Then there are stories that reveal Manto’s take on contemporary politics. A Day in 1919 is a recasting of the terrible slaughter visited upon the poor benighted city of Amritsar in the wake of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. Drawing upon popular accounts of the French Revolution which ascribe the first bullet fired in the revolution hitting a prostitute, here Manto makes a ‘hero’ out of the good-for-nothing brother of the city’s two most famous prostitutes. An early story, this is, to my mind, a fairly sophisticated one and shows Manto’s propensity for busting myths and forcing his readers to revisit both past shames and legacies. I have chosen Slivers and Slivereens not just for its needle-sharp take on politics and politicians, especially the murky politics of Kashmir, Manto’s home state, but also because it is a most unusual little story. Not a story in the conventional sense, since it has no beginning, middle or end, not even a plot or character, it is striking nevertheless for its staccato sound and the slivers of biting satire.
A gentle story, most unusual for the Manto of popular imagination, is Yazid. It shows a glimmer of the pacifist in Manto, a man who hated wars, who espoused reflection and contemplation, who urged his fellow men to look within. By placing his protagonist in a rural setting, Manto also makes a point about rough-hewn country folk being repositories of the wisdom distilled from the ages. Karimdad, who decides to call his newborn baby Yazid, is an evolved man, willing to think outside the straightjacket of convention and stereotype, and name his child after one of the worst offenders in Islamic history. ‘What’s in it? It’s only a name!’ he tells his horrified wife, reasoning thus: ‘It needn’t be the same Yazid. He had closed the river; our son will open it.’
Manto wrote about women in a way that no other writer from the Indian sub-continent had or has till today. By the Roadside is a beautiful elegy to a mother forced to abandon her illegitimate baby. Here Manto, quite literally, gets under the skin of a woman, and describes the very physical changes that take place in a woman’s body as it prepares to nurture life deep inside it – and the equally ‘real’ physical trauma when the baby is snatched from her and tossed on a rubbish heap by the roadside. And again in The Rat of Shahdole he talks of a mother’s despair in giving up her son as mannat at a saint’s shrine where a perfectly healthy baby is ‘miraculously’ disfigured and mutilated into a rat-boy before being sold to an itinerant tamashawala. A scathing attack on the shrines that thrive on poor, desperate and superstitious people, The Rat of Shahdole derives it punch from a mother’s steadfast desire to keep her son’s memory alive inside her heart.
Similarly, By God is a mother’s refusal to accept that her daughter may have been killed in the riots. Old, blind and nearly half-crazed with grief, she refuses to believe that anyone can kill a girl as beautiful as her daughter. In the end, she finds peace in death when she spots her daughter unexpectedly on the street one day, married though she is to the man who abducted her. A most unexpected story in this collection is Comfort. A young widow is raped at a family wedding. Initially angry and inconsolable, she finds comfort in the arms of another man immediately thereafter!
In several stories, the woman is both ‘subject’ and ‘predicate’. In Bismillah, a woman by the strange, eponymous name, is the object of a man’s lust, though she appears to be the legally wedded wife of another man. Saeed is attracted, in equal measure, by Bismillah’s large, sad- looking eyes as well as the lush fullness of her breasts and is torn between the voyeuristic delight that Bismillah’s body offers him and the prick of his own conscience. In the end, it turns out that the sullen, sphinx-like young woman is not his friend Zaheer’s wife; she is a Hindu girl who got left behind during the riots and was forced into prostitution by Zaheer who had been, all along, posing as a loving husband and budding film- maker.
The only three examples of Manto’s non-fiction writing here are autobiographical and each tells the story of Manto’s complex love-hate relationship with himself and the world at large. Saadat Hasan for instance, reveals the schizophrenia that Manto carried all along: between the man called Saadat Hasan and his far-more (in)famous alter-ego, the writer who masquerades as Manto or vice-versa, that is the less-than- likeable man called Manto who pretends to be a great writer. Zehmat-e- Mehr-e-Darakhshan is a rambling account of his early days in Pakistan, plagued as he was by penury and the threat of punitive damages imposed by harsh judges bent upon browbeating him into submission. (This, incidentally, is the only story I have taken the liberty of abridging for I found the original unwieldy and long-winded.) A Letter to Uncle Sam’ one of a series of such letters, pretending to be written by a fawning nephew in awe and admiration of his vastly-superior uncle, is a trenchant critique of the Pakistani judicial system but takes several impertinent swipes at Uncle Sam who had just begun to woo the newly- established Islamic Republic of Pakistan drawing it towards the hedonistic pleasures of capitalism in the early 1950s.
