Manto

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  Lying down today, he thought, ‘The day after tomorrow is my child’s first birthday. If it passes safely, without incident, I know the weight on my chest will lift. My fears will become a distant thing. O God, it’s all in your hands.’

  His eyes were closed when suddenly he felt a weight land on his bare chest. He opened his eyes to find it was Khaled. His wife stood nearby. She said that Khaled had been restless all night; he had shivered in his sleep as though from fear; he now lay trembling on Mumtaz’s chest. Placing his hand on him, Mumtaz said, ‘God, be my son’s protector.’

  His wife’s voice rose with anger, ‘God forbid! You’re consumed by these fears. It’s only a light fever, you know. God willing, it will go.’

  She said this and left the room. Very gently, and with great love, Mumtaz began to stroke Khaled, who lay face down on his chest, shivering from time to time in his sleep. The stroking woke Khaled. He opened his big black eyes slowly and smiled when he saw his father. Mumtaz kissed him. ‘What’s the matter, Khaled. Why are you trembling?’ Khaled dropped his head on his father’s chest. Mumtaz began to stroke him lightly again. Silently, and with all his heart, he prayed that his son would live long.

  His wife had made big preparations for Khaled’s first birthday. She had invited all her friends. She had had the tailor stitch clothes especially for the birthday. The menu and a great deal more had already been planned. Mumtaz didn’t like all this pomp. He would have preferred for no one to know, and for the birthday to pass, and for his son to turn one even without him remembering it. He only wanted to be aware of it once Khaled was a few days past the one year mark.

  Khaled rose from his father’s chest. Mumtaz, his voice filled with affection, said, ‘Khaled, won’t you get up and greet your father?’

  Khaled smiled, and raising his hand, touched it to his forehead. Mumtaz blessed him. ‘May you live long.’ But as soon as he said it, he felt that painful foreboding in his heart again, and felt himself submerged in a sea of sorrow.

  Khaled went out of the room. There was still some time before Mumtaz had to leave for the office. He continued to lie on the mat, determined to ease the dread in his heart and mind. Suddenly, he heard his wife’s alarmed voice in the courtyard: ‘Mumtaz saab, Mumtaz saab! Come here!’

  Mumtaz rose with a start and ran out. His wife stood outside the bathroom, holding Khaled, who twisted and turned in her arms. Mumtaz took Khaled into his arms and demanded to know what had happened. His wife, her voice thick with fear, said, ‘I don’t know. He was playing in the water. I was cleaning his nose and he suddenly had a fit.’

  Khaled twisted in Mumtaz’s arms as though someone was squeezing him like a piece of wet cloth. Mumtaz laid him down on the bed; both husband and wife were gripped by terror. Khaled lay shaking and the two of them, half out of their wits, didn’t know if they should caress him, kiss him or sprinkle water on him. His convulsions just wouldn’t subside.

  After some time, when the fit did subside, and Khaled lost consciousness, Mumtaz believed he had died. Turning to his wife, he said quietly, ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘The devil be cursed!’ she shrieked. ‘What things come out of your mouth? He’s had a convulsion—it’s over; he’ll be fine any minute now.’

  Khaled opened his large, black eyes, now tired and drooping, and looked at his father. Mumtaz’s world revived. ‘Khaled, my son, what was that? What happened to you?’ he asked anxiously. A wan smile appeared on Khaled’s face. Mumtaz lifted him up in his arms and took him into the room. He was about to lay him down when the second convulsion came. Again, Khaled started to twist and turn as though seized by an epileptic fit. So strong was this convulsion that Mumtaz felt that instead of Khaled, he himself was in its grip.

  The second fit ended; Khaled wilted further. His big black eyes were sunken. Mumtaz began talking to him.

  ‘Khaled, my son, what is this that keeps happening to you?’

  ‘Khaled mian, get up, no? Move about.’

  ‘Will Khaled have some butter?’

  Khaled loved butter, but even this evoked no reaction. When Mumtaz asked if he’d have his favourite sweets, he weakly shook his head to say no. Mumtaz smiled and clutched him to his chest. Then handing him over to his wife, he said, ‘Take care of him. I’m going to go and get a doctor.’

