yaar, let’s set the police headquarters on fire instead.”
‘“And all the banks,” added a third.
‘A fourth young man stopped them. “Wait! What’s the point of that? Let’s go to the bridge and make short work of the goras.”
‘I recognized this fellow; he was Thaila Kunjar, tall, athletic and quite handsome. His real name was Muhammad Tufail, but he was better known as kunjar because he was the offspring of a prostitute. He was quite the tramp and had become addicted to gambling and drinking at a young age. His sisters Shamshad and Almas were the most beautiful prostitutes of their time. Shamshad had an exquisite voice and the filthy rich travelled great distances just to attend her mujras. The sisters had had enough of their brother’s unseemly conduct. It was known throughout the city that they had more or less disowned him. Even so, one way or other, he always managed to trick them into giving him whatever he needed. He always looked dapper, ate and drank well, had refined tastes, and was full of wit and humour, with none of the ribald vulgarity associated with bhands and miraasis.
‘The agitated young men paid no heed to his words and started advancing towards the Queen’s statue. “I said don’t waste your energy,” Thaila admonished them again. “Come with me. Let’s beat the hell out of the goras who murdered our innocent people. Together we can easily wring their necks. Come on!”
‘By then some boys had already left for the statue
, the rest halted and followed Thaila as he started for the bridge. I thought to myself, these boys, their mothers’ darlings, are walking towards certain death. From my hiding place near the fountain, I called out to Thaila, “Don’t go, yaar, why do you want to risk your life and theirs?”
‘He let out a strange, raucous laugh and said, “Thaila wants the goras to know that their bullets won’t scare him away.” He then turned to his companions and added, “If you’re afraid, you’re free to leave.”
‘In a situation such as this it’s hard to go back once you’ve started, especially when your leader is going forward fearlessly, showing little regard for his life.
‘The bridge isn’t all that far from the Hall Gate, some sixty or seventy yards at most. Thaila was ahead of everyone. Twenty steps away, where the railings of the bridge began, two mounted goras stood on guard. When Thaila approached the railings, shouting slogans, a shot was fired. I thought he had fallen, but he continued to advance undaunted. His pals panicked and took to their heels. He turned around and shouted, “Don’t run away. Come on!”
‘He was facing me as he said that, but then he turned to look at the goras while reaching with his hand to feel his back. In spite of the distance, I saw that red spots had appeared on his white bosky shirt. He darted forward like a wounded tiger. Another gunshot rang out. He wobbled a little and then pounced on one of the mounted goras. Within a second, the saddle was empty and the gora was flat on the ground with Thaila on top of him. The other soldier, a bit confused at first, tried to rein in his horse, which was bolting from fright, and then started shooting wildly. I haven’t the foggiest idea what happened next for I blacked out and fell to the ground by the fountain.
‘When I came to, brother, I found myself in my own house. Apparently some people who knew me had carried me there. I learned from them that the crowd, after being fired upon at the bridge, had become so enraged that it had attempted to knock down the Queen’s statue. The Town Hall and three banks were torched. About half a dozen Europeans were butchered and widespread looting had ensued.
‘The Brits didn’t care much about the looting; it was the murder of half a dozen Europeans that raised their hackles. The result was the bloody massacre at Jallianwala Bagh. Deputy Commissioner Bahadur had handed over the city to General Dyer and, on 12 April, General Sahib marched with his troops through numerous bazaars in the city, arresting many dozens of innocent citizens.
‘The following day some twenty-five thousand people gathered at Jallianwala Bagh in a peaceful meeting. General Dyer arrived at the scene towards evening with a contingent of armed Gorkha and Sikh soldiers who opened fire on the unarmed civilians.
‘No one had a clear idea of the number of casualties. Later, when the matter was investigated, it was revealed that about a thousand people had been mowed down and three to four thousand were wounded. . . . But I was talking about Thaila. I’m telling you about what I saw myself . . . God alone is perfect. Thaila, of course, couldn’t be. On the contrary, he had all four major shar‘i faults. Though a prostitute’s womb had nurtured him, he was exceptionally brave. I can now say without a doubt that when he turned around, looked at his companions and urged them to keep their spirits up, he had already taken the first bullet fired by that accursed gora. In the heat of the moment, he likely hadn’t realized that red-hot lead had penetrated his chest. The second bullet hit him in the back, the third again pierced his chest. I didn’t see it myself but I’ve heard that when Thaila’s corpse was disengaged from the gora, his fingers were still dug so deeply into the throat of the gora who’d already gone to hell that only with tremendous effort could the two be pulled apart.
‘The next day his body, riddled with bullet holes, was delivered to his family for burial. Apparently the other gora had emptied his revolver into a dead Thaila merely for target practice.
‘People say that when his corpse arrived it stirred up quite a commotion among the residents of his neighbourhood. True, he was not well liked by his folks, but the sight of his mangled body made everyone burst into loud crying. His sisters Shamshad and Almas fainted on the spot. As the bier was carried out for burial, their agonized wailing touched everyone so deeply that they couldn’t stop their tears— tears of blood.
