WHY I WRITE: ESSAYS BY SAADAT HASAN MANTO (14 page)

Virtuous Women in Cinema

Despite his protestations in the previous essay, Manto loved Bollywood, and was always ready to jump to its defense. He wrote this piece at a time when only a certain class of women entered the film industry. Entertainment in general and films in particular were not seen as the sort of place where women from respectable families should be. The reason was that the connection between the tawaif, her kotha and the movies was strong and at a time when skilled dancers were not from the middle class. Manto wrote this during his early phase in the movie industry.

From the time that Hindustani films and working in them has come to prominence, the greater part of society has debated this question. Should women of virtue work in movies or not?

Some gentlemen, who want this profession to be cleansed of its image and association with women of the street, want women of good virtue to enter films.

There are other gentlemen for whom this association with cinema is not only off-putting, but a crime. These guardians of morality forget that though they seek to erase the stain of immorality from one set of faces, it will of course remain on another set.

Removing the women of the street from the film set will not mean that the market for the sale of women’s bodies for pleasure will end.

Those who oppose the presence of fallen women in cinema, whose skill at acting and singing otherwise brings them entertainment and relief, forget that these women were once not fallen.

If a woman from a brothel should leave it and find work in cinema, then we have little right to oppose her. Prostitutes are really the products of society. Then why do we raise the demand for putting an end to them, when they form a legitimate part of our culture? If they are to be reformed, then we must also reform all other work that is associated with the body.

A clerk in an office spends his day writing and inspecting books of accounts. Similarly, the seller of alcohol spends his day making a living his way. Both for the same reason. Only their methods are different.

It’s possible that our office clerk, should he have no other option, might also turn to selling alcohol. We would not hate him for this, even if we dont like those who drink. What reason could there be for such hatred to be shown only when a woman offers to sell what she has of value — her body?

The circumstance of such a woman is surely not deserving of hatred or contempt. The good women of our good families are the way they are, so fragrant to us, because of the social conditions in which they were brought up. From the security of their home, they enter the financial safety of their husband’s home. They are at all times distant from the rough ways of the world.

The woman who didn’t have a father’s shelter, had no education, who had to feed herself with her own devices, such a woman is like a broken pebble from a pavement.

Prostitutes are not born, they are made. Or they make themselves.

If a thing is in demand, it will always enter the market. Men demand the body of women. This is why every city has its red light area. If the demand were to end today, these areas would vanish on their own.

Our classification of women, this naming and branding them as prostitutes is in itself wrong. A man remains a man no matter how poor his conduct. A woman, even if she were to deviate for one instance, from the role given to her by men, is branded a whore.

She is viewed with lust and contempt. Society closes on her doors it leaves ajar for a man stained by the same ink. If both are equal, why are our barbs reserved for the woman?

It is being demanded that the entry of prostitutes into studios be forbidden. Does this not tell us that man is incapable of controlling himself? That he is in fact much weaker than the woman?

To those men who say that women from “good families” must come into the world of cinema, I have this question:

What is it that you mean by “good?”

A woman, who honestly puts her wares on display, and sells them without an intention to cheat, is such a woman not virtuous?

To these men, who want actresses to be women of virtue, I ask: is it fine for a man who acts to be not virtuous? I would say it is necessary for both actors and actresses not to be virtuous, but familiar with the emotions they portray. I say that a woman unfamiliar with the pain of separation from her lover cannot enact it properly. The woman unacquainted with sadness will not be able to show us melancholy.

The facts are before us, we cannot run away from them. If it is the quality of movies we make that concerns us, we must correct our vision. Flaws in character are personal to every individual. They have nothing to do with the talent of the person, which is the aspect that interests us. Our films, whether acted in by women of virtue or fallen virtue, must reflect reality.

