— Then come on over, let’s resume our work.
I was silent.
— What is it? Why don’t you say something, janab?
— I’m wondering …
— What?
— Why Manto’s ghost chose to possess me of all people!
I heard Tabassum laugh. —You allowed him yourself. Do you want to shake him off now?
— How would it be if I did?
— No, janab. Don’t do that. I read the entire novel while I was carrying Falak Ara. How I’ve fallen in love with Manto sahib as I read. A writer—no pretence, no airs—who has presented himself through Mirza Ghalib. Don’t be unjust to such an honest writer. Come, we shall definitely finish the translation.
— How did you know Manto is an honest writer? I laughed.
— I can tell. I’m not a writer, so I can’t explain it. Just like a person can tell when it’s real love.
— How do you tell?
— I don’t know.
In my head, I said, preserve your ignorance, Tabassum. So long as you do, I can keep visiting you.
— Why are you silent?
— Can I visit you tomorrow?
— Of course! You don’t have to ask. And you must see Falak Ara too.
— Hmm. The novel that’s just been started.
— What novel?
— Falak Ara. She’s a novel too.
— You only have novels in your head, don’t you?
— My head only holds shit and dung and garbage.
I went to Tabassum’s house the next day. Her daughter Falak Ara was truly a necklace of stars; she seemed to have been painted by the artist Bihzad’s brush. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the child.
— What are you staring at? Tabassum asked with a smile.
— Mir sahib wrote a sher.
— Which?
— Alam-e-husn hai ajab alam, chahiye ishq is bhi alam se.
— Honestly! Mir sahib’s sher for a baby?
— You’ll never know when and from which direction the dagger of beauty will strike.
— Have you been struck by such a dagger recently?
— All the daggers are rusted, Tabassum. They don’t make the blood flow freely. They cause infection within.
— I see you’ve mastered courtly dialogue.
I laughed. —That’s why I like you, Tabassum.
— Why?
— Because of this.
— What do you mean?
— I don’t know.
— Wait, let me find someone to take care of this girl.
As soon as Tabassum left, the ravenous mirror on the wall swallowed me. Agra’s Charbagh appeared in a mirror in the distance. There … there they were … Asadullah standing before Begum Falak Ara with bowed head. And here in Tabassum’s house in a lane of central Calcutta another Falak Ara had been born. People don’t return, but names do, over and over. In some time I saw Tabassum in the same mirror.
— What do you keep looking at in this mirror?
— So many paths are concealed in this mirror of yours.
— Paths?
— Never mind. Tell me about Manto sahib.
— Hmm. Let’s resume, shall we … Opening her cupboard, she took Manto’s manuscript out. Sitting on the bed and leafing through its pages, she said, ‘Will you write today?’
— I didn’t bring my notebook.
— So many excuses not to work.
— I’ll take it down tomorrow. Let me just listen to you reading today.
— But you must complete this translation.
— I will, most certainly I will. Read now.
Tabassum began to read.
I started my story about Mirza Ghalib at a time when my days were numbered. I was done for after moving to Pakistan. My heart felt like a plot of fallow land. Only a few damaged, thorny weeds had survived on it. I could not decide what to do. At times I thought I should stop writing; at other times, I felt that I must keep writing irrespective of what people said. I reached a point where I wished that I could give up my pen and ink and just curl up in a quiet corner, that I could guillotine any ideas that popped up in my head; if even this little bit of peace proved beyond my reach, I’d earn money on the black market, make fat profits by selling poisoned liquor. I needed money, needed it desperately. Not even the stories and newspaper articles I wrote all day and night brought in enough money to run the household. I worried about what would happen to my wife and three daughters if I died suddenly. Call me what you will—writer of obscene stories, reactionary—but I was a husband and a father of three daughters. If one of them fell ill I would have to go around with a begging bowl. And besides household expenses, I also needed money for my alcohol. I could no longer write a single sentence unless I was charged with liquor. Tell me, Uncle Sam, is this what fate should hold for a writer?
