Naked Voices

by Sadat Hasan Manto

  I can tell you with complete conviction that Manto, against whom several cases of vulgarity have been initiated, is actually a very decent man. But I cannot but say that he is like a doormat that is forever dusting and beating itself.

  A LETTER TO UNCLE SAM

  31 Lakshmi Mansion 16 December 1951

  Mall Road

  Lahore

  Dear Uncle Sam,

  Assalam-wa-alaekum!

  This letter is from your nephew in Pakistan, whom you do not know, whom probably no one does from your land that has waged seven wars of liberation.

  You know well enough how my country was created, how it was cut out from Hindustan, and how it became independent. And that is why I am taking the liberty of writing this letter to you. For just as my country was cut away and freed so I too have been cut off and freed. And surely an all-knowing scholar such as you, Uncle Sam, would know the sort of freedom a bird whose wings have been clipped would know. Anyhow, let’s not get into that.

  My name is Saadat Hasan Manto and I was born in a place which is now in Hindustan. My mother is buried there, my father is buried there and my first-born too is sleeping in that land, but today it is no longer my home. My home is Pakistan which I had visited five or six times before, when it was under British rule.

  I used to be a great short story writer in Hindustan; today I am a great short story writer in Pakistan. Several collections of my short stories have been published. People respect me. In undivided Hindustan, I was the subject of three lawsuits; in Pakistan there has been only one so far. But, remember, Pakistan is a very new country.

  The British government considered me a writer of pornography. My own government thinks the same. The British government had let me go, but it doesn’t look like my own government will do the same. The trial court here sentenced me to three months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine of Rs 300. I appealed in the sessions court and was acquitted. But my government thinks an injustice has been done and so it has filed an appeal in the high court to review the session court’s judgment and give me an exemplary punishment. Let us see what the high court has to say.

  I deeply regret that my country is not like yours. If the high court verdict goes against me, there is not a single newspaper in this country that will publish my photograph or the story of my many encounters with the law.

  My country is extremely poor. It has no art paper, nor any good printing presses. In fact, I am the biggest proof of its poverty. You will, no doubt, find this hard to believe. Uncle Sam, I have written twenty-two books yet I do not have my own house to live in! And you will be astounded to know that I do not own either a Packard or a Dodge to move around in – not even a second-hand one!

  I take a cycle on rent when I need to go out. And, sometimes – when I get twenty or twenty-five rupees for a newspaper article at the rate of Rs seven per column – I take a tonga and drink some locally-brewed liquor. If this liquor was brewed in your country, you would no doubt drop an atom bomb on the distillery where it is made because it can destroy a man in a year.

  Look how far I have digressed. Actually, I meant to send my regards to Erskine Caldwell through you. No doubt you would know him. You have prosecuted him for his novel, God’s Little Acre for the same charge that is levelled against me here: obscenity.

  Believe me, dear Uncle, I was amazed when I heard that the country that waged seven wars of independence had filed a lawsuit against him on a charge of obscenity. After all, in your country everything is naked. In your country, everything is peeled off its outer covering and showcased in display cabinets. Whether it is fruit or women, machines or animals, books or calendars – you are the King of Nudity. I used to think that in your country sanctity would be called obscenity. But what is this incredible thing you have done, dear Uncle? You have filed a case of obscenity against Caldwell!

  Shocked by this news, I would have died of an overdose of my locally brewed liquor had I not, almost immediately thereafter, read about the outcome of this lawsuit. It is indeed a great misfortune for my country that it couldn’t get rid of me. But then, how would I have written this letter to you, if I had indeed been dead! Usually I am very obedient. I love my country. I shall, God willing, die in a short while. If I don’t die of natural causes, I shall do so automatically. Because where wheat flour is sold for two and three-quarters of a seer for a rupee, it would take a very shameless man to last out the usual lifespan.

  So, as I was saying, I read about the outcome of the lawsuit and decided to abandon the idea of committing suicide by drinking too much bad liquor. After all, dear Uncle, you can say what you want, while everything in your country is silver coated, the judge who acquitted Brother Caldwell of the charge of obscenity is free from the influence of silver plating. If this judge (unfortunately, I don’t know his name) is alive, please do convey my warmest regards to him.

  His judgment is an indication of the breadth of his vision: ‘I am personally of the view that confiscating or burying such books causes an unnecessary curiosity and amazement in people which pushes them towards seeking cheap thrills. While this book may not have been written with the intention of garnering cheap publicity and its author seems to have been actually inspired by certain sections of American life and society, I am of the opinion that truth must always be a part of literature.’

  I too had said the same thing before the trial court, yet it sentenced me to three months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine of Rs 300. It was of the opinion that truth must always be kept separate from literature. Well, everyone is entitled to an opinion, I suppose.

  I am willing to undergo three months of rigorous imprisonment but I cannot pay the Rs 300 fine. Dear Uncle, you have no idea how poor I am!

  I am used to the rigours of hard labour but I am not used to having money. I am thirty-nine years old and I have spent most of these years doing hard physical labour. After all, do consider that despite being such a great writer I do not have a Packard!