I clarify here that I don’t necessarily think of prostitution as a fine thing. I don’t want prostitutes to be given entry into studios for the fact of them being prostitutes alone. What I want to say, and what I have said, is clear enough. If an actress has no memory of pain, no idea of sorrow, she will never be a quality actress.

To be an actress, a woman must be familiar with the fine and the less fine aspects of life. Whether she is from a brothel or from an eminent family, to me an actress is an actress.

Her morality, or her immorality, doesn’t really interest me.

Her talent and art are not related to the kind of human being she otherwise might be.

– (Originally published as
Sharif Aurtein
Aur Filmi Duniya
)

A Review of Saigal’s Zindagi

So far as I know, this is the only film review Manto ever wrote. The film was called Zindagi, and it starred K L Saigal who sang some of his biggest hits, “So ja rajkumari
” and “Main kya janu kya jadu hai.” The film was directed by P C Barua and released in 1940. This means Manto wrote the review when he was twenty-eight. This was not an easy piece to translate. For one, there were many glancing references to scenes from a movie which I had not, and most readers of this translation may not have seen. I rewrote bits of it here and there to make it more readable in English.

The colourful glass bangles jangled and said: “Am I prettier than you?”

While the smoke rose from the fire-bed, troubled

It spiraled as a snake and asked: “Are you the secret that burns within me or am I?”

And the angels drifted in the bright air of the heavens

The spring cloud opened
out autumn’s fist, and began to whisper to the mighty oaks
.

The sun’s mad rays sent darkness fleeing in terror

Still waters asked the bubbling brook — “Why the impatience?”

Meanwhile, waiting behind her veil, the virgin flashed now this emotion, now that.

These lines are quite representative of poetry today. They squeeze the essence of human existence into a few words. They have life and a sense of mischief. They have anticipation, like the trembling of that awaiting virgin.

Many things like this can be written about the composition. Every line could be shown as having a meaning beyond the obvious.

But the truth is that this sort of thing is intellectually hedonistic. The writer thought of putting out only prettified lines. They don’t really represent anything. The poem may be fun to read but it is ultimately meaningless, because it wasn’t written for depth.

I should know — I wrote it and perhaps spent two minutes on it. But this sort of writing has become quite fashionable in literature.

In Europe, literature had become very heavy. This is why such light poetry was introduced, as a sort of reaction. The reader had had enough of the dense stuff, and so this filled the need.

India has always imitated and is now actually dependent on the west. And so it accepted this sort of poetry and copied it.

Today, I saw New Theatres’
Zindagi,
an example of such light literature. When I came out, I wondered what it was that I had seen.

The famous Pandit Inder says this film is about psychology. Meaning something that is outside of perception. A delicate thing swimming in the ether perhaps.

Khwaja Abbas and Jamil Ansari say it’s a very good film. And so I also say it’s a very good film. However, I went to see
Zindagi,
meaning
life
. I’m sure Jamil Ansari understands quite well what the word means.

When the lights went down and the film began to unfold, I had a strange feeling. The sort one might have in a bar when, instead of a stiff whisky, one has been handed for some reason, a sweet and sour soft drink. It cannot be returned or thrown away, because that’s not in our culture. And so for two-and-a-half hours, I slowly sipped from this drink. Of course, if lots of ice is added to a soft drink it isn’t without its charms.

Zindagi
is a good film. It had everything in it, except perhaps life. It had a counterfeit two-anna coin, which only director Barua could have used. It had songs which only Saigal could have sung. It had lines only Jamuna could have delivered. It had philosophy which Jamil Ansari explained. And it had the touch of an extinguished candle, a moment Khwaja Abbas appreciated.

On top of all this it had scenes of telepathy that Miyan Kardar loved and which produced magic at the box office.
Zindagi
is a good film because P C Barua made it and New Theatres produced it. And because it stars Saigal and Jamuna.

