WHY I WRITE: ESSAYS BY SAADAT HASAN MANTO (2 page)

Why I Write

In his lovely flat in Lahore’s Lakshmi Mansion, which was given to him as refugee property, Saadat Hasan Manto wrote his pieces trying to scratch out a living. In this one he answers a question many writers are asked: how do you write? The Paris Review magazine has a section in which it asks writers to explain the way in which they go about their work. Manto was never interviewed in such a fashion, but here he attempts to tell us anyway. The flat he writes about, I visited many years ago. One of his daughters, Nighat, still lives there with her husband, Bashir Patel.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been asked to say how it is that I write. Now I don’t really understand the question and what “how” means. My dictionary informs me it means “in what manner?”

What can I say about this?

The best way of putting it is to say, well, I sit on a sofa in my living room, pile up a sheaf of paper, unscrew the cap of my fountain pen and begin to write.

My three little daughters play in the same room. I chat with them every so often. I settle their quarrels, sometimes while I’m tossing a salad for myself. Should someone drop in, I play host and chat with them too. But through all of this, I continue to write.

Now if I were to be asked WHY is it that I write, I have an answer for that too.

The most important reason is that I’m addicted to writing, just as I am to drinking. When I don’t write, it feels like I’m unclothed, like I haven’t had a bath. Like I haven’t had my first drink.

I don’t actually write the stories, mind you, they write themselves. And that shouldn’t be surprising. You see, I haven’t had much education. I have, however, written twenty books and I’m often astonished at the thought of who their writer could possibly be. Clearly, important enough a man to be taken to court so regularly for obscenity.

When the fountain pen is not in my hand, I’m merely Saadat Hasan. A man who knows and is able to express little. It is the pen that transforms me into Manto.

The story I’m working on is never on my mind or in my thoughts. It is always in my pocket, unnoticed. I keep exerting my mind so that it might squeeze out the opening paragraphs. But to no avail.

I try to “be” a writer of stories, putting on the air of one and holding the right pose. I light one cigarette after another. But nothing comes out.

In the end I tire and lie down like a spent woman, exhausted from the exertion of unwritten stories. Then I get up and do other things. I feed the sparrows, take the trash out and play with my little girls. Their shoes, those tiny shoes dispersed about the house, I collect and put in their place.

The damned story, lying unnoticed in my pocket, doesn’t come to mind. When the pressure begins to mount I retire to the toilet and sit on the pot, but nothing comes out there either.

It’s said that every big man thinks in the loo. I can say with some evidence that I’m not a big man, for I’ve never had a productive thought there.

It’s quite amazing that I’m considered one of Pakistan’s and India’s big writers. I can only say that it’s possible that I’ve tricked them into believing this shit.

Forgive me. Now I’m speaking the language of the toilet.

Truth be told, I promise you I’ve no clue how is it that I write.

When I’m at a loss for ideas, my wife, who manages our finances, says sternly: ‘Please stop thinking and begin writing.’

And so I pick up the pen and start scratching out a few lines. My mind is still empty — but by now, my pocket is full.

And of its own, as if by magic, a ripe story pops out.

In that sense, I don’t consider myself a writer so much as a pickpocket. One who picks his own pocket and hands over its contents to you.

Have you ever seen such a fool as me?

– (Originally published as
Main Afsana
Kyon Kar Likhta Hoon
)

The Story of My Wedding

Manto lived the early Bombay dream. He spent a little time in the film industry and found some success as a writer and a cultural figure. He was acquainted with some of the great names in the industry, as this piece shows, though he drops names very lightly. Here he tells us the story of how he got married to the girl from Mahim. Manto moved to Bombay from Amritsar and found a job in a magazine, and in a film company. He had little money, lived in a chawl and was fond of drinking. When his mother was horrified by his state, he said to her nonchalantly that he wasn’t earning more only because he didn’t need to. If he were married, he would immediately make more money. His mother then suggested he should marry, and in a moment he would come to regret, he said yes. Watch out for the personalities who play a part in this drama. Most are now forgotten, but in their hey days were giants of Indian cinema.

I’ve written somewhere that there were three significant events in my life.

The first was my birth, of which I have little information. The second was my wedding, the third my becoming a writer of short stories.

Since the episode of my writing is still on, it’ll be getting ahead of myself to talk about it.

For those who want a glimpse into my life, I’m writing about the story of my wedding, which is also the story of my coming to Bombay. I’m not going to reveal every detail, mind you, some of the material will be elided over because it is not for public knowledge.

Let’s start our story a little before the event. Over a decade ago — I can’t remember the precise year — I was asked to leave Aligarh Muslim University. The reason was tuberculosis, which was thought to be incurable. Anyway, to recuperate, I took some money from my sister and went to Batot, a village on Jammu’s border with Kashmir.

