Manto

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  For an instant I felt that someone other than Ghulam Ali was speaking. All kinds of thoughts arose in my mind. Had Ghulam Ali completely forgotten his oath? Had he broken entirely with his political past? That passion to win India its independence, that temerity, where had it gone? What had happened to the boyish timbre of that voice? Where was Nigar? Had it pleased her in the end to mother two slave children? Perhaps she’d died. Perhaps Ghulam Ali had married again?

  ‘What are you thinking? Speak to me, man. We’re meeting after such a long time,’ Ghulam Ali said, slapping me hard on the shoulders.

  I had fallen into silence. ‘Yes,’ I said with a start, still wondering how to initiate conversation. But without waiting for me, Ghulam Ali began, ‘This shop is mine. I’ve been in Bombay for the past two years. The business is going really well. I end up saving some three, four hundred every month. What are you up to? I hear you’ve become a famous short story writer. Do you remember we once ran away from home and came here? But it’s a strange thing, man, that Bombay and this Bombay seem so different. It feels as though that was smaller, and this bigger, somehow.’

  In the meantime, a customer appeared, wanting tennis shoes. Ghulam told him, ‘We don’t stock anything made of rubber here. Try the shop next door.’ When he’d gone, I said to Ghulam Ali, ‘Why don’t you stock anything made of rubber? In fact, I myself was just in there, looking for crepe rubber soled shoes.’

  I’d asked the question casually, but Ghulam Ali’s face all of a sudden became expressionless. In a low voice, he said no more than, ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Don’t like what?’

  ‘Just that, rubber; things made from rubber.’

  Saying this, he feigned a smile, but failing, cackled mirthlessly. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he continued, ‘I have a horror of it, but it has a very deep connection to my life.’

  An expression of profound anxiety appeared on Ghulam Ali’s face. His eyes, which still had some sparkle, dimmed for a moment, then brightened again. ‘It was rubbish, man, that life. To tell the truth, Saadat, I’ve forgotten those days completely, when I had politics on the brain. For four or five years now, I’ve been living in great peace. I have a wife, kids… God’s been kind.’

  Moved still by God’s kindness, Ghulam Ali began talking shop, about how much capital he’d begun with, his annual profit, how much he now had in the bank. I stopped him mid-sentence. ‘You were saying that you had a horror of something and that it had a deep connection to your life.’

  Once again his face became expressionless. He emitted a loud ‘yes’ and replied, ‘There was a deep connection. Fortunately, there no longer is. But I’ll have to tell you the whole story.’

  In the meantime, his servant reappeared. Ghulam Ali put him in charge of the shop, and took me inside to his room. There, he sat me down and recounted at length the story of how his hatred of rubber had come to him.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you how my political life began, you know the story well. There’s no need to tell you what my character was, you know that too. We were very alike in many ways. I mean to say that neither of our parents was in a position to say, “Our sons are perfect.” I don’t know why I’m telling you this, perhaps only to say, as you probably already know, that I was not a man of particularly firm character. But what I did have was the urge to do something. This is what drew me to politics. And I can say with all honesty that I wasn’t a liar. I was prepared to give my life for my country. Even now, I’m prepared. But I’ve come to the conclusion, after much thought and consideration, that India’s politics and its leaders are all, to a man, unready, just as I was. A wave rises, it is provoked, as far as I can tell, for waves don’t rise by themselves, but perhaps I’m not explaining it very well…’

  Ghulam Ali’s thoughts were confused. I handed him a cigarette. He lit it, took three large drags and said, ‘What do you think? Don’t you feel that our every effort towards independence has been unnatural, not the effort I mean, but that its result has been unnatural every time? Why haven’t we attained independence? Are we all in some way unmanly? No, we’re all man enough. But we’re in a climate in which our good, strong hand is not even allowed to reach near independence.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that there’s something standing in the way of us and independence?’ I asked.

  Ghulam Ali’s eyes brightened. ‘Absolutely. But this is not some solid wall, not a real barrier. It’s a thin membrane: our own politics, our false existence, in which we not only deceive others, but ourselves as well.’

