Dozakhnama

by Rabisankar Bal

  — Certainly. It won’t take us long to make the factory manager a decent man, Sethji.

  — Meaning?

  — Just a matter of sitting down with paper and pen, that’s all.

  — That’s true. The seth began to laugh.

  Krishan stared at me open-mouthed. He tried to speak, but I cut him short.

  — May I say something more, Manto sahib?

  — Of course.

  — Why did you have to introduce the manager’s wife? Make her his sister.

  — Why?

  — It will help.

  — How will it help? Krishan practically snarled.

  — Be quiet, Krishan. Sethji is buying the story. If he wants …

  — Exactly. Please look at it from my perspective. Listen, Manto sahib, the sister had better not be married. Make her something of a vamp. Who flirts with the hero. It’ll be exciting, won’t it?

  — Wonderful! Nothing could be better, Sethji.

  Krishan couldn’t believe his ears. Was I the Manto he knew, who had refused to change even a word of his radio play? Disbelief and hatred showed plainly in his eyes.

  As soon as we left the seth’s house, Krishan began to rant at me. —You call yourself a writer, Manto? How could you sell yourself like this? And to think I trusted you.

  — Have I betrayed your trust?

  — Would you allow your stories to be published if even a single word had to be changed?

  — No.

  — But you accepted Sethji’s proposals.

  — I did, Krishan bhai. We didn’t go to him for the sake of literature. Do you really think this story has any literary value? We made the story up for a film. A mother can become a sister; a sister can become a vamp and behave as she likes with the hero. How does it matter to you and me? We’re writing for the films to make some money. Don’t think of literature here, Krishan. Do you get what I’m saying?

  — Hmm.

  — Then the story can be changed, right?

  Krishan nodded.

  I knew whom to lay down my life for, Mirza sahib, and whom to play games with. The world of cinema was for these games. So many people were in the queue for films to be made from their stories. Would you call them writers, Mirza sahib? When I sat down with my paper and pen, I would tell myself that no one in the world would be able to make a film from this story I was about to write. Every truth of literature is concealed in its words and sentences and paragraphs, no image can express it, just as we cannot explain an image with words. And would Bombay’s world of films ever be able to touch Krishan Chander’s or Ismat’s or Manto’s stories? One day I said to Ismat in the tram on our way back from Bombay Talkies, ‘I notice a couple of elements in Krishan’s stories quite frequently these days.’

  — What are they?

  — Rapes and rainbows.

  — Absolutely right, Manto bhai.

  — I’m thinking of writing an essay about him with the same title. Zina-bil-Jabr aur Qaus-Qaza. But I simply cannot understand the relationship between the rapes and the rainbows in his stories.

  Ismat was quiet for a while. Then she said, ‘How beautiful the colours of the rainbow are. But you’re looking at it from a different angle, Manto bhai.’

  — Yes. Fire and blood are both red in colour. This colour is closely connected to Mars, Ismat. And the same colour can be seen in rapes and rainbows.

  — Perhaps. Write your essay, then.

  — There’s more, Ismat. Red is the symbol of God’s love in Christian art. It’s connected with the crucifixion. The Virgin Mary is also dressed in red. The colour of purity. As I spoke, I noticed that Ismat was dressed entirely in white.

  Smiling, Ismat said, ‘Write it, Manto bhai. But don’t use the word “forcibly” in your title.’

  — But Krishan will object. He hates rape because it’s forcible. Jabr.

  — This objection won’t be sustained, Manto bhai.

  — Why not?

  — How would Krishan know whether his heroine had come to love the violence or not?