  When he returned with the doctor, he found his wife out of her wits. In his absence, Khaled had had three more fits. They had left him almost lifeless. But the doctor saw Khaled and said that there was no cause for worry. ‘Children routinely have convulsions of this kind. It’s because they’re teething, and sometimes, if there are worms in the stomach, that can also be a cause. I’ll write you a prescription; it’ll give him some rest. His fever’s not high. You mustn’t worry at all.’

  Mumtaz took the day off from work and sat by Khaled’s side all day. After the doctor left, the child had two more fits. After that he lay there unmoving. By evening, Mumtaz thought, ‘Perhaps now we’ve seen God’s mercy. There have been no convulsions for quite some time. May the Lord let the night pass like this too.’

  Mumtaz’s wife was relieved too. ‘If the Lord wishes it, tomorrow my Khaled will be up and running about.’ Khaled had to be given his medicine at fixed times through the night. Out of fear of falling asleep, Mumtaz didn’t lie down in bed, but put an armchair near Khaled’s crib and sat up. He stayed up all night as Khaled was restless. He would tremble and wake up repeatedly; his fever was high too.

  In the morning, when Mumtaz took Khaled’s temperature, it was a hundred and four degrees. The doctor was called. He said, ‘There’s no cause for worry. He has bronchitis. I’ll write out a prescription. He’ll feel better in three or four days.’

  The doctor wrote out the prescription and left. Mumtaz had the medicine prepared. He gave Khaled one dose, but Khaled did not feel any better. At about ten o’clock, Mumtaz called a more renowned doctor. He examined Khaled closely and reassured them, saying there was no cause for concern. Everything would be fine.

  Everything was not fine. The renowned doctor’s medicine had no effect; Khaled’s fever continued to rise. Mumtaz’s servant said, ‘Saab, this is no illness. Khaled mian has come under someone’s evil eye. I’ll go and have a protective charm made. By God’s will, it’ll take effect.’

  Sacred water from seven wells was collected. The charm was dissolved in it and given to Khaled. It had no effect. A neighbour came over. She prescribed a Unani medicine; Mumtaz went out and bought it, but in the end didn’t give it to Khaled. In the evening, a relative of Mumtaz’s came over and brought another doctor with him. The doctor looked at Khaled and said he had malaria. ‘The fever only ever gets so high when it’s malaria. Give an ice water compress; I’ll give him a quinine injection.’

  With the cold compress, the fever instantly came down to ninety eight degrees. Mumtaz and his wife were relieved, but soon it rose even higher. Mumtaz took Khaled’s temperature; it had risen to a hundred and six degrees.

  The neighbour came, and looking gloomily at Khaled, said to Mumtaz, ‘I am sure the vertebrae in his neck have broken.’

  Mumtaz and his wife’s spirits sank. Mumtaz called the hospital from the warehouse below. The hospital asked him to bring the patient across. Mumtaz sent for a horse carriage, and taking Khaled in his arms, set out with his wife for the hospital. Mumtaz had been drinking water all day, but he was still thirsty. On the way to the hospital, his throat became unbearably parched. He thought he would stop in a shop and have a glass of water. But, God knows from where, a sense of foreboding suddenly took hold of him. ‘Look, if you drink water,’ it seemed to say, ‘your Khaled will die.’

  Mumtaz’s throat became bone dry, but he didn’t drink any water. When the carriage came near the hospital, he lit a cigarette. He had taken only two drags when he suddenly threw it away. A thought echoed in his mind: ‘Mumtaz, don’t smoke a cigarette; your child will die.’ Mumtaz stopped the carriage; he thought, ‘What is this stupidity? These fears are futile; what calamity
can come to the child from my smoking a cigarette?’

  He got off the carriage and picked up the cigarette from the street. He had got back into the carriage, and was just about to take a drag, when some unknown power stopped him. ‘No, Mumtaz, don’t do this; Khaled will die.’

  Mumtaz violently threw the cigarette away. The coachman stared wide-eyed at him. Mumtaz felt he could read his mind and was mocking him. He said defensively, ‘It was bad, the cigarette.’ Saying this, he took a new cigarette out of his pocket. He wanted to light it, but was scared. His mind was in turmoil: his reason told him that his superstitions were futile, but another voice, another power, overran his logic.

  The carriage went through the hospital gates and Mumtaz put the cigarette out with his fingers and threw it away. He felt wretched at the thought of being enslaved by his fears. The men at the hospital admitted Khaled immediately. The doctor looked at Khaled and said, ‘It’s bronchial pneumonia; his condition is critical.’