  As before, his thoughts were scattered. My feeling was that he was trying to refresh in his mind, his own past experiences. He put out the cigarette and looking directly at me, said in a loud voice, ‘Men must stay as they are. Is it necessary that someone doing good works should shave his head, don ascetic robes or rub ash over his body? You might say it’s a matter of choice, of will. But I say that it’s from this will itself, from this strange thing man possesses, that they become unmoored. The ones who rise above these things become oblivious to the natural weakness of men. They forget that their strength of character, their views, their principles, all blow away and are forgotten, and all that remain stamped on the minds of naive human beings are their shaved heads, their ash-covered bodies and their ascetic’s clothes.’ Ghulam Ali became still more impassioned. ‘So many spiritual teachers have been born into the world. And though people have forgotten their teachings, their crucifixes, religious threads, beards, steel bangles and armpit hair endure. We, today, are more experienced than the people who lived here a thousand years before. And yet I can’t understand how the spiritual leaders of today don’t see that they are disfiguring people. I’ve felt the urge many times to start screaming, “For God’s sake let men remain men! You’ve defaced them already, fine, now have mercy on their condition. While you’re busy trying to make gods out of them, those poor wretches are losing whatever humanity they do have!” Saadat, I swear to God, this is my soul speaking, I’m telling you what I’ve experienced myself. If what I’m saying is wrong, then nothing is good or right. Two years, two full years, I spent wrestling with my mind. I fought with my heart, my conscience, my body, with every tiny hair on it, but each time I arrived at this conclusion: men must remain men. One in a thousand might kill his appetites, but if everyone was to kill their appetites, one has to ask: where is this mass killing getting us?’ With this, he reached for another cigarette. He burned the matchstick to the end trying to light it, then gave his neck a light jerk. ‘Nothing, Saadat! You don’t know the spiritual and physical misery I’ve had to bear. But anyone who goes against nature is bound to know misery. That day, you’ll recall, when in Jallianwala Bagh, I announced that Nigar and I would not give birth to slave children, I felt a strange kind of electric happiness. I felt, after this announcement, that my head had risen to touch the sky. But when I got out of jail, I began slowly to feel the pain of it… It was a source of torment to realise that I had paralysed a vital part of my soul and body. I took the most beautiful flower from the garden of my life and crushed it in my fingers. In the beginning, I derived a satisfaction from this realisation, knowing that I had done something others couldn’t do. But slowly, reality, with all its bitterness, began to sink in.

  ‘On returning from jail, I met Nigar. She had left the hospital and had gone to Babaji’s ashram. I felt my eyes deceived me when I saw her changed complexion, her altered physical and mental state. Then, after living with her for a year, I discovered that her sorrow had been the same as mine. But neither she nor I were willing to express it. We were both enchained by our oath. Over the past year, our political passions had cooled. Khadi clothes and tricolour flags now no longer held the same appeal. If “Long Live the Revolution” was still to be heard, it no longer had the same ring to it. And in Jallianwala Bagh, not a single tent remained. The pegs of the old camps could still be seen in places, rooted in the ground. Political passion had drained out of everyone’s blood. I, myself, spent much more time a
t home with my wife.’ Once again, that wounded smile appeared on Ghulam Ali’s lips and mid-sentence, he fell into silence. Not wanting to break his chain of thought, I said nothing.

  A moment later, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and put out his cigarette. ‘We were both in the grip of a strange curse. You know how much I love Nigar. But, I began thinking, what is the nature of this love? I can hold it and yet I won’t allow it to reach its natural climax? Why am I afraid that I might commit a crime without meaning to? You know, I love Nigar’s eyes. And so one morning when I was feeling very fine, not even fine, just normal really, as any man should be, I kissed them. I held her in my arms and a shudder went through me. It could be said that my soul broke free, spreading its wings, ready to make for the open sky, when I… when I seized it again and imprisoned it. Then for many days, I tried to convince myself that from this action of mine, from this heroic achievement, my soul knew a contentment that few others had known. But I failed to convince myself of this, and the knowledge of my failure, which I had tried to think of as a great success, made me—God is my witness—the most unhappy man in the world. But, as you know, men find their excuses. And, I, too, carved out a way.’