‘Brother, I’ve read somewhere that it was a prostitute who was struck down by the first shot fired during the French Revolution. Muhammad Tufail was the son of a prostitute. No one has bothered to find out whether it was the first bullet, the fifth or the fiftieth that felled him in this struggle for freedom, likely because the poor man didn’t pull much weight in society and amounted to nothing. I doubt Thaila Kunjar’s name appears in the record of those who were drenched in this bloodbath of Punjab, or even that such a record was ever compiled.
‘Those were stormy days. A military government was in power. The monster called martial law was bellowing in every street and alley of the city. The poor man was interred in great confusion and a big hurry, as if his doleful relatives were guilty of this grievous crime and wanted to erase every last trace of it.
‘Brother, that’s how Thaila died . . . and was buried . . . and . . .’
My fellow traveller hesitated and paused for the first time. The train was thundering along, the rattling wheels repeating the same refrain, ‘Thaila died, Thaila buried . . . Thaila died, Thaila buried.’ It was as if there was no space between dying and being buried, as if here he died, here he was buried. The two words blended with the rattle with such a lack of feeling that I had to expel them from my mind. I asked my chance companion, ‘You were about to say something more.’
He looked at me with a start. ‘Yes, the most painful part of the story remains to be told.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘As I already mentioned, Thaila had two sisters, Shamshad and Almas, both stunningly beautiful. Tall, with very delicate features and big beautiful eyes, Shamshad was a superb singer of thumris. People say that she had taken lessons from Khan Sahib Fateh Ali Khan. Musically not much to speak of, Almas was an exquisite dancer, entirely peerless in her ability to express different emotional states through her movements. In mujra performances it seemed that every atom of her body participated in the dance and every gesture carried a meaning. The beauty of her eyes never failed to captivate her audience.’
My companion was taking more time than I thought was necessary in praising the accomplishments of the two sisters, but I didn’t interrupt him as it didn’t seem proper. After a while he broke out of this lengthy adulation and came to the most tragic part of the story.
‘Well, brother, it’s like this: Some bootlicker out to ingratiate himself with the British told the army officers about the ravishing beauty of the sisters. A memsahib—what was the witch’s name? Yes, Miss Sherwood—had been killed in the riots. It was decided to send for the sisters and . . . and . . . take it out on them for the death of the Englishwoman . . . You know what I mean, brother?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I said.
‘In times such as this,’ he said, heaving a deep sigh, ‘even dancing girls and prostitutes are like our mothers and sisters. Their honour must be protected. But, brother, would this country ever give a damn about respect and honour? The minute the police chief received the orders from his superiors, he immediately went into action. He went to the sisters himself and told them that the sahib-logs had summoned them . . . to perform. Just think about it, brother. Thaila hadn’t been dead two days, the earth on his grave was still moist, and they were ordering: Come and dance in our imperial presence, for our entertainment. Could there be a more cruel method of exacting revenge? You won’t find any example of a more atrocious way of belittling someone! The people who issued these orders, didn’t they think that even a prostitute has, could have, her honour, her dignity? Of course she could—why not?’ He asked himself, though, clearly, I was his audience.
‘Yes, surely, she could have her honour.’
‘Quite right. After all, Thaila was their brother. And he hadn’t lo
st his life in a gambling-den brawl or in a bout of drunkenness at some sleazy tavern. He had courageously quaffed the wine of martyrdom for the sake of his country. He was a prostitute’s son but that prostitute was also a mother; Shamshad and Almas were her daughters, Thaila’s sisters first, prostitutes later. And they had fainted at the sight of his corpse, they had poured their hearts out at his funeral to such an extent that whoever heard their wails had broken into tears—tears of blood.’
‘So did they go?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer for some time and then said in a voice laden with sadness, ‘Yes . . . yes they did . . . Fully decked out.’ Sadness suddenly gave way to a sharp tone of bitterness. ‘They went to their callers all dolled up and prettied. It was a lively soiree full of fun and . . . So I’ve heard. Both sisters put on a stunning performance. In their glittering peshwaz dresses they looked like the proverbial fairies of Mt Caucasus. Wine flowed freely and they sang and danced with abandon. The merrymaking continued well into the night until the party ended at a sign from a senior officer.’
My fellow traveller abruptly stood up and began staring at the trees as they flitted by outside the window frame.
The train chugged on. The metallic clatter of the wheels on the tracks seemed to be repeating his words, ‘Party ended . . . party ended.’
Tearing those words from my mind I asked him, ‘What happened then?’
Taking his eyes off the trees and electric poles as they flew by, he replied in a firm voice. ‘What happened? They tore off their glittering dresses and, standing there stark naked, said, “Here, take a good look at us . . . we are Thaila’s sisters . . . you riddled his body with your bullets only because it harboured a patriotic spirit. We’re his beautiful sisters. Come, defile our perfumed bodies with your vile passion . . . But before you do . . . allow us to spit in your faces!”’
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