Canards about me began to fly in Shahjahanabad soon after this. Apparently I was the one responsible for Shamsuddin’s hanging. As you sow, so you shall reap, but no one realized this. Even Umrao Begum asked me one day, ‘Did you tell the magistrate about Shamsuddin bhai, Mirza sahib?’
— Do you believe I did, Begum?
— Everyone says so.
— And that makes it true?
— I know …
— What do you know?
— That you cannot do such a thing.
— But still you asked.
— Forgive me.
— However great an enemy Shamsuddin might be, could I wish for his death?
— I made a mistake, Mirza sahib.
— What a group of people say can never be true, Begum. The truth can only be spoken by individuals. Collective opinion is inevitably a lie.
— Forgive me, Mirza sahib.
I sat there holding Umrao Begum’s hand. This was a new love. Die within it, Asad. Your path lies elsewhere. Be the sky, raze the prison walls with your axe. Flee. Be born in colour—right now. Die, and be silent. Silence means you’re dead. Your whole life you only ran away from silence. Look, the silent moon has risen in the sky now.
The label of Shamsuddin’s killer was stuck on me, my friends. For several years, his grave became a pilgrimage spot for the people of Dilli. And although many Englishmen’s graves were allowed to remain intact during the Sepoy Mutiny, Frazer sahib’s grave was demolished. People never judge a person by their individuality but only by their creed.
The British, too, viewed us Muslims suspiciously, and Hindus in a different way. Do you know why? Because it was the Hindus who had raised the flag of the renaissance—Bengali Hindus from Calcutta. Most of them were nothing but traders and moneylenders, Manto bhai. Sirajuddin sahib wrote several letters to me from Calcutta, and I replied. When I read his letters I realized that Calcutta was actually a two-faced city; it was the capital, after all, so there was a strong current of education and culture and everything else, but the soul that Nidhu-babu’s songs referred to no longer existed.
Shahjahanabad had no soul either. The royal court limped along. The British were gobbling up everything. They ate like sharks, Manto bhai. One day Kallu appeared in the diwankhana with a fakir. Fakir sahib gazed at me for a long time.
— What are you looking at? I asked.
— Bad times are coming, mian.
— How much worse can my life get?
— I’m not talking about you.
— About whom, then?
— Shahjahanabad will become a Karbala, mian.
‘Do you see the same Karbala in me by any chance?’ I smiled.
— Precisely. I see all of Shahjahanabad in you, mian. All the old houses and mosques in this city in ruins. People lynched on the streets. Women wandering about in rags. Snakes being born from goats’ wombs.
I burst into laughter. —When will all this take place, fakir sahib?
— All in good time. You’ll see it happening, mian, before you die.
— And what will happen to me?
— You will be the perfect being. Insaan-e-Kamil.
— Don’t make me laugh, fakir sahib. I have no insaaniyat. There’s nothing humane about me.
— No one is born humane, mian. You’ll attain perfect knowledge only after you’ve been burnt in the fire. Let me tell you a story.
Kallu leapt up. —Yes, let’s have a story, baba. Kallu nestled close to the fakir.
— Sal Abdullah went into a trance one day while telling his disciples about the Din. His eyes were red, he kept nodding his head, and his body twitched all the time. Ibn Salim asked him afterwards, ‘What was wrong with you, murshid sahib?’ Smiling, Abdullah said, ‘It’s not what you think. It wasn’t as though some power had possessed me. On the contrary, it was my weakness.’ Another disciple asked, ‘If this was weakness, what is power?’ After a short silence Abdullah answered, ‘When you are possessed by power, both your body and your heart turn calm.’ Get it, mian? Such a man is the perfect being.
— Baba …! Kallu gripped fakir sahib’s feet.
— Yes, my son?
— One more story, baba.