I got back from hospital again yesterday. Shafia had left no stone unturned in trying to get me to give up drinking. They didn’t understand that alcohol was consuming me now. I spent a lot of time at some of my friends’ places simply in order to drink. They had nothing to do with my writing. They didn’t even know who Manto was. I didn’t want to tell them either. All I saw was my mind and body rotting away by the day. I really found myself repugnant sometimes. I always wanted to keep everything neat and clean; I even cleaned the house myself because Shafia wouldn’t be able to do it all by herself. I wouldn’t be able to rest unless I had removed every speck of dust. Shafia used to say I was obsessed. But unless our surroundings are well maintained, we cannot be beautiful inside. Drinking was not just an addiction for me, I would also follow the etiquette of drinking flawlessly. I had bought many different kinds of glasses when we lived in Bombay. And now I hid the alcohol bottles behind the commode in the bathroom. At times Shafia asked me why I visited the bathroom so frequently. I lied. I needed to urinate, or I wanted to splash water on my face. I didn’t have qualms about any kind of lie. But I had never lied to Shafia earlier. My addiction was taking me down the road to moral degeneration.
But what could I do? My pen wouldn’t move without a drink. And if I didn’t write there would be no money. I knew I was whirling around within a labyrinth. I knew there was no respite from this situation except through death. But I must finish this story about Mirza before I go. I had sat down with paper and pen in the morning. For a few days after returning from the hospital I didn’t usually feel like a drink. I felt as though my body was covered with fresh grass; I could get its aroma—how clean it smelled. Every single time I vowed to myself, No! Never again. I’m not going to touch alcohol anymore. I like chatting with Shafia and my daughters. And a few days later I was back to queuing up at the liquor shop.
I was trying to write. I kept doodling on the paper, but not a single word emerged. My mind was a complete blank. I couldn’t even decide how to begin. I knew a drink was all I needed for my pen to start racing. Suddenly someone screamed in the lane outside, ‘Khaled mian … Khaled mian …’
The pen slipped from my fingers. I had a premonition of a terrible calamity; maybe the house would collapse. ‘Jujiyaji … Jujiyaji …’ I called out loudly.
This was the name I used affectionately for our youngest daughter Nusrat. She ran up to me from wherever she had been playing. I scooped her up in my arms and began to kiss her. Shafia entered at that moment. Smiling, she said, ‘Father and daughter seem very much in love today.’
— Sit down, Shafia.
Setting Nusrat back on her feet, I asked her, ‘Were you playing?’
— Yes, abba.
— Run along, then.
As thin as a grasshopper, she ran off laughing.
I looked at Shafia. How early she was ageing—because she had come into Manto’s life. Shafia came up to me and put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Why the tears, Manto sahib?’ she asked.
— Do you ever think of Khaled mian?
Shafia sank her nails into my shoulder. She was turned to stone in an instant.
&nbs
p; — I thought of him today after a long time.
Shafia flopped down on the floor like a tree felled by a storm. I sat down opposite her. Her head was bowed for a long time; finally she raised her face. A face which, it seemed to me, had just been sculpted in stone.
— I wrote a story about Khaled mian, Shafia. I never gave it to you to read.
— Why not?
— It would have made you miserable.
— Khaled died in my arms, Manto sahib, didn’t I endure it?
— Death can be endured, Shafia, but memory cannot. We can bear many hard blows in life, Shafia. Maybe we don’t even remember them afterwards. But some written words can make us cry every time. A story holds nothing but memories, after all.
— Will you tell me the story today?
— Do you want to hear it?
— For Khaled’s sake.
— My name was Mamtaz in the story. Mamtaz would wake up early every morning and start sweeping the three rooms they lived in. So that there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. His son Khaled had just begun to walk on unsteady legs. Children of this age pick up whatever they find on the floor and put it in their mouths. Mamtaz would be surprised to discover that no matter how much he cleaned the rooms, the boy would inevitably find something to put in his mouth. It might be plaster flaking off the wall, or a burnt matchstick overlooked in a corner of the room. And Mamtaz would berate himself mentally.
The closer Khaled’s first birthday approached, the more an irrational fear spread over Mamtaz’s heart. He was afraid all the time that Khaled would die before he was a year old. He had even told his wife this one day out of fear. She was dumbfounded. Mamtaz didn’t believe in such superstitions. ‘Incredible,’ his wife said. ‘How can you say such things? Let me tell you Mamtaz sahib, our son will live to be a hundred. You will be amazed at the arrangements I’ve made for his birthday.’ Still he remained in the grip of the fear.