  I am poor because my country is poor. I somehow manage to find two square meals a day but some of my countrymen have to even go without that!

  Why is my county poor? Why is it illiterate? You know the answer well enough. It is, as you know, the direct outcome of a conspiracy hatched between you and your brother, John Bull, but I don’t want to get into that now. For I know its very mention will besmirch your greatness. I write this letter as your humble servant and I want to remain a servant from beginning to end.

  No doubt you will ask and ask with a great deal of surprise: how is your country poor when so many Packards and Buicks and such vast quantities of Max Factor cosmetics are exported from my country? This is all very well, dear Uncle, but I shall not answer your question because I know you can get the answers from your own heart (that is, if you haven’t asked your able surgeons to take it out of your breast!)

  The number of people in my country who ride in Packards and Buicks do not constitute the population of my country. My country is populated by people like me and others even poorer than me.

  These are bitter facts. My country does not have enough sugar, or I would have coated them before presenting them before you. Anyhow, forget that. The real issue is that I recently read a book by a writer from your friendly nation, The Loved Ones by Evelyn Waugh. I was so impressed by this book that I immediately sat down to write this letter to you.

  I have long been an admirer of the individuality practiced in your country but after reading this book, I cried out uncontrollably, ‘By God, how marvellous! Bravo!’

  Truly, dear Uncle, I am amazed and delighted! I must say what wonderfully alive people live in your country! Evelyn Waugh tells us that in your state of California the dead or ‘dear lost ones’ can be embalmed, and there are centres of excellence devoted to this art. If the dear departed had an ugly face, you can send him to one of these centres, fill out a form, mention your specifications and the job will be done. You can have the dead person as ‘beautified’ as you want – at a cost, of course! The
best experts are available who can operate upon the corpse’s jaws and paste the sweetest smile upon its face. A twinkle can be brought in the eye, and an effulgent glow created upon the face, strictly according to requirement. And all this is done with such expertise that even the angels who come to the grave to take stock of your earthly account might think they have come to the wrong place!

  Well, really Uncle Sam, by God, no one can equal your country!

  We have heard of surgical operations performed upon the living. We have even heard of living people resorting to plastic surgery to improve their looks. But we had never heard that in your country even the dead can have their looks improved!

  A traveller from your country had come here. Some friends of mine introduced him to me. By then I had read Brother Evelyn Waugh’s book. So I praised his country by reciting the following couplet:

  Ek hum hain ke liya apni hi soorat ko bigadh

  Ek woh hain ke jinhe tasveer banana aata hai

  (On the one hand, there is me who has ruined my own face

  On the other hand, there is he who knows how to make a painting.)

  The traveller did not understand my meaning but the fact is, dear Uncle, that we have ruined our own faces. We have made ourselves so ugly that our faces can barely be recognized, not even by ourselves. And look at you – you can even transform your ugly-faced corpses into better- looking ones. The fact is that only your people have earned the right to live in this world. By god, all the others are merely swatting flies and wasting their time!

  There was once a poet called Ghalib who wrote in our language – Urdu. Nearly a century ago, he had written:

  Huwe mar ke hum jo ruswa huwe kyon na gharq-e-darya

  Na kahin janaza uthta na kahin mazaar hota

  The poor man had no fear of disrepute while he was alive because, from beginning to end, his life remained the subject of scandals. His fear was of the disrepute that would hound him after death; he was an honourable man, you see! It wasn’t really a fear; it was his belief that here would be dishonour in death and that is why he wished to be put into a flowing river so that there would neither be a funeral nor a grave! If only he had been born in your country! You would have ensured that he got a grand funeral and had his tomb built in the form of a skyscraper. Or, if you had respected his last wishes, you would have had a glass tank constructed in which his dead body would have floated and people would have flocked to see it as they do in a zoo.

  Brother Evelyn Waugh tells us that in your country there are parlours where not just dead people can have their looks improved, even dead animals can have their beaks and lashes fixed. If a dog loses his tail in an accident, he can have another one fitted in. If a man had some flaws and imperfections in his face when alive, after his death they can be miraculously removed by trained hands and he is buried with great pomp and ceremony, so much so that even ‘hands’ can be hired to shower his coffin with flowers. And when someone loses a pet, a card is sent by the parlour which carries a message along the following lines: ‘Your Tammy – or Jeffy – is shaking his tail – or ear – in Heaven remembering you.’

  In your country, even the dogs are better off than us. Here, we die one day and it is business as usual the next. If someone loses a dear one here, that poor man curses his luck. He says, ‘Why did the wretch have to die! I wish I had died instead!” The truth is, dear Uncle, we know neither the art of living, nor dying!

  I saw the latest issue of Life (5 November, 1951, International Edition). I must say that yet another revealing vision of life in your country unfolded before my eyes. The entire story – with pictures – of the funeral of your country’s famous gangster was splashed across two whole pages. I saw the pictures of Willie Moretti – may God grant him a place in paradise! I saw the grand home that he had recently bought for 55,000 dollars as well his five-acre estate where he wanted to go away to escape from the worries of the world and live in peace. And I also saw the dead man’s photo where he is lying in bed with his eyes closed for ever and his coffin worth 5000 dollars as well as his funeral procession that comprised 11 large vans weighed down with flowers and 55 cars. As God is the only witness, tears welled up in my eyes.