Kallu became absorbed in fakir sahib’s story; I went into my cell, the devil’s room. But you know what, during that period of voluntary imprisonment I succeeded in doing some work for myself. I rearranged my Urdu ghazal collection. I left out many of them. When I read them afresh, I realized that many of the ghazals could not be retained in the collection. Fazl-e-Haq was right, many of the ghazals had Farsi influences, although it wasn’t obvious at first. And by then I had understood that any ghazal that could not pierce your heart completely and instantly, like an arrow, had no value as a work of art. You know what, Manto bhai, we’re attracted by ornaments and ornate clothing when we’re young; we dress gaudily to show ourselves off. But there’s no contentment until beauty blooms within. I succeeded in compiling my Farsi essays as well. An anthology of five volumes was prepared. In the fifth volume I put in my letters to my friends. I named the collection The Melody Quintet. You’d have been vastly entertained by those letters. And you know what else? I was pleasantly surprised by my own Farsi prose; patting myself on the back, I’d say, mashallah, how well you’ve written mian, excellent. Why are you laughing, Manto bhai? Haven’t you ever patted yourself on the back? Haven’t you felt, after writing a story, oh my God, do I really have such talent within me? Have I been carrying it around all this time? What’s wrong with that, Manto bhai? Can an artist not give himself this small praise? You have to preserve this gentle fascination with yourself all your life.
Let me tell you about my letters to Alif Beg, my brothers, you’ll find them interesting. Alif sahib had a son in old age. He wrote to me saying, choose a name for my son, mian. I wrote back, I didn’t have to ponder in the slightest over a name for your son—it didn’t even take a minute. As soon as the name flashed in my head I wrote a poem:
In his old age Alif
Has had a beautiful son
I name him Hamza
As everyone knows
All Alifs grow up to be Hamzas
Isn’t that right, my brothers? Alif is a straight line and Hamza is a twisted one. Everyone’s body twists into a Hamza in old age.
I passed my days in my devil’s chamber, writing letters and making fun of people. Suddenly an English creditor named McPherson extracted an order from the court for me to pay back two hundred and fifty rupees. As luck would have it, I happened to have gone out that same day, and a British policeman arrested me at once. I was forced to go to jail. My friend Aminuddin bhai, the nawab of Loharu, saved me. Paying four hundred rupees on my behalf, he settled the case. Can this be called the life of a human being, my brothers? How long can you stay cooped up in a cell? If you go out, prison awaits you. Still I told myself with a smile:
Misery vanishes when you get used to misery
I suffered so much that it became easy
After Shamsuddin was hanged, the nawab’s rights to the kingdom of Ferozepur-Jhirkar were taken away. I used to get my pension from the British Raj. The same sixty-two rupees and eight annas. Those eight annas never stopped chasing me, Manto bhai. Everything in my destiny was fixed at half a rupee; I never received a full rupee’s worth. But despite the plight I was in, the company of certain people helped me survive. When Fazl-e-Haq sahib left Dilli, it was like a piece of my heart being destroyed. How many noble souls like him did Shahjahanabad have? The depth and extent of his leaning was matched by his sensitivity. The post he occupied was not meant for someone as qualified as him. Still he continued with the job. But the British would never let an opportunity for humiliation pass. They didn’t need opportunities; they always looked down at us from a height, as though surveying ants or worms. So they did not hesitate a moment before trampling us underfoot. Fazl-e-Haq was humiliated in precisely this manner. Being a man of integrity, he resigned. But he wasn’t a man to stay idle. Nawab Faiz
Muhammad Khan took him to his own state with a monthly stipend of five hundred rupees. I remained in Dilli with a broken heart. I knew that Fazl-e-Haq sahib also bid goodbye to Dilli with a heart brimming over with tears. Even Emperor Bahadur Shah took off his shawl and put it around Fazl-e-Haq sahib’s shoulders, wiping his eyes as he said, ‘I know there is nothing I can do when you say goodbye. But when I have to wish you Godspeed, Khudahafiz, only God will know how painful it is for me to say those words.’ My closest friend, a true connoisseur of my ghazals, departed from Shahjahanabad carrying a burden of humiliation.
But another man came into my life. Could the lord abandon me entirely? I found a friend in Nawab Mustafa Khan Shaifta. Nine years younger than me, he belonged to Shahjahanabad. His ancestors came from Afghanistan. Very well-versed in Arabic and Farsi, he also wrote excellent ghazals. At one time, wine and women were the two arms of spring in Shaifta sahib’s life. He had an amorous relationship with the courtesan Ramzu. She was no run-of-the-mill courtesan, for she was as wealthy as she was well-educated.