Rebutting charges of voyeurism and sacrilege, Manto had written: ‘I am no sensationalist. Why would I want to take the clothes off a society, civilization and culture that is, in any case, naked? Yes, it is true I make no attempt to dress it – because it is not my job; that is a dressmaker’s job. People say I write with a black pen, but I never write on a black board with a black chalk. I always use a white chalk so that the blackness of the board is clearly visible.’ And that is precisely what he does in story after story.
March 2008 Rakhshanda Jalil
New Delhi
BISMILLAH
Saeed met Zaheer in connection with making films and was very impressed. He had seen Zaheer a couple of times at the Central Studios in Bombay and made some small talk but they met each other properly for the first time in Lahore.
There were countless film companies in Lahore but Saeed knew the grim reality behind most of them. He knew that many did not exist beyond the boards proclaiming their names. When Zaheer sent word through Akram and called him to his office, he was convinced that Zaheer was as hollow as most other film producers who spoke of producing films worth lakhs of rupees. They set up offices, took furniture on rent and, in the end, ran away without paying the bills of several small restaurants in the vicinity of their office.
Zaheer explained to Saeed earnestly how he wanted to make a low budget film. For five years, he had worked as an assistant to a stunt film director in Bombay. He was about to get the opportunity to direct a stunt film all by himself when India got partitioned and he had to come to Pakistan. He had been out of work for almost two and a half years but during this time had met some people who were willing to invest in a film for him. As he told Saeed, ‘Look here, I don’t wish to make a first- class film. I am not a very learned man. I can make a stunt film, and God willing, make a good stunt film. Within fifty thousand rupees, with a hundred per cent guaranteed profit … I can assure you that. What do you say?’
Saeed thought for a minute, then said, ‘Yes, at least that much profit seems assured.’
Zaheer said, ‘I have told the men who are ready to put their money in my film that I shall have nothing to do with keeping accounts. The financial aspect is their headache … I shall take care of everything else.’
Saeed asked, ‘Tell me, how can I help you?’
Zaheer answered with disarming sincerity, ‘Almost all the distributors in Pakistan know you, whereas I don’t know any of them. I would be extremely grateful if you could arrange for the distribution of my film.’
Saeed said, ‘You make your film; God willing, your work shall be done.’
‘You are very kind.’ With these words, Zaheer began to doodle with a pencil on the pad in front of him. He drew a flower and said, ‘Saeed sahab, I am hundred per cent convinced that I shall be successful … my wife shall be my heroine.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has she worked in any other film before?’
‘No.’ Zaheer added a branch to the flower on his pad and said, ‘I got married when I came to Lahore. I hadn’t thought of bringing
her into the film line, but she is keen – very keen. She watches one movie every day. Let me show you her photograph.’
Zaheer opened his desk drawer and pulled out an envelope. He took out his wife’s photograph and nudged it towards Saeed.
Saeed looked at the picture; it was of an ordinary looking young woman. She had a narrow forehead, a thin nose, thick lips, and eyes that were big and sad looking.
Her eyes were her most remarkable feature compared to the rest of her face. Saeed wanted to look closely at her eyes, but thinking it inappropriate, put the photograph back on the table. Zaheer asked, ‘So, what do you think?’
Saeed had no ready answer for such a question. As a matter of fact, those eyes had caught him in their spell. Those big, sad-looking eyes! Without meaning to do so, he picked up the photograph, looked at it once again and kept it back. He said, ‘You know better.’
Zaheer began to draw another flower on the pad. ‘This photograph is no good … it is a bit out of focus.’
Suddenly, the curtain on the back door rustled and Zaheer’s wife entered the office. The same big, sad-looking eyes! Zaheer looked at her and smiled. ‘She has the strangest name … Bismillah!’ And gesturing towards Saeed, he said, ‘Meet my friend, Saeed sahab.’