How shall I describe the film? Let me try. Many trains come from Peshawar to Bombay. Some of them are express, and some very slow. If you are fine with going to Peshawar from Bombay by the latter, even if it takes you ten or fifteen days, you will like
Zindagi
. Think of it as still waters in which there is movement only when a leaf should fall. It’s a road on which no car is ever seen. It goes straight, on and on, till death.

The screenplay is written as if the author is walking slowly along a straight line that he has drawn himself. And in the end, with a thud, he falls over a cliff.

And so —
Zindagi
. In my view, life’s problem is with, and its objection is to, death. But it seems here in this movie that life is on its knees before death. This film is the funeral of life, borne on Barua’s shoulders. It should be said here that the dead are very heavy.

Many times in the film one notices that Barua has tired of his burden. He’s out of breath and sitting in the shade of a tree to recuperate.

Me, I like action. I like seeing things that are fast. Things which excite me, like cars driven at full speed, trains hurtling along. I like these. I think they are the essential part of what I think of as life and living.

This is why may be, on seeing
Zindagi
, I felt no excitement. In fact, I felt nothing. I came out of the hall feeling what I had felt on entering it.

I had gone to see life — what I saw instead was death.

Now I accept that death is the destination of life. But isn’t even death full of life? Death isn’t always dead. Death which slowly crushes life in its hands, which stills the bubbling of life’s blood — that death cannot be lifeless.

In my opinion, death is more powerful than life. Even more full of life than life. But the death I saw in
Zindagi
was dull, lifeless.

The film’s story is about an unemployed graduate and an oppressed woman, whose husband is a drunk. As it unfolds, it seems as if the writer is trying to construct a building on quicksand. Every moment it faces the danger of collapsing.

The girl is a melancholic, because she’s been married off to the wrong man. He gets drunk and thrashes her. He throws her out of his house. But Ms Heroine is seen as claiming that she left him.

I haven’t figured out what made her claim that. She was battered first and then flung away. He had no use for her. What sense does it make for her to say that she left him? She didn’t have the courage to do this of her own will.

And after she’s out and meets Ratan Lal, the vagabond, why on earth is she in hiding? And why is he so angry? And why, while we are at it, is he unemployed?

I heard him sing so exquisitely. He could have made more than a bit of money peddling this talent. Why, if
Zindagi
is meant to be a story of our times, he could have walked into New Theatres and found a job immediately. Every film company is short of singers.

So why is he never doing anything?

I was convinced, after seeing the whole film, that he wanted it this way. This may be why the canvas of the film is so limited.

Life isn’t a little puddle, it’s an ocean on which both great yachts and little boats sail. But in this film, Ratan Lal and Ms Heroine keep making holes in the bottom of their vessel. In so far as I got it,
Zindagi
is a whine against society for not letting Ratan Lal and the girl be together.Their love remained unconsummated. Is this bedding of a person the primary aspect of someone’s
Zindagi
? Are bodily relations everything?

Ms Heroine is married. There’s no divorce among Hindus so she cannot marry her unemployed lover. And he apparently can’t get his act together because he can’t bed her. Is this what life is about?

I know that love is a powerful thing. The question is: what sort of love did these two actually share? So far as I understood it, it was sexual as such love tends to be.

If it had been something more than sexual desire, something more meaningful, something deeper, Ratan Lal would have moved his ass and done something about it.

And what does Ms Heroine do? She’s a literate, educated girl. She knows the problem and the situation confronting her. She is confident enough to spend the night in the same room with a stranger rather than go to her father. She then roams the streets with this man. Could she not have fought for her rights, a woman such as her? She could have found a job and, truth be told, taken in her lover and supported him. She does nothing. She is afraid, we are told. Of what?

Barua has given the answer right at the end, when Ratan Lal begins to abuse society. Now I think it right that society should be abused, if not manhandled.

The question is — what and who is society? Are not these two people part of it? If society is a donkey, Ratan Lal is its tail, trying to whisk the flies off.