  Yes, this was Ismat. Reckless. She couldn’t have written a story like ‘Lihaaf’—‘The Quilt’—otherwise. It came as an explosion in Urdu literature, Mirza sahib. That too, written by a woman. I had brought the story up the very first day I met Ismat. I think it was in the August of 1942. I was working at Musawar’s office at Adelphi Chambers on Clare Road. Mahatma Gandhi and other Congress leaders had been arrested. There were protests all over the city. Shahid Latif came one day with his wife Ismat. I’d known Shahid since our days together at the Aligarh Muslim University. I noticed that Ismat was shy and, at the same time, ready to meet your eye when talking to you. After discussing the freedom movement for some time, we turned to poetry and fiction.

  ‘I read your story “The Quilt” in Adab-e-Latif,’ I told Ismat.

  — Were you in Delhi at that time?

  — Yes. It was good, very good. But that last sentence—I’d have deleted it if I’d been the editor instead of Ahmed Nadim Qasimi.

  — Why?

  — Do you remember what you wrote?

  — Hmm.

  — Not even for a lakh of rupees shall I reveal what I saw when the quilt parted an inch. Something like that, wasn’t it?

  — Yes.

  — Was it necessary?

  — What’s wrong with the line?

  I was about to reply. But when I looked at Ismat, I couldn’t. She looked as though it was sinful for her to have heard what I had told her. Ismat was like that; she might suddenly say something to enrage you, but the very next moment she would be a shy, demure maiden.

  I cannot tell you about Ismat in brief, my brothers. Someone wrote me a letter from Hyderabad. ‘How is it that Ismat Chughtai and you are not married yet? How wonderful it would have been if Manto and Ismat were to be united. It is a matter of great regret, Manto sahib, that Ismat married Shahid Latif instead of you.’

  There was a conference of progressive writers in Hyderabad. Apparently several women there had asked Ismat, why didn’t you marry Manto sahib? I don’t know how true these stories are. But when Ismat returned to Bombay she told Shafia that a girl in Hyderabad had apparently asked her, ‘Is Manto sahib unmarried?’ Her balloon had been pricked by Ismat’s reply, ‘No.’

  I thought about it afterwards, Mirza sahib. What would it have been like had Ismat and I been married? You’d have had a harrowing time answering this question of ‘what if’? For instance, how would you answer this question: had Cleopatra’s nose been one-eighteenth of an inch longer, what would it have meant for the Nile? The question of Ismat and Manto being married is just as absurd. All that can be said is that had this marriage taken place, there would have been a nuclear explosion in the history of Urdu literature. The signatures on the marriage deed could well have been the last thing either of them wrote. And I would imagine the conversation between Ismat and me at the wedding ceremony in the presence of the qazi:

  — Isn’t the qazi sahib’s forehead as broad as the slates we wrote on, Ismat?

  — What did you say?

  — Has your hearing gone to pieces?

  — My hearing’s just fine. Have you swallowed a frog?

  — God forbid! I was saying that the qazi sahib’s forehead is as broad as the slates we wrote on.

  — But it’s very smooth.

  — You have no idea what smooth is.

  — Oh, I see, I don’t know. And you do.

  — You know nothing.

  — I do know that the qazi sahib’s head is beautifully shaped. You’re chattering too much, Manto.

  — You’re the one chattering.

  — No. Not me, you.

  — You … you … you’re spraying words like a hosepipe.

  — Oh my God, you’re already acting like a husband.

  Turning to the qazi, I yelled, ‘I refuse to marry this woman. If your daughter’s head is shaped just like yours, let me marry her instead.’

  Ismat yelled too. ‘I won’t marry th
is man either, Qazi sahib. If you haven’t got four wives already, marry me. It’s you I like, Qazi sahib.’

  Life in Bombay was just like such stories, Mirza sahib, where truth and fiction merged into one. Was there no truth in Ismat’s silence when she did not answer a single one of my letters after I shifted to Pakistan, Mirza sahib? She had once taken my hand and said, ‘You haven’t been able to say a single thing openly in your entire life, Manto sahib.’ I had told Ismat one of your shers, Mirza sahib.