Bismillah said, ‘Adaab.’
Saeed got to his feet to greet her and said, ‘Please, do sit down.’
Bismillah adjusted her dupatta and sat down in the chair beside Saeed. The curve of her breasts sneaked from under the sheer, starched, pale pink mulmul dupatta. Saeed turned his eyes away.
Zaheer slid the photograph back into the envelope and told Saeed, ‘I am convinced that Bismillah will be a huge hit in her very first film, but I can’t think of a new name for her. Bismillah doesn’t seem like an appropriate name for the movies. What do you think?’
Saeed looked at Bismillah. For a minute, he nearly drowned in her big, sad-looking eyes. Quickly, he averted his gaze, and said, ‘Yes, you are right. Bismillah is not an appropriate name. She should be called something else.’
They talked about this and that for some time. Bismillah sat quietly. Her big, sad-looking eyes were silent too. Saeed plunged into those eyes several times. He and Zaheer talked. Bismillah kept sitting quietly, hiding her big, sad-looking eyes behind the curtain of her jet-black eyelashes. While the curve of her breasts kept tattling from beneath her sheer, pale- pink, starched mulmul dupatta. Every now and then, Saeed would steal a glance towards her but, almost immediately, his eyes would ricochet in the other direction.
Bismillah had a fairly dark complexion. The photograph gave no clue about her complexion. Against that dark skin, the big black eyes looked still sadder. Saeed wondered what had caused the sadness to lurk there. Were they so shaped that they merely looked sad, or was there a reason for the sadness? Saeed could reach no conclusion.
Zaheer was about to launch into a story about the Bombay days when Bismillah got up and left. There was an awkwardness in her gait as though she had recently begun wearing high-heeled slippers and was not accustomed to them. The way her gharara was tied too wasn’t quite right; its pleats fell sloppily. Saeed sensed that she didn’t possess many social graces but those two big black eyes on her face, despite their sadness, seemed steeped with many, unknown emotions.
Over the next few days, Saeed’s relations with Zaheer deepened. Zaheer was amazingly simple at heart, and this had a profound effect on Saeed. There was no trace of guile or artifice in anything Zaheer did or said. Any thought that arose in his mind, in whichever form or shape, would be clothed in the simplest of words, and find expression on his tongue in as straightforward a manner as possible. He preferred the same simplicity in matters of food and clothing.
Zaheer was extremely hospitable to Saeed whenever he visited his home. Saeed often told him not to take so much trouble, but Zaheer would never listen. He always said, ‘What trouble? Consider this your home.’
Saeed scolded himself one day when he realized that he had been going to Zaheer’s house every day. He berated himself, ‘The man respects me. He considers me his friend whereas I meet him only because I am interested in his wife. How awful!’
His conscience pricked him several times but he continued visiting Zaheer’s house.
Often, Bismillah would join them. In the early days, she would sit quietly. Gradually, she too began to speak up occasionally. But her conversations were pretty basic. It saddened Saeed to realize that she didn’t know how to speak well.
Once, when Saeed came calling, Zaheer wasn’t home. Bismillah answered from inside, ‘He has gone out.’ Saeed stood, undecided, thinking she would ask him to come in and wait. But she didn’t.
Zaheer’s film continued to be talked about. Almost every day, there was some discussion or the other concerning it. Zaheer would say, ‘I am in no hurry. Everything will be done at the right pace. And at the right time.’ Saeed wasn’t the slightest bit interested in Zaheer’s film. His only interest was in Bismillah, in whose large, sad eyes he had plunged many times. His interest was, as a matter of fact, increasing every day. This realization was quite painful for Saeed because he could no longer hide from the fact that he was desirous of establishing a physical relationship with his friend’s wife.
Days passed. Work did not start on Zaheer’s film. One day when Saeed went to meet him, he wasn’t home. He was about to go away when Bismillah called out, ‘Come in; he hasn’t gone very far.’
Saeed’s heart began to beat very fast. After a moment’s hesitation, he entered the room and sat down on a chair. Bismillah was standing beside a table. Gathering all his courage, Saeed said, ‘Please sit down.’