  Khaled was unconscious. His mother sat at the head of his bed looking at him, her eyes filled with despair. The room had an attached bathroom. Mumtaz felt great thirst. He turned on the tap and started to drink from his cupped hand when that same dread returned to his mind: ‘Mumtaz, what are you doing? Don’t drink water. Your Khaled will die.’

  Mumtaz ignored his fear and drank so much water that his stomach bloated. Once he’d quenched his thirst, he came out of the bathroom into the room where Khaled lay, withered and unconscious on the hospital’s iron bed. Mumtaz wanted to escape; to lose consciousness; for Khaled to recover and for the pneumonia to take hold of him instead.

  Mumtaz noticed that Khaled was paler than before. He thought, ‘This is all the result of my having drunk water… If I hadn’t drunk water, Khaled’s condition would definitely have improved.’ He felt terrible remorse. He cursed himself, but even as he did so, he felt that the person thinking these thoughts was not him, but somebody else. Who was this somebody else? Why did this person’s mind manufacture these fears? He was thirsty; he drank water. What effect could that have on Khaled? Khaled would surely recover. Day after tomorrow was his birthday. God willing, it would be celebrated with great pomp.

  But presently his heart sank. A voice told him that Khaled would not live to turn one. Mumtaz wished he could tear its tongue from the root. But the voice came from no place other than his own mind; Lord knows how it came and why.

  Tormented by his fears, Mumtaz remonstrated with himself: ‘For God’s sake, have mercy on me! Why have you chosen a poor soul like me to cling to?’

  Evening fell. Many doctors had examined Khaled. Medicines had been given; many injections administered, but Khaled remained unconscious. All of a sudden, a voice rang in Mumtaz’s head, telling him to leave the hospital room, to go away immediately or Khaled would die.

  Mumtaz went out of the room. He left the hospital. The voice continued to ring in his head. He gave in to it, his every movement, his every action surrendered to its will. It took him into a hotel. It told him to drink alcohol. The alcohol came; it ordered him to throw it away. Mumtaz threw the glass from his hand; the voice told him to order more. A second glass came; it told him to throw this away too.

  After paying the bill for the alcohol and the broken glasses, Mumtaz went outside. Everywhere there seemed to be silence and more silence. In his mind alone, there was clamour. He arrived back at the hospital and headed for Khaled’s room, but the voice spoke: ‘Don’t go there, Mumtaz. Khaled will die.’

  He turned around. There was a bench in a grassy maidan. He lay down on it. It was ten at night. The maidan was dark and silent. Sometimes the horn of a car would graze the silence as it went past. Up ahead, over a high wall, the illuminated hospital clock could be seen. Mumtaz thought of Khaled. ‘Will he survive? Why are children who are meant to die born in the first place? Why is that life born that has to go so quickly into the mouth of death? Khaled will definitely…’

  That instant, he felt a rush of fear and fell to his knees. The voice ordered him to remain in this position until Khaled recovered. Mumtaz remained prostrate. He wanted to say a prayer, but was told not to. His eyes filled with tears. He prayed not for Khaled, but for himself. ‘God, free me from this ordeal! If you want to kill Khaled, then kill Khaled! What torment is this?’

  Then he heard a noise. Some distance away, two men were sitting on chairs, eating and talking amongst themselves.

  ‘Such a beautiful kid.’

  ‘I can’t bear to see the mother.’

  ‘The poor thing, she falls at the feet of every doctor.’

  ‘We’ve done every possible thing on our end.’

  ‘It’ll be difficult to save him.’

  ‘I said to the mother, “You have to pray, sister.” ’

  One doctor looked towards Mumtaz, who was still prostrate on his knees. He yelled loudly, ‘Hey, what are you doing there? Come here!’

  Mumtaz rose and approached the doctors. One asked, ‘Who are you?’

  Mumtaz, running his tongue over his dry lips, said, ‘Sir, I am a patient.’

  ‘If you’re a patient,’ the doctor replied harshly, ‘then you must go inside. Why are you in the maidan doing squats?’

  Mumtaz replied, ‘Sir, my boy… is in that ward over there.’

  ‘That’s your child who…’

  ‘Yes, perhaps it was him you were speaking of. He’s my son. Khaled.’

  ‘You’re his father?’

  Mumtaz nodded his tormented head, ‘Yes, I am his father.’