I lost count of the number of ways in which Shaifta sahib helped me, my brothers. He was the only one to stand by me during the darkest hours of my life. I swear by the lord, he really did seem to be the soul of poetry, untarnished by calumny. Meanwhile, my mother died in Agra and my brother Yusuf was completely insane. I could not cope anymore. So I staked my own life once more. I set up a gambling den in my devil’s chamber. I had gambled earlier too; I had even had to pay a fine of five hundred rupees for it once. But this time I was determined to change my fortune with my winnings. Gambling was strictly prohibited in Dilli at the time. But since I counted important Englishmen among my friends, I thought no one could do anything to me. This presumption did me in, Manto bhai. The gambling became more frenetic by the day. I even made some money now and then. I told myself:
I know what goes on in heaven, but
Such fancies, Ghalib, are not bad for happiness
30
I want to see the beauty of the garden,
pluck the flowers too …
My heart is sinful, O Creator of spring
may not have been earning much money, Mirza sahib, but I began to enjoy life with Shafia. She used to love me with all her heart. And the most important thing was that she wanted to understand me. So despite her initial objection to my drinking, she accepted it eventually. But she kept a strict watch all the time to ensure I didn’t overdo it. You cannot imagine the attention I paid to our home, my brothers. I used to sweep the floor myself, and dust and clean everything. I helped with the cooking too sometimes. I used to enjoy cooking a lot, particularly kebabs. The aroma of spices and roasting meat was intoxicating. I was getting more and more involved with the world of cinema in Bombay; once in this world, I felt like Amir Hamza, with a thousand adventures awaiting me. After I went to Pakistan, I wrote Ganjay Farishtay—The Bald Angels—about all those colourful people from Bombay’s film world. I wanted to see their real selves, without costumes or cosmetics. Some people had objected to this. But to hell with a society that launders a man’s exploits after his death to hold them up as clean and honourable. I remember Ismat’s story ‘Dozakhi’ being published in Saki. She had stripped her dead brother Azim Beg Chughtai naked in it. After reading the story, my sister Iqbal had said, ‘What a strange girl Ismat is. She hasn’t even spared her own dead brother. Is it right to put such things into a story?’
I had told her, ‘If you can write a story like this after my death, Iqbal, I swear on the lord, I’m ready to die right now.’
— Me write about you? Write what?
— That your Saadat is the lowest worm in hell.
— You’re mad, Saadat. Does anyone like thinking of their favourite people this way?
— Only your favourite person can be depicted this way, Iqbal. You know every one of his sins and good deeds. You can never be unfair to him. Can a man be just a lump of good qualities, without a single flaw?
— You’re a writer, you can think this way.
— No, Iqbal. You think this way too. It’s just that you’re scared of acknowledging the truth. I’ll tell you Sitara’s story one day. A woman like her is born on this earth only once every hundred years. And yet she has such a bad reputation. People think there’s nothing but sex in her life.
No, my brothers, don’t get excited. Sitara’s story is the ace up my sleeve, to be played at the right time. Can the story of the tigress be told so early on? We have to rot in hell for a long time yet, we’ll have plenty of opportunities. Sitara will make her appearance at the right time. So will Nasim Bano, so will Nargis and Noorjehan and all the rest. All you need is a little patience, my brothers. All this happened such a long time ago, I have forgotten the month and year; it feels as though I saw them in a long dream. But for now, put your aversion aside and listen to an episode or two from the swine Manto’s life.
While I was working for Musawar, Baburao Patel had asked me to translate the screenplay of a film into Urdu. The film would be made by Prabhat Studio. This was how I made my entrance into Bombay’s film industry. One day, Nazir Ludhianvi sahib—the owner of Musawar—introduced me to the people at the Imperial Film Company. I would have to write dialogue for films, for forty rupees a month. I thought my luck was turning finally, but Ludhianvi sahib reduced my salary from forty rupees to twenty. Get it? He gave with one hand and took away with the other. My monthly income now amounted to sixty rupees. But given the state of the Imperial Film Company at the time, monthly payments were uncertain. I took advance payments sometimes. The job didn’t last long. Thanks to Ludhianvi sahib’s efforts, I then got a job with Film City at a hundred rupees a month. I worked for several film companies at the time for the sake of money. But I didn’t quit my job at Musawar. It was Musawar that had brought me to Bombay. Eventually it was Ludhianvi sahib himself who kicked me out. I was sacked without being given a reason. The earth shook beneath my feet, my brothers. All jobs with film companies could be here today, gone tomorrow. I met Baburao Patel directly, brandishing my dismissal letter. He even agreed to appoint me editor of his Caravan magazine. He sent for his secretary Rita Carlyle. I had heard that Rita was his secretary, stenographer, and lover rolled into one. When she entered, Baburaoji said, ‘Come closer.’