Bismillah sat down in a chair facing him. She remained quiet. Saeed looked into her eyes and asked, ‘Zaheer hasn’t returned as yet?’
Bismillah answered briefly, ‘He will, soon.’
Silence reigned once again. During this time, Saeed looked at Bismillah’s eyes several times. Each time a desire rose in his breast: to begin kissing those eyes till every trace of sadness gets washed away. But Saeed controlled it and said, ‘You are very keen to work in films, aren’t you?’
Bismillah yawned and answered, ‘Yes, sort of.’
Saeed suddenly began to sermonize. ‘It isn’t a good line … I mean, you hear all sorts of stories.’ And he launched into a litany of complaints against the film industry. He remembered Zaheer and changed track. ‘It is another matter if you are really interested. If one is strong of character, one can do well in any field. And, then, Zaheer is making his own film. But you must never work in anyone else’s film.’
Bismillah remained silent. Saeed did not like her silence. This was the first occasion he had had to meet her on his own, yet she had nothing to say. A couple of times, Saeed stole a few scared, searching glances at her but it had no effect. After another prolonged silence, he said, ‘All right then, so get me a paan at least.’
Bismillah rose. The considerable curves of her bosom moved beneath her silken shirt. Saeed’s eyes skittered away. Bismillah went into the other room and he began to think fearful but wicked thoughts. In a little while, she returned with the paan and stood close beside him. She handed it to him, saying, ‘Here.’
Saeed said, ‘Thank you’. His fingers touched hers as he took the paan from her and lightning coursed through his entire body. And with that the thorn of conscience pricked his heart.
Bismillah sat down once again in the chair facing him. Saeed could make out nothing from her dark-complexioned face. He thought how any other woman would have guessed by now what was going on in his mind. Perhaps she, too, knew, or guessed. Or, maybe, she didn’t. It was hard to tell anything from her poker face.
Saeed was in a dilemma. On the one hand, there was Bismillah’s disturbing presence, her large, sad eyes, and the lush fullness of her breasts. On the other hand, there was Zaheer, the prick of his own conscience. It was all very confusing! And from Bismillah – there wasn’t the slightest sign of anything. Obviously, there was no hope for t
he dreams Saeed was nursing. Yet, he continued looking at her with the same longing in his eyes.
He broke the long silence and said, ‘There is no sign of Zaheer; I think I should go now.’
Uncharacteristically enough, Bismillah said, ‘No, no, don’t go. Stay.’
‘But you don’t say anything,’ said Saeed and rose to his feet.
Bismillah asked, ‘So you really are leaving, are you?’
Saeed looked searchingly at her as though trying to read her true intentions. He said, ‘All right, I will stay. That is, if you have no objection to my being here.’
Bismillah yawned, ‘Why would I have any objections?’ Soon, her eyelids began to droop.
Saeed said, ‘You look very sleepy.’
‘Yes, I was awake all night.’
Saeed asked with an uncalled-for frankness, ‘Why?’
Bismillah yawned once again and said, ‘We had gone out somewhere.’
Saeed sat down. In a short while, Bismillah dozed off. The lush curves of her breasts rose and fell gently under the silken cloth of her shirt. Her large, sad eyes were now closed. Her right arm lolled to one side. The cuff of her right sleeve had ridden up her arm. Saeed saw something in Hindi lettering tattooed on her dark-brown wrist. Suddenly, Zaheer showed up.
Saeed was rattled by his sudden appearance. Zaheer shook hands with him, looked towards his wife and said, ‘Oh, she is sleeping.’
Saeed said, ‘I said I should leave but she said you won’t be long. She asked me to sit and when I did she went off to sleep.’
Zaheer laughed. Saeed, too, joined in.
‘Come on, get up,’ Zaheer patted Bismillah’s head.
Bismillah sighed deeply and opened her large, sad eyes. They looked not just sad but desolate too.
‘Get up, get up, we have to go out; it’s important.’ Zaheer turned towards Saeed, ‘Forgive us, Saeed sahab, but we have to go out for an urgent meeting. God willing, we shall meet tomorrow.’
Naked Voices Page 2