Khaled was quite healthy. His cheeks seemed to be rouged. Before going to office, Mamtaz bathed his son in a tub of water every day. But of late, dark clouds gathered in his mind while bathing Khaled. ‘My wife is right,’ he told himself. ‘How did this fear of Khaled dying crop up in my mind? Why should he die? He’s healthier than most children. Is the fear because of my love for him?’
Mamtaz enjoyed sprawling on a mat after he had swept the floor every morning. Khaled’s birthday was just a day away. Suddenly sensing something heavy on his chest, Mamtaz opened his eyes to discover Khaled lying there. His wife stood next to him. Khaled had apparently tossed and turned all night, trembling constantly in fear. Holding his son in his arms, Mamtaz said, ‘Lord, please protect my son …’
— Why worry so, Mamtaz sahib? It’s just a fever; by God’s grace it will go away quickly. His wife left. Mamtaz cuddled and kissed his son.
Mamtaz’s wife had made elaborate arrangements for Khaled’s first birthday. All their friends and relatives had been invited. She had ordered new clothes for Khaled. Mamtaz wasn’t in favour of such ostentation. He wanted the first birthday to pass quietly. There would be nothing to be afraid of after that.
Khaled got off his chest and tottered into the other room. Mamtaz remained as he was. Suddenly he heard his wife scream, ‘Mamtaz sahib, come quickly, Mamtaz sahib.’
Running into the room, Mamtaz found his wife standing outside the bathroom with Khaled in her arms. He scooped the boy up from her. His limbs were twitching violently. Khaled had had a fit suddenly while playing in the water. His body was contorted horribly in Mamtaz’s arms. Mamtaz laid him down on the bed. Khaled thrashed about for some time before falling unconscious. He was still. ‘Khaled is gone,’ Mamtaz sobbed.
‘Ya Allah, what are you saying!’ his wife snarled back. ‘He’s having convulsions—he’ll be fine soon.’
Khaled opened his eyes a little later. Leaning over him, Mamtaz said, ‘Khaled, my son, what is it, where does it hurt?’
A smile appeared on Khaled’s lips. As soon as Mamtaz picked him up and took him into the next room, his convulsions began again. Khaled trembled like a patient of epilepsy. Mamtaz could not quieten him down. Then Khaled became calm again. Mamtaz went out to fetch a doctor. Examining him, the doctor said, ‘Children have convulsions like this sometimes. It might be because of worms. I’m prescribing medicines. Nothing to worry about.’
But Khaled’s condition deteriorated, and his fever rose. The doctor came again the next day. ‘Don’t be frightened, mian,’ he said. ‘Looks like bronchitis. He’ll be fine in three or four days.’
Khaled’s temperature kept rising. Besides the medicines prescribed by the doctor, he was given holy water on their servant Jamshed’s advice. A different doctor came in the afternoon. Suspecting malaria, he gave the child a quinine injection. Khaled’s temperature rose to 106 degrees. Mamtaz decided that Khaled would have to be taken to the hospital. Calling a carriage, he left with Khaled and his wife.
Mamtaz had been feeling thirsty all the time. How much water he had drunk! On their way to the hospital, he decided to stop for a drink of water. And someone seemed to tell him, ‘Remember mian, if you have a drink of water your Khaled will die.’ His throat felt parched like sandpaper, but he refused to drink water.
As they were about to reach the hospital, he lit a cigarette. He threw it away after a couple of puffs. Someone seemed to say, ‘Don’t smoke, Mamtaz, or else your son will die.’ Who was saying all this in his ears? Nonsense. He tried to light another cigarette, but failed.
When Khaled was admitted to the hospital, the doctor informed them, ‘He has bronchial pneumonia. It doesn’t look good.’