  ‘We were rotting. Inside us, a kind of crust seemed to harden over our finer sensibilities. We became strangers to one another! I thought, after many days of consideration, that even if we stayed true to our oath, I mean that Nigar remained “unwilling to mother a slave child…” ’ As he said this, for the third time, that wounded smile appeared on Ghulam Ali’s lips, but was changed instantly into an aimless cackle, in which his anguish was visible. Then, becoming serious, he said, ‘A strange period began in our married life. Like a blind man granted a single eye, I was able, suddenly, to see. But after only a short while, this vision began to grow dim. In the beginning, we just thought that…’ Ghulam Ali seemed to search for the right words. ‘In the beginning, we were satisfied. I mean, we had no idea that in a short while, we would find ourselves dissatisfied again, that one seeing eye would pressure the other to see as well. In that first stage, we felt ourselves becoming healthy. I could feel our vigour returning. Nigar’s face had a flush to it. A sparkle showed in her eyes. The tension in my body melted away. But then slowly, we became like two rubber figurines. I felt it with greater force. You won’t believe me, but I swear to God, when I’d pinch the flesh of my arms, it was exactly like rubber. It felt as though there were no veins inside. Nigar’s condition, as far as I could tell, was not the same as mine. Her perspective was different: she wanted to be a mother. Whenever a child was born on our street, she would have to silently keep the longing she felt buried in her breast. In my case, I had no thought of children. So what if we didn’t have any? There are many people in the world who are not blessed with children. Much better that I was true to my oath. This was comfort enough, but when fine strands of rubber began to spread like a web over my mind, my fears increased. I thought about it all the time and the result was that the texture of rubber was branded on my mind. I’d eat a bite of food and it would squelch below my teeth.’ He said this and shuddered. ‘It was an evil, disgusting thing. My fingers constantly felt soapy. I began to hate myself. It felt as though all the juices of my soul had been squeezed out and only the husk remained. Spent… spent.’ Ghulam began to laugh. ‘Thank God that curse has passed, but Saadat, after what anguish! Life became like a shrivelled bit of skin; all its beautiful desires had died. Only the sense of touch had become unnaturally acute, not acute really, one dimensional: in wood, in glass, in metal, in paper and in stone, in everything, the dead, nauseating softness of rubber!!! This affliction only became more forceful whenever I tried to think of its cause. I could have lifted this curse with two fingers and cast it aside, but I lacked the courage. I was looking for a saviour. In this sea of distress, I floundered for anything with which I might reach the shore. For a long time, I thrashed around. And then, one morning, I was reading a religious book in the sun, not really reading, glancing through, when my eyes fell on a hadis. I leapt up with happiness. My saviour was there in front of me. I read those lines again and again. My barren life was fertile once more. It was written that after marriage it is obligatory for husband and wife to produce a child. It was only lawful to prevent its birth if the mother’s life was endangered as a result. And so, with two fingers, I lifted this curse and cast it aside.’

  Saying this, he smiled like a child. I also smiled because he’d lifted the cigarette butt with two fingers and flicked it to one side as if it was something vile. Then, his smile vanished and he became serious. ‘I know, Saadat,’ he said, ‘that what I’ve told you right now, you’re going to turn into a story. But listen, don’t mock me in it. I swear to you, whatever I’ve told you is exactly what I experienced. I won’t argue with you on this subject, but what I have learned is that to go against nature is in no way, under no circumstances, bravery. It’s no achievement to kill yourself through abstinence, or to endure it. To dig your grave and get in it, holding your breath for days, to sleep for months on beds of sharp nails, to keep one arm raised over your head for years so that it dries up and becomes like a piece of wood—stunts like these will bring neither God nor freedom. And from what I understand of it, the only reason India is still not free is that we’ve had too few leaders and too many stuntmen. What principles there are go against the nature of men. They’ve found a politics that stifles truth and goodness of character and it’s this same politics that has made the struggle for independence so blinkered.’