After three months, when I returned home to Amritsar, I learned of the death of my sister’s little boy (she lived in Bombay and had returned there after a few days in Amritsar). I should say here that I had seen very little of my father before he died. When my simple and extremely kind mother had married my sister off, she gave her son-in-law all the money our family had.

My mother now realized this was a mistake and things had become so bad that we were utterly at the mercy of others. We were scraping along on forty rupees a month, that my two older brothers were sending. On top of that came the news of my nephew’s death. On coming home, I was therefore in a sort of depression. I felt like running away from it all. I even had thoughts of killing myself (had I stronger will than I do, I would have gone ahead with it).

Just then, I got a letter from Bombay. Mr Nazir, the owner of
Musawwar
, a weekly, wanted me to come over and edit the journal. I packed my stuff and set off immediately. I didn’t even give it a thought, I now realize, how my mother would get by alone in Amritsar. But I
was off.

When I reached Bombay, Mr Nazir hired me for a salary of forty rupees a month. After he discovered that I was sleeping in the office, he began cutting two rupees from my salary towards rent every month. When he got me another job alongside, as a munshi at the Imperial Studios, on a salary of forty rupees, Mr Nazir cut my salary from
Musawwar
by half, to twenty rupees.

And, of course, he continued to cut two rupees as rent.

Now this was the time when the once-great Imperial Studios was in terrible shape. Its owner, Seth Ardeshir Irani, was trying very hard to set the company right, but it was obvious that in such a place, salaries would not be paid on time — and they weren’t.

Seth Ardeshir’s ambition led him to produce India’s first colour film, and for this he imported expensive processing machines. The ambition was in keeping with his past. Seth Ardeshir had earlier made India’s first talkie,
Alam Ara,
in 1931.
When the company was made to bear the burden of the colour film, things went from bad to terrible. But work continued.

We didn’t get our salaries, but were given a portion, called an “advance”. The rest of it was owed to us and showed in the company’s books.

The director of this colour film was, Moti B Gidwani. He was a man of literature and fond of me. He asked me to work on the film’s script. I wrote it and, surprisingly, he liked it. But he could not bring himself to tell Seth Ardeshir that the story of India’s first colour film had been written by a clerk.

It was decided to attribute the story to some famous person. At first no such man came to my mind. Then I remembered Prof Ziauddin, now dead, in Santiniketan. He taught Persian in Tagore’s university. I wrote to him explaining my problem. He was fond of me, and agreed to participate in our little fraud.

The film released with a credit to him, and was a colossal flop
*
. The company’s straits became even more dire. At this point, on Mr Nazir’s recommendation, I was given a job in Film City for a hundred rupees a month, and I moved there.

When A R Kardar came to Bombay from Calcutta, Film City signed a deal with him for a movie. Stories began to be written, including one by me which was liked by
Mr Kardar. Unfortunately, fate intervened.

Seth Ardeshir learnt that I was at Film City. Although he had lost some of his past influence, he could still command producers of his generation to do his bidding.

He gave such a dressing down to the owners of Film City for poaching me that I was taken by the ear and sent back to Imperial Studios, with my script.

My salary was now doubled to eighty rupees, and I was told I would be paid separately for my script. The film was being directed by Hafizji (of
Ratanbai
fame). When I had joined Film City, and was being paid regularly, I stopped sleeping at
Musawwar’s
office and took up a room in a chawl, which was frankly, disgusting. A chawl is a building with long corridors on each floor to which are attached single rooms. The toilets are common and on the ground floor, all in a row. I paid nine rupees as rent for this hovel. The place was so full of bed bugs that they fell from the roof like rain.

Soon after, my mother came to Bombay, and stayed in my sister’s flat in Mahim. When she came over to see me in my chawl, she wept. My relations with my brother-in-law were strained. I was banned from entering their house and he had forbidden my sister from meeting me. I found his behaviour appalling, though I hope god is merciful to him.

Anyway, I was speaking of my mother’s tears. She noticed my poverty, the lack of clothes, my working at night in the light of a kerosene lamp. My eating in a cheap hotel. She saw all this and cried, for I had seen better days before.

For me, remembrance of things past has always been a waste of time, and what’s the point of tears? I don’t know. I’ve always been focussed on today. Yesterday and tomorrow hold no interest for me. What had to happen, did, and what will happen, will.

After she had cried her fill, my mother asked me: ‘Saadat, why don’t you earn more money?’

I replied: ‘What will I do with more money, Bibi Jaan? What I earn is sufficient for me.’

She said sternly: ‘No. The reality is that you cannot earn more than you do. If you had been more educated, it would have been different.’

That was true. But I had never been inclined towards studying. I failed in class twelve three times
*
before being admitted to college where my mind wandered even farther. I failed twice again. When I went to Aligarh Muslim University, as I’ve told you before, I was booted out for having tuberculosis, and that was hardly my fault.