  I would have taken this road after all,

  Ghalib, had I lived in another time

  31

  My heart is so bereft now that I cannot tell

  Didn’t anyone ever live here? Or has it been deserted

  for a long time now?

  he gambling session was in full swing in my devil’s chamber that day. We used to gamble with dice. Several rich businessmen were present. Luck was running my way, Manto bhai—I had won a number of games. One of Mir sahib’s shers was buzzing around in my head like a bee.

  Love is both the lover and the beloved

  So love is its own affliction

  Suddenly Kallu appeared to tell me that a palanquin had arrived. Several women were sitting in it. ‘Why are you telling me?’ I scolded him. ‘They must be here to visit Begum sahiba. Show them to the mahalsarai.’

  A few minutes after Kallu left, several women dressed in burqas entered my chamber. We were taken aback. Who were they? When they took off their burqas, we discovered police chief Faizul Hasan, along with his troops. ‘Handcuff them all,’ roared Faizul Hasan.

  Quietly I said, ‘Take a seat kotwal sahib. I am Mirza Ghalib. You know me, of course. These are my friends, all honest people of Shahjahanabad.’

  — Which is why they gamble?

  Smiling, I said, ‘When did you see us gambling? Is it a crime to play a game of dice?’

  — I know there’s gambling behind these games, Mirza. You were arrested earlier as well. You have to come to the police station.

  Gripping Faizul Hasan’s arm, Malik Ram said, ‘Do you believe that a poet like Mirza Ghalib will stoop to gambling?’

  Faizul Hasan burst out laughing. ‘Do you think anyone will believe it if they’re told Mirza doesn’t gamble?’

  — I do gamble, kotwal sahib. I said with a smile.

  — There, you heard for yourself.

  — But with life. Zindagi ke saath.

  — You can’t get away with philosophical statements, Mirza. Turning to his troops, Faizul Hasan told them, ‘Handcuff them all.’

  Now I became furious. Clenching my teeth, I said, ‘Don’t forget, kotwal sahib, that the British are my friends.’

  — You can say all that in court.

  I couldn’t believe it, Manto bhai. We were actually handcuffed and led through the streets of Shahjahanabad to the police station. Was this humiliation also due to me? Those who had been arrested along with me secured their freedom using either money or influence. I spent the night in custody.

  The next day, Shaifta sahib came to meet me when he heard. Taking both my hands in his, he said, ‘Don’t worry, Mirza sahib. I will definitely have you released.’

  — How?

  — Let me see what I can do. I’ll try my best.

  Shaifta sahib’s efforts did not help. I was taken to court. I could not fathom why police chief Faizul Hasan was suddenly angry with me. The new magistrate pretended ignorance. The magistrate was senior to the police chief, but during the trial he behaved as though the police chief was the last word. The sessions judge was a friend of mine; he used to share my company openly—but even he could not recognize me now. The sentence was a fine of two hundred rupees and jail with hard labour for six months. If I couldn’t pay the fine, the jail term would be increased. If I could pay another fifty rupees, I would not have to perform hard labour. The Dilli newspapers were full of this incident. Shaifta sahib appealed to the High Court. But the verdict and sentence were upheld. Shaifta sahib told me that there was uproar in Shahjahanabad over the case. The newspapers even said that an aristocratic, talented individual like me should not have been punished thus for a trivial transgression. Most important, Emperor Bahadur Shah— who did not like me, remember—sent a written request to the British to free me. His appeal was also rejected, Manto bhai.

  I was preparing myself mentally. I had already been imprisoned in my own room year after year. What new punishment could the prison mete out to me now? But my heart was breaking in other ways. How could my family distance themselves this way when they heard I would have to go to jail? But then again, why not? After all, Mir sahib had been locked in his unlit cell by his own family. It was the behaviour of Aminuddin sahib, the nawab of Loharu, which surprised me the most. How friendly we used to be. And now he disowned me completely. His brother Ziauddin also moved away.