  The doctor said, ‘And you’re sitting here? Go upstairs. Your wife is beside herself!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mumtaz said and went towards the ward. He climbed the stairs and saw his servant outside the room, crying. When the servant saw Mumtaz, he cried even harder. ‘Saab, Khaled mian is no more.’

  Mumtaz entered the room. His wife was lying there, unconscious. A doctor and a nurse were trying to revive her. Mumtaz went and stood by the bed. Khaled lay there with his eyes closed. Death’s peacefulness was apparent on his face. Mumtaz stroked his silky hair, and in a choking voice, said, ‘Will you have a sweet?’

  Khaled did not move his head to say no. Mumtaz implored him, ‘Khaled mian, will you take my fears away with you?’

  Mumtaz thought Khaled nodded his head in assent.

  My Name is Radha

  This story is from the days when there wasn’t so much as a hint of the present war. It happened some eight or nine years ago, when, unlike today, even life’s upheavals came in an orderly fashion.

  I was employed at the time with a film studio, earning forty rupees a month, and my life moved at an even, happy pace. I’d arrive at the studio around ten, give Nayaz Muhammad Villain’s cat two paise worth of milk, write B-grade dialogues for a B-grade movie, joke a little with the Bengali actress who, in those days, was called Bulbul Bangal, then suck up to Dada Gore, who was the biggest film director at the time, and finally make my way home.

  The studio owner Harmzji Framji, a fat, red-cheeked bon vivant of sorts, was madly in love with a middle aged actress who looked like a transvestite. His favourite pastime was sizing up the breasts of every newly arrived actress. Another Muslim hooker from Calcutta’s Bow Bazaar carried on affairs simultaneously with her director, sound recordist and scriptwriter. The point of these affairs of course, was to ensure that all three remained in love with her.

  The Beauty of the Forest was being shot at the time. And it was for this film that, after feeding Nayaz Muhammad Villain’s wild cats—which he’d bred in order to create heaven knows what effect on the crew—two paise worth of milk, I would write dialogue as if in another tongue; for I knew nothing of what the film’s story or plot was. At the time, I was a mere clerk whose job it was to stand with a pencil and paper, noting down whatever was said, wrong or right, in Urdu that director saab could understand.

  But, anyway! The Beauty of the Forest was being shot and a rumour had begun to circulate that Harmzji Framji was bringing a new face on
to the set for the role of the vamp. The part of the hero had already been given to Raj Kishore.

  Raj Kishore was a handsome, well-built young man from Rawalpindi. People generally thought that his physique was manly and attractive. I thought about this often, and though his body was certainly athletic and proportionate, I could never see the attraction. This might well be because I, myself thin and weedy, generally favour people of my own body type.

  That’s not to say that I hated Raj Kishore; I’ve hated very few people in my life; but I didn’t like him much. I’d like to reveal my reasons to you gradually.

  Raj Kishore’s accent and manner of speaking, which were typical of Rawalpindi, I adored. If ever there is beauty and music to be found in Punjabi, it is to be found in the language spoken in Rawalpindi. The language of that city is at once masculine and feminine, both sweet and textured. When a woman from Rawalpindi speaks to you, it’s like the taste of a ripe mango’s juices flooding your mouth… It wasn’t mangoes I was speaking of though, but Raj Kishore, of whom I was considerably less fond.

  As I said before, he was a handsome, well-built young man. If the matter had ended there, I would have had no objection. The problem was that he, Kishore that is, was only too aware of his good looks and physique, a vanity which I find insufferable.

  To be well-built is one thing but to foist it on everyone else like an illness is quite another. And Raj Kishore was badly afflicted with this disease. He was always trying to impress those smaller and weaker than him with an unnecessary show of his physique.

  There’s no doubt that I myself am sickly and weak; one of my lungs can barely draw air; but God be my witness, I have never once advertised this weakness. I’m aware that men can profit from their weaknesses no less than they can from their strengths, but I believe it’s wrong to do so. Beauty, for me, is something to be praised quietly, not loudly and garishly.

  Too much good health can also come to seem like an illness. And Raj Kishore, though he possessed all the beauty a young man can possess, was in the habit of making a vulgar exhibition of it. He’d be talking to you, and at the same time, flexing a bicep. A serious discussion could be going on, say about independence, and he’d stand there, the buttons of his khadi kurta open, measuring the width of his chest.