Khaled was unconscious. His mother sat by his side on the bed. Mamtaz felt thirsty again. As he was about to drink some water from the tap near the ward, he heard the same voice again. ‘What are you doing, Mamtaz? Don’t drink any water, or your Khaled will die.’ But Mamtaz couldn’t stop; he felt as though even an ocean would not quench his thirst. When he returned, he found Khaled had turned even paler. If I hadn’t drunk water, he wouldn’t have wasted away so quickly, reflected Mamtaz. But the same voice within him kept saying, Khaled will die before he turns one.
Evening was descending. Several doctors examined Khaled. He was given many different medicines and injections. But Khaled did not recover consciousness. Suddenly the same voice said, ‘Leave the hospital at once, Mamtaz, else Khaled will die.’
Mamtaz left the hospital. The voice in his head kept giving him different instructions. Following the orders, he went to a restaurant and ordered a drink. When the drink was served, the voice told him, ‘Throw it away.’ When he did, the voice instructed him again, ‘Order some more.’ Another drink was served. The voice said, ‘Throw it away.’
Paying for the drinks and the broken glasses, Mamtaz came out of the restaurant. He felt as though all other sounds besides the voice had disappeared from the world. He returned to the hospital; as he was on his way to Khaled’s ward, the voice said, ‘Don’t go there, Mamtaz. Khaled will die if you do.’
He lay down on a bench inside the hospital. It was nearly ten at night. Only the clock outside the hospital could be seen in the darkness. ‘Khaled will survive, won’t he?’ he mumbled. ‘Why do children come into this world to die? Why does death consume them so soon after they’re born? Khaled must have …’
The same voice told him, ‘Stay in this position, Mamtaz. Don’t move an inch till Khaled recovers.’
Eventually Mamtaz screamed in his head, ‘Merciful God, save me. Kill Khaled if you must. Why are you making me suffer so?’
Two people near him were talking to each other.
— Such a beautiful child.
— I couldn’t bear to look at his mother. She kept begging and pleading with the doctors and sobbing.
— The child can’t be saved.
Suddenly they spotted Mamtaz. —What are you doing here?
Mamtaz went up to them.
— Who are you? One of them asked.
Mamtaz’s throat was
parched. ‘I’m a patient, doctor,’ he croaked.
— Why are you outside if you’re a patient? Go inside. Why are you here?
— Sir, my son … in the ward upstairs …
— Your son …
— You were probably talking about him. My son, Khaled …
— You’re his father?
Mamtaz could only nod.
— And you’re lying around on this bench? Go upstairs at once.
Mamtaz ran. As soon as he climbed up the stairs to the ward he saw Jamshed. Grabbing his arm, Jamshed broke into tears. ‘Khaled mian has left us, sahib.’
Entering the ward, Mamtaz found his wife had fainted on the same bed. She was surrounded by the doctors and nurses. Mamtaz went up to the bed. Khaled lay with his eyes shut. The peace of death reigned over his face. Running his hand through his son’s silky hair, Mamtaz said, ‘Want a lozenge, Khaled?’
Looking at Khaled, he muttered, ‘Won’t you take my fear away with you, Khaled mian?’
Mamtaz thought Khaled was nodding, saying, ‘Yes, abba.’
As she listened to the story, Shafia gripped my hand. In surprise I saw that her eyes were glittering like the desert. She got to her feet, calling out, ‘Jujiyaji … Jujiyaji …’
Shafia had never addressed Nusrat by that name before.
27
Is it right to cause a person such pain?
Mir is already destitute, don’t hurt him more
ust consider the writ of destiny. I went to Calcutta with the intention of returning with a bagful of money. I came back instead with the tattered pouch of a pauper. I was reminded of a Sufi tale, Manto bhai. It was stories like these that kept me alive, or else I would have given up long ago. One day a Sufi saint told his disciples, no matter how much you try to help a man, there’s always something within him that prevents him from meeting his goals. Many of his followers did not accept this. A few days later, he told one of his disciples, take a sack of gold coins to the bridge over the river and leave it there. To another, he said, search the town for a person overburdened with debt. Bring him to the bridge and tell him to cross it. Then observe what happens. The disciples followed his instructions. As soon as the man chosen to cross the bridge arrived on the opposite bank, the saint asked, ‘What did you see in the middle of the bridge?’
Dozakhnama Page 24