I’m told
Zindagi
is a film about society. No doubt it is, because the word “society” appears in it. And perhaps because it addresses the aspect that a woman who has been married off to the wrong fellow should be allowed to romance another man.

I’m in favour of this, but I want to see a war being fought for such rights. Some stuff should be broken in anger. A hammer taken to hand and smashed on the problem: right, we’re rid of this now.

Ms Heroine can, when she wants to, break the law and get into bed with Ratan Lal. Because she possesses the heavy hammer of her father’s wealth. What was she waiting for? Tough to say. Opportunities have to be created to resolve a problem. Why wait for the solution to drift towards your boat?

The other thing that troubles me is this: Ms Heroine chooses, when thrown out, to not go to her father, but a stranger. Then, theatrically, she bumps into her sister and is told that their father is dying. When she goes home, he praises her for her courage in “leaving” her husband. And he wills all his wealth to her out of admiration for this courage. He doesn’t ask her where she was all this time, and why she had now returned home.

Another strange thing about the story. To show that Ratan Lal is possessed by Ms Heroine, Barua uses a very tacky device. He has Ratan Lal bump into a friend in the market. The friend insists that Ratan Lal come home with him: ‘I’m having a party. Show your magic there.’

This magic, telepathic communication, is difficult to depict. It is shown instead with the girl receiving voices in her head and having a conversation with the hero. I thought this was unbecoming of a director like Barua. It seems as if he’s in the cinema hall, whispering into the ears of his audience: ‘Please remember viewers, that the heroine is on our hero’s mind. The... Heroine... Please... Understand...’ It was as obvious as that.

Zindagi
is a well-packaged film. I suspect Barua recently picked up a few tips from Europe. I wish, like Barua, I could turn this review into a film. Alas, I have no New Theatres to back me. And without New Theatres, a film like this cannot be made.

Afterthoughts (a few lines written after the review was finished).

I repeat: there is no life in
Zindagi.
It has death, and a lifeless sort at that. The image I have of this movie, now that I can look back at it, is that of a colourful balloon losing its air slowly. It is said this film represents a rebellion against society. A woman with her delicate hands breaks open the bonds that have been imposed on her.

I saw the film with these eyes of mine and I saw her bravery nowhere. I only saw her cowardice. Indeed, from one end of this film to the other, not one act of daring can be seen.

The film begins with a scene at Ratan Lal’s house. The rent hasn’t been paid. Hearing his landlord’s voice, and fearing a confrontation, the terrified hero slips out of his house unnoticed.

Through the film we see that the hero and heroine keep running scared, even from those who are not enemies. Why would anyone want to chase them? And why do they hide all the time? Why are they alarmed by every sound?

Mr Abbas and Mr Jamil might be able to answer this in their way. I have my own explanation.

These two characters are not the people they should have been. Let me explain. Ms Heroine has been thrown out by her husband. She pines for love and male companionship. What does she do? Attach herself to the first available man she meets. We see the expression of her love on screen, and that’s how it should be, because she is hungry for it. Hungry for physical love. She doesn’t particularly care to know — for she doesn’t even ask him — who or what Ratan Lal is. She just jumps straight into his lap because he’s a man.

She is bold enough to sleep in a room with him, but not bold enough to own up to this. And I couldn’t figure out why they kept crying all the time instead of doing something about it. Surely she was bold enough to have seen the thing through?

And why abuse society? When Ms Heroine is considering spending the night in Ratan Lal’s company, society doesn’t knock on the door and tear them apart. Nobody objects to their wandering about openly in the streets either.

Whatever Khwaja Abbas might say, the fact is that the two of them are aching to be in bed, but they also want that the society shouldn’t have a problem with that.

This story was just about the two of them. They could have done as they wished, and what difference would it have made to society? Would it have brought Armageddon? If not, what was the point of this film? It has no bearing on reality, no relation to society. It is merely the story of one couple’s inability to have sex. That’s it. Why make it out to be something else?