When she went up to him, he slapped her bottom and said, ‘Get some paper and pencil.’
When Rita went out, Baburaoji said with a smile, ‘I’ve never seen such tight buttocks, Manto.’
— Do you keep slapping them?
— You bet I do. And feeling them is such a joy. Like running my fingers through Poulson butter.
Rita returned with her shorthand notebook and pencil. As he was dictating my appointment letter, Baburaoji turned to me. ‘How much do you want, Manto?’ he asked. Pausing, he answered himself, ‘Will a hundred do?’
— No.
— I can’t give you more, Manto.
— I’ll take only sixty. No more, no less.
Baburaoji jumped out of his chair. ‘You’re a complete ass.’
— Precisely.
— Meaning?
— I won’t take more than sixty. But I can’t follow a routine. I’ll come to work and leave as I please. All you want is that the magazine should be published on time, right?
I got the job all right, but it didn’t last beyond seven months. There wasn’t any work to be had in Bombay. In 1941 I went to Delhi with a job at the radio station. The salary was a hundred and fifty rupees a month. But I couldn’t survive more than a year and a half. Government jobs weren’t for me, Mirza sahib. The people around me were most annoying. And besides, I had fallen in love with Bombay’s film world. No one there cared whether you were rich or poor, or raised questions over your abilities and shortcomings. Just live, stay alive, enjoy the pleasures of life with every cell in your body. Just like my friend Shyam used to say, ‘Life is my lover, Manto. Tell me Manto, what would you prefer? Long live life, let all else go to hell—isn’t this what you want, tell me?’
I must tell you about Shyam, my brothers. I heard of his death when I was in a mental hospital in Pakistan to be cured of my alcoholism. ‘The taste of death really is unique, Manto,’ he seemed to be whispering in my ear. ‘I had never imagined anything like this.’
One day, I quit my radio job in Delhi, my brothers. A man named Advani was the chief of Delhi Radio. He told me that a few words in one of my radio plays would have to be changed. Bukhari sahib was the Director General of Radio; Advani was a favourite of his. No one dared cross swords with him. I declared bluntly that Advaniji did not know Urdu, did not understand Urdu, could not even read Urdu. He wasn’t capable of finding flaws in my play. So I had to quit. And as for Bukhari sahib, he had never been able to stand me. He became the Director General of Radio Pakistan after the Partition, but he never invited me to a single radio programme. I couldn’t care less, Mirza sahib. Radio Pakistan did have to broadcast a half-hour programme after my death. Bukhari sahib was the all-in-all at the time. These people forget, Mirza sahib, that no matter how important your position, you’re nothing but a government servant. No one will spare you even a glance once you’ve lost your job.
After a year and a half in Delhi, I returned to Bombay, Mirza sahib. Musawar offered me a job once more, and besides, Bombay’s lure was irresistible. Money simply floated in the air here—it was just a matter of getting hold of it. Krishan Chander, Rajinder Singh Bedi, Upendranath Ashk, Ismat and I all made a beeline for Bombay’s film world strictly for the money. So that we could live well. So as to get my bottle of Johnny Walker every day, so as to keep a packet of Cavern cigarettes in my pocket all the time. There was no relationship between literature and stories for cinema, after all. Krishan was a simple man, who didn’t get it at first. He was under the impression that he was creating great art by writing for films. Once, we wrote a story for a film together, titled The Gypsy. We took the story to Seth Jagat Narayan, owner of Jagat Talkies, to see if he’d buy it. After hearing the story, the seth said, ‘Excellent. I’ll buy the story. But Manto sahib. You’ve made the factory manager a very evil man. Can’t he be a little nicer? Factory workers won’t take it well. You know what I mean.’
Dozakhnama Page 27