  Ghulam Ali was going to say more when his servant appeared. He carried Ghulam Ali’s second child, perhaps. The boy held a bright balloon in his hand. Ghulam Ali reached adoringly for him. A noise like a firecracker going off was heard. The balloon exploded and the child was left holding a dangling string, attached to a little bit of rubber. Ghulam Ali snatched it with two fingers and threw it aside as though it was something truly repugnant.

  Smell

  Those same days of rain; outside the window, the peepal’s leaves were washed in the same way. On the teak spring bed, which had now been moved slightly away from the window, a Marathi girl clung to Randhir.

  Outside the window, the peepal’s leaves like long earrings, clattered in the pale darkness. The Marathi girl, like a shudder herself, clung to Randhir. It had been nearly evening, when after spending the day reading the news and advertisements in an English newspaper, he had stepped onto the balcony for some air. It was there that he saw her, a worker perhaps in the nearby rope factory, taking shelter under a tamarind tree. He drew her attention by clearing his throat and gestured to her to come upstairs.

  He’d been feeling very lonely for many days. Because of the war, virtually all Bombay’s Christian girls, inexpensive in the past, had joined the Women’s Auxiliary Force. Some of them had opened dancing schools in the vicinity of Fort where only white soldiers were allowed entry. This was the cause of Randhir’s deep depression: on one hand Christian girls becoming scarce; on the other, Randhir, far more refined, educated, healthy and handsome than the white soldiers, finding the doors of the dancing bars closed to him because the colour of his skin was not white.

  Before the war, Randhir had had sexual relations with many Christian girls near Nagpara and the Taj Hotel. He knew the nature of these relationships. He knew far better than those Christian mongrels that the girls carried on romances purely for the sake of fashion, but would in the end invariably marry some asshole.

  After all it was only to take revenge on Hazel that he had gestured to the Marathi girl to come upstairs. Hazel lived in the flat below. Every morning she wore her uniform, tipped her khaki cap to one side over her short hair, and stepped out onto the pavement as if expecting the other pedestrians to lay themselves down like a rug at her feet. Randhir wondered why he was so drawn to these Christian girls. There was no doubt that they well displayed those parts of their body that were worth displaying; they discussed the irregularities of their period without the slightest hesitation; they to
ld stories of old lovers; and when they heard dancing music, they began to shake a leg… that was all fine, but surely any woman could possess these qualities.

  Randhir didn’t think he would sleep with the Marathi girl when he had gestured to her to come upstairs. But a few moments later, after seeing her wet clothes and thinking, ‘I hope the poor thing doesn’t get pneumonia’, he said, ‘Take these clothes off or you’ll catch a cold.’

  She understood his meaning because the veins in her eyes reddened and seemed to swim. But when Randhir took out his white dhoti and handed it to her, she thought it over and opened her kashta*, now more visibly dirty for being wet. She put it to one side and hurriedly wrapped the dhoti round her thighs. She tried taking off her tight blouse, but its ends were tied in a knot that was buried in her shallow, dirty cleavage.

  She tried at length, with the help of her worn down nails, to open the blouse’s knot, but it had become tough with rain. Tiring at last, she gave up, saying something to Randhir in Marathi, the meaning of which was: ‘What am I to do? It won’t open.’

  Randhir sat down beside her and began opening the knot. But he soon tired of it too, and taking one end of the blouse in each hand, he pulled. The knot slipped; Randhir’s hands flew everywhere; two throbbing breasts came into view. Randhir felt for a moment that his own hands, like those of some expert potter, had fashioned two cups of soft, kneaded clay on this Marathi girl’s chest.

  Her breasts had the same half-ripened, juice-filled quality, the same appeal, the same warm coolness that is found in the still-wet dishes that come freshly from the hands of a potter. Mixed into these youthful, unstained breasts was a strange shine. It was as if a layer of dim light under their dark, wheatish colour gave off this shine, a shine that was both present and not. The swell of her breasts had the aspect of clay lamps burning through murky water.