  Allow me to weep a little, don’t chide me, my friend

  A man must lighten the load in his heart sometimes

  Shaifta sahib was the only one to stand by me. He shielded me like an angel. He paid the fine and all the expenses for the trial. He would visit me in prison virtually every day.

  One day I asked him, ‘You’ve been on the Haj, you don’t drink anymore either. Why then do you visit an infidel like me?’

  — God forbid! What are you saying, Mirza sahib?

  — Everyone else has deserted me. Why do you still keep visiting?

  — Mirza sahib, I have never considered how correct your ways are, or how closely you follow our Shariyat. To me you’re the only poet whom I can place on a pedestal next to Amir Khusrau. Mian Tansen’s notes and your ghazals mingle and become one for me.

  — What are you saying! Mian Tansen is the light of the lord. Who am I in comparison? Do you remember the time he made it rain by singing at the fort? I picture that scene every night in bed in my devil’s chamber. All that was such a long time ago. Will those days ever return to this world?

  — They do return.

  — Where?

  — That sher of yours …

  I hear there’s a strong rumour of his arrival, Al-Musabbir. And yet, today of all days I don’t have a mat in my room.

  — Don’t embarrass me so, Shaifta sahib.

  — Do you suppose we don’t know that you drink and gamble, Mirza sahib? But shall I forsake you just because you’re in prison? You’re a poet—you can still do as you please with words—nothing is more important as far as I’m concerned.

  Smiling, I said, ‘You’ve been on the Haj. The followers of the Shariyat will stone you to death if they hear you.’

  — I will tell them, Muhammad went on a mi’iraj. During this ascension he visited both heaven and hell. Follow him, my brothers.

  — You will have to be the lightning that illuminates the way for these people, Shaifta sahib.

  — So be it. I can only take the path that Allah has decreed.

  I realized that being in jail was not much worse than the prison of daily life, Manto bhai. Thieves, robbers, murderers, mad men—I got a chance to mingle with a variety of people. Each of them had a unique story and a unique way of speaking. Life in prison was like the rise and fall of notes on the piano and violin that I had heard in the Englishmen’s homes. Yes, I remember the word, harmony, I heard it from Fraser sahib for the first time. It was this harmony that I heard in prison. I wrote a nazm titled ‘Habsia’ while in jail. You can hear the harmony in it, Manto bhai.

  Imprisoned here, I play on the strings of my poetry

  The sad currents in my heart turn to music

  I squeeze out song from my blood—I’m a prisoner

  I throw open the invisible window

  I make an inn for birds

  Load me with labour as you please

  The gift of your prison sentence,

  But can you chain my voice

  When lament turns into a cascade?

  Don’t come here, old friends

  Don’t ever knock on my door

  I won’t be as easy t
o talk to now

  Thieves are my companions

  They acknowledge me as their lord

  ‘Don’t go outside,’ I tell them,

  ‘There’s no loyalty there.’

  They come, the warden and guard

  Since I’m here.

  They open the door,

  They know it’s me.

  Raise cheers, my prison friends.

  For I am here.

  You will find your home in the poet’s words

  Look, it’s me.

  Friends have turned away

  The family has withdrawn,

  I reach out to you,

  O stranger, imprisoned soul.

  I was in prison for three months, my brothers; I grew friendly with all the convicts. Many of them wanted to listen to my shers. Only when I went to jail did I realize that virtually everyone loved ghazals. But their daily routine left them with no time. After sunset everyone used to gather around me; it was like a mushaira. Of course, I was the only poet present. One evening I composed a new sher for them:

  A million desires are imprisoned for life here, Asad

  This bleeding breast is nothing but a prison

  — Mian … A low voice was heard. The chap who spent most of his time wrapped in a blanket was sitting up.

  — Awake at last, Iqbal bhai? Someone asked.

  — I never sleep, bhaijaan. I lie in utter darkness under my blanket, but still I cannot sleep. But mian—he looked at me directly—must your heart turn into a prison just because you are in jail?