  God forbid, if you die, may you get a bigger and grander funeral than Willie Moretti’s. This is the heart-felt wish of a poor writer from Pakistan who, at the same time, requests you to organize your own funeral procession in your own lifetime – since you belong to a land of far-seeing people. To err is human, after all, and someone might make some mistake later and forget to remove some flaw from your face. Think of the torment it would cause your soul! But, at the same time, it is entirely possible that you might have the flawed feature corrected according to our instructions and arrange for your funeral according to the pomp and circumstance you deem fit. After all, you are far more intelligent than me! And you are also my uncle!

  Give my regards to Erskine Cadwell and to the judge who acquitted him of the charge of obscenity. Forgive me for any indiscretion that I might have committed.

  Your poor nephew,

  Saadat Hasan Manto

  Resident of Pakistan

  (This letter could not be posted since there was no money to buy the postage stamp.)

  ZAHMAT-E-MEHR-E-DARAKHSHAN1

  Leaving Bombay I reached Lahore via Karachi on the 7 or 8 of January, 1948. My mind was in turmoil for almost three months. I couldn’t figure out where I was – in Bombay or in Karachi in my friend Hassan Abbas’ house, or was I in Lahore where song and dance soirees are routinely organized in restaurants to collect donations for the Quaid-e-Azam Fund.

  I could reach no conclusion for nearly three months. It seemed as though several reels were running on the same screen at the same time – all jumbled up and unclear. Sometimes the screen would show the bazaars and streets of Bombay, sometimes the slow-moving small trams and donkey-carts of Karachi, and sometimes the rowdy, noisy restaurants of Lahore. Where was I? I would sit in a chair all day, lost in thought.

  Till one day, I came to with a start because whatever little money I had brought with me from Bombay was nearly all gone – some had been spent in the house and the rest in the Clifton Bar. By now I was sure that I was in Lahore where I used to occasionally come for various court appearances in the past and buy beautifully crafted slippers from the Karnal shop to take back.

  I began to think of the sort of work I could do. The film industry was in doldrums after the Partition. The few film companies that were still around had little to show other than the boards hanging outside their offices. It made me sad. Then I found that there was a brisk trade in ‘allotments’. Muhajirs and non-Muhajirs alike were pulling every string they could to get shops and factories allotted in their names. I was advised to do the same but I declined to be a party to that loot.

  Soon I discovered that Faiz Ahmad Faiz and Chiragh Hasan Hasrat were planning to bring out a new radical newspaper. I went to meet these two great men. The newspaper was called Imroze – which is today a widely read paper. The paper’s dummy was being prepared when I went for my first meeting. By my second meeting nearly four issues were out. I was delighted with the way it looked. I felt the urge to write, but when I sat down to write I found I had nothing inside my head. No matter how hard I tried I could not separate India from Pakistan or Pakistan from India. Again and again, vexing questions echoed inside my head.

  Would Pakistan’s literature be different? If so, what would it be like? Who is the rightful owner of all that had been written in undivided India? Will that, too, be divided? Are the fundamental problems in India and Pakistan not alike? Will Urdu be completely destroyed out ‘there’? And what form will Urdu take here in Pakistan? Will ours be an Islamic state? We will remain faithful to our state, but will we be allowed to be critical of our government? Will the state of affairs under our own people be any better than what it was under firangi administrators?

  I saw dissatisfaction and discontent in every direction. Some people were very happy because they had
become rich overnight but, at the same time, they were dissatisfied with their happiness and worried that it might scatter and disappear into thin air. Some were unhappy because they had lost everything on the way across the border. I visited some refugee camps where I saw discontent with its hair on end. Someone said, things are a lot better now; you should have seen the pitiable state of these camps a few years ago. I wondered if things were better now, what was it like when they were worse?

  There was chaos all around. One man’s laughter could turn into another person’s sigh. One man’s life spelt another’s death. Two streams were flowing side by side: one had life, the other death. In between there was happiness which was perpetually under the onslaught of hunger and thirst and alcoholism. A death-like atmosphere prevailed. Just as the screeching of kites, aimlessly circling the skies at the onset of summer have a sadness, so did the shouts of ‘Long Live Pakistan’ and ‘Long Live Quaid-e-Azam’. Carrying the burden, night and day, of one of the late poet Iqbal’s legendry poems, the radio waves too sounded weary. The feature programmes on radio were mostly on: How to raise poultry? How to make shoes? What is gardening? Or, how many people have come to the refugee camps? And, how many have left?

  Almost all the trees were naked. The poorer refugees had stripped their bark and lit fires to escape the bitter cold and to keep their bodies warm. They had cut off the twigs and branches to quench the fire in their bellies. These denuded trees made the city look even more intolerably, heart-breakingly desolate. The buildings looked as though they were in mourning. Their inhabitants, too, looked as though they were grieving. They might laugh or play or if they found some work, they would do that too but everything seemed as though it was taking place in a vacuum – a vacuum that was filled to the brim and yet empty.