On Manto*

artwork by apuba k das

A great deal has been said and written about Manto up till now, little of it in his favour and much of it against him. No one in his right mind will be able to form an opinion about Manto if those writings were to be placed in front of him. As I sit down to write this, I realize how difficult it is to express my views about Manto; but in a way it is not so difficult because I have had the privilege on knowing Manto. The truth is that I am his doppelganger.
I have no objection to whatever has been so far written about this man, but I do know that none of it is quite in line with reality. Some people see him as the devil himself, while others call him a bald angel. But let me first make sure that the fellow is not listening I suppose it is all right because I have just remembered that this is his drinking hour. He is in the habit of drinking his bitter syrup after six every evening.
We were born together and I suppose we will die together. But it may also come to pass that Saadat Hasan may die and Manto may not. That thought really bothers me because I have always done my best to keep our friendship. Now if he were to die and I do not, it would be like being left with an eggshell that has been emptied of its yellow and white.
I do not wish to go into details but frankly speaking, I have never seen a 'one-two' man like Manto in my entire life. Were he to be added up, the result would be three. He knows a great deal about triangles, but as far as I know his trinity is yet to find completion. Only the most perceptive readers can follow these hints.
While I have known Manto since the day he was born, both of us having come to this world on 11 May 1912, he has always tried to be like a tortoise, who, once he withdraws his head and neck into a shell, is difficult to find, no matter how hard you try. Since I am his doppelganger, I have studied every single of his tricks.
Now let me tell you who this ass turned into a storywriter is. Critics write long, learned articles about him to show off their knowledge, lacing them with references to Schopenhauer, Freud, Hegel, Nietzsche and Marx, but they remain miles away from reality.
Manto's short story writing is the result of a clash between two factors. His father (May he rest in heaven) was extremely harsh and his mother had a very tender heart. You can yourself imagine in what shape this grain of wheat would have emerged after being meshed (sic) between these two stone-grinders.
Let me now turn to his schooldays. He was very intelligent and very naughty. In those days, he was no taller than three-and-a-half feet. He was the last son of his father, and while he had the love of his parents, three of his much older brothers were studying in England. He never had the opportunity of meeting them because they were his half-brothers. He wanted them to meet him and to treat him as elder brothers treat younger brothers, but this treatment only came his way after he had become famous as a great story writer.
Let's now talk about his story writing. He is a first-class fraud. His first story was called 'Tamasha' which was about the Jalianwallah Bagh tragedy. He did not publish it under his own name because he was afraid of being arrested by the police if he did.
The restless person that he was, he now set his heart on getting a higher education, having failed his entrance examination to a bachelor's degree twice before passing it, but in the third division. It will surprise you to know that he failed his Urdu paper. Now when people say that he is a great Urdu writer, I can only laugh because even now he does not know Urdu. He runs after words as a man with a net chases butterflies without catching them. That is why there is a paucity of beautiful words in his writing. He likes to wield a stick, but it needs to be pointed out that he has borne with great equanimity every blow struck across his neck.
The manner in which he wields his stick is not of the crude kind, which rustic folk are known for; he is an artist and he brings great finesse to the act. He is the sort of person who does not walk on a straight road, but on a tightly strung rope. People expect him to fall any moment but he has so far not fallen off. It is possible that he may one day fall, and fall on his face, never to get up. But I do know that when he is dying, he will tell people that he fell because he wanted to overcome the disappointment that a fall brings.
I have often said to him that Manto is a fraud of the first order. An additional proof of that is his oft-expressed claim that he does not think a short story; it is the short story that thinks him. But that too is a fraud. I know that when he has to write a story, he is like a hen about to lay an egg, with the difference that he does not lay this egg hidden from view but right in front of everyone. His friends and his three daughters continue to create the racket that they do, but there he sits in his chair with his legs up, laying his eggs, which cluck away to turn into stories. His wife is tired of him and often tells him to stop his story writing and open a store. However, the store that Manto has opened in his mind has more goods than any general store can carry. However, it has sometimes occurred to him that if he ever opens a store, it may turn into a cold storage where all his thoughts and ideas will freeze.
I am writing this article and afraid at the same time that Manto will be annoyed with me. Anything that he does can be tolerated but not his annoyance. When he is annoyed, he is the devil himself, although only for a few minutes. God protect us from that. When he is to write a story, he fusses a lot, but I know why: because I am his doppelganger and I know that it is all a fraud. He himself said once that countless stories lie in his pocket, but the fact is that when he has to write a story, he thinks about it the night before, though nothing comes to him. He will get up at five in the morning and try to extract a story from the day's newspapers. But it does not work; so he goes to the bathroom where he tries to cool his turbulent head with water so that he can think. When this does not work, he starts to argue with his wife without any reason. When that does not work either, he walks out of the house to buy betel leaf. The betel leaf continues to rest on his table and he still finds himself without a subject. In the end, by way of revenge, he will pick up a pen or a pencil and inscribe the numbers 786 on top of the page and whatever comes to his mind then becomes the starting point of a story.
'Babu Gopi Nath', 'Toba Tek Singh', 'Hartak', 'Mummy', 'Mozail' were all written through this fraudulent method.
It is strange that people consider him irreligious and a pornographer, although I would concede that to some extent he does fall into those categories. He takes up profound themes and he employs words which can be considered objectionable, but I do know whenever he has written something, he has begun it with the numbers 786 which means 'Bismillah' or 'I begin in the name of God'. A man who does not believe in God becomes a believer on paper. That is the paper-Manto, somewhat like those almonds with paper-thin skins that you can crack open with your fingers. It is another matter that he is the kind of person whom even an iron hammer cannot crack open.
Let me now come to Manto's personality and do so by conferring some titles on him. He is a thief, a liar, a cheat and a man who likes to hold forth before others. Taking advantage of his wife's preoccupations, he has stolen hundreds of rupees from her. On occasions, he has brought her eight hundred rupees, and with his spying eye made note of where she keeps the money. The next day, one of the green bills is found missing. When she discovers the loss, it is the poor servants who get it in the neck.
Although it is said of Manto that he speaks the truth, I am not prepared to buy that. He is a first-rate liar. In the beginning, his lies used to work at home because they always had that special Manto touch. Later, it was found out that whatever he had told his wife about something or the other was a lie. Manto's lies are told with economy, but the trouble is that the family has come to believe that whatever he says is a lie, like the beauty spot a woman makes on her cheek with antimony.
He is illiterate, considering that he has never read Marx, nor any of Freud's books. Hegel he knows only by name, and the same goes for Havelock Ellis. The funny thing is that all the critics say that he is influenced by these thinkers. As far as I know, Manto is not impressed by anyone. He says that all those who try to teach him are all fools. No one should be told what to do; people should learn what to do without being told.
By trying to understand things by himself, he has become something beyond anyone's comprehension. Sometimes he talks such nonsense that I begin to laugh. I can tell you with full responsibility that Manto, who has been tried on obscenity charges many times, is a very neat and fussy person. At the same time, I would like to add that he fusses far too much, constantly dusting himself, as it were.
*Reprinted from Bitter Fruit: The Very Best of Saadat Hasan Manto Edited and Translated by Khalid Hasan, also reviewed below.