Despite all this, I tried to laugh off my mother’s concern. ‘Bibi Jaan, what I earn is enough for me. Now if I had a wife, you would see what I am capable of earning. It’s not very difficult to make money here, you know. A man can make a fortune even without a proper education.’

After hearing this, my mother asked suddenly: ‘Will you marry, then?’

I replied without a thought: ‘But of course.’

‘Then come to Mahim on Sunday,’ she said, ‘and wait on the footpath under the flat. I’ll come down on seeing you.’

She put her hand on my head. ‘We’ll arrange your marriage, Inshallah.’

As she left, she turned back: ‘But look! Make sure you cut your hair before you come.’

I didn’t get that haircut.

However for some reason, I did manage to put black polish on my canvas shoes. I had to pay twice the usual rate to get them cleaned and white again.

That Sunday I wore them with my white slacks and went to meet my mother. I reached Mahim and stood on the footpath in front of Evening Leto Mansions as she had asked me to. Mother was waiting in the balcony of my sister’s third floor flat. She came down and asked me to walk with her.

But only twenty-five feet down the road, and we stopped at a building, Jaffer House. We went to the third floor, where Mother knocked on a door. A maid opened and we went in. Mother went into the ladies’ quarter of the flat. I was welcomed by a middle-aged man who was fair and good-looking. He took me into the living room and sat me down with great affection. He was informal and put me at ease immediately. We began to chat and soon told each other what was important about ourselves.

His name was Malik Hasan. He worked for the government, and had an interesting job. He was a fingerprint specialist with the police. His salary, and this is the level of detail he was comfortable revealing, was reasonably good. He had fathered many children. He liked, and this was interesting also, to bet on horses and gamble. He filled out the crossword every morning but hadn’t won any prize doing this. This was what I learnt about him.

I told him everything about myself, holding back nothing. That I worked in the movies, for a company that didn’t pay salaries, except an advance intermittently so that employees would not be reduced to begging.

I was amazed that when I revealed to him I drank, even in such straightened circumstances, a bottle of beer every evening, he did not react negatively. He heard all that I had to say intently and with great interest.

When I rose to leave, Mr Hasan knew every page from my book of life. As we walked back, Mother said the family had come to Bombay from Africa. ‘They know your brothers well,’ she said. Mr Hasan had been a barrister for ten years in East Africa, she added, and that was why I had been summoned to Mahim on this Sunday. They were in the process of finding a groom for a girl in the family.

Many proposals had come and had been rejected as unsuitable. What they wanted was someone from a Kashmiri family, like ours. ‘I’ve told them about you and kept nothing hidden,’ she said. Well, that was it then. Whatever I had omitted to reveal in my own candid session, Mother had fulfilled in hers.

What could this lead to, I asked myself. That they would agree to me as the man for this girl, I could not imagine. There was, I’m being honest here rather than modest, nothing about me that would make me fit for her or any other respectable girl.

I had put all these thoughts behind me by the time Mr Malik invited me home the next Sunday. He was once again very warm and gracious as a host. Lunch was soon served.There was chicken, meat koftas, vegetable curry and a delicious chutney of
dhaniya-pudina
(coriander-mint) and pomegranate. Actually all of it was delicious — but so hot that sweat broke on my brow. Soon, however, I became used to the spice and enjoyed the meal.

After a couple of more Sunday invitations, I met the family and became familiar with them. After this, one day Mother said to me without warning: ‘They’ve agreed to give her to you.’

Now, as I told you, I had laughed off this business of getting married. But when I heard her words, I was staggered. That someone would give me their daughter — especially after knowing me! — I had not imagined possible.

What exactly did I have on offer as a suitable candidate? I had had no proper education after passing my twelfth standard (in the third division). I was employed in a place that paid
bits
of salaries, not salaries. And my line of work was films and journalism. Such men are not welcome in the company of the gentry. My house was in a slum (and even that I had to pull strings to get after the landlord found out I was involved in films). I wasn’t ready to do this, not prepared at all. And when my mother added that she had agreed to the proposal on my behalf, I began to panic. I didn’t show or say anything that indicated my feelings, but my thoughts turned immediately to how I could be rid of this disaster that, truth be told, I had invited upon myself.

After much thought and consideration, I came to the conclusion that both were useless. I surrendered to my fate: I would just go ahead and not resist, I decided. Although I had made up my mind, the truth was I was still broke. How would I pay for the ceremony? This was troubling, especially because by now, the company had stopped paying even the “advance” that it infrequently did earlier.

Meanwhile news came from Mother that she had set a date. I thought of running away from Bombay, but some strange power held my feet.

Only one unpleasant solution came to mind — that I confront my employer, Seth Ardeshir Irani, with the news of my wedding and get some money out of him.

The company owed me one and a half thousand rupees. Now if I got this money, I’d be free of worry. Heck, I would be rolling in it.