WHY I WRITE: ESSAYS BY SAADAT HASAN MANTO (4 page)

Mirza Musharraf gave a display of why he played the buffoon with such ease on screen. After it ended and the stuff was placed here and there, wherever space could be found in the flat, Mirza Musharraf came to me and whispered: ‘Look boy, make sure you don’t embarrass us with your performance in bed.’

I was utterly spent by this time and gave no reply to the clown.

The next morning I rose to find that one quarter of me had magically turned husband. I was relieved to feel this way.

Out in the balcony, I saw a piece of string with stuff hanging from it, drying, fluttering in the wind.

And so it had begun.

– (Originally published as
Meri Shadi
)

Hindi or Urdu?

As the freedom movement took off, so did a dispute about what the official language of India should be. Some said Hindi because it was spoken by more people, others said Urdu because much of jurisprudence and history was in it. Gandhi’s instruction was that all Indians should learn Hindustani language in both its Devnagari and Persian scripts. But it soon became a religious dispute. Manto found the whole thing stupid as this piece shows.

I must admit to giggling along as I translated this sitting in my garden. It’s the sort of silly Indian conversation that must be read or overheard (or imagined) in an Indian language.

Hindi and Urdu have been fighting for some time now. Maulvi Abdul Haq, Dr Tara Chandji and Mahatma Gandhi understand the details of the squabble but I confess, it is beyond me. And it isn’t that I haven’t tried.

Why do Hindus waste their time in supporting Hindi? And why are Muslims anxious to protect Urdu?

Languages are not created, they make themselves and no human effort can destroy one already made.

I started to write an essay on this subject, but what came out instead, as I put pen to paper, was a conversation. Here’s how it went:

Munshi Narayan Prasad: ‘Iqbal saheb, are you going to have this bottle of soda?’

Mirza Mohammad Iqbal: ‘Yes I am.’

Munshi: ‘Why don’t you have a lemon soft drink like me instead?’

Iqbal: ‘Just so. I like soda. Our family has always had soda.’

Munshi: ‘So you dislike lemon?’

Iqbal: ‘Not at all. Why should I dislike it, Munshi Narayan Prasad? Since it was always soda at home, it’s now become a habit. Nothing special. In fact I’d say that lemon is tastier than soda.’

Munshi: ‘Which is why I was astonished that you would choose to set aside something sweet in favour of something bland. And lemon’s not only sweet but also fragrant. What do you think?’

Iqbal: ‘You’re absolutely right. But...’

Munshi: ‘But what?’

Iqbal: ‘Nothing. I was about to say that I’ll stick to soda.’

Munshi: ‘Aren’t you being stubborn? Someone might think I’m forcing you to down poison instead of a fizzy lemon drink. Arrey bhai, what’s really the difference between lemon and soda? Both bottled in the same factory. Both filled in by the same machines. If we were to remove from lemon the sugar and the essence, what would we be left with?’

Iqbal: ‘Soda.’

Munshi: ‘Exactly. Then what’s the problem with having lemon?’

Iqbal: ‘No problem at all.’

Munshi: ‘Excellent. Then here — have mine.’

Iqbal: ‘What will you have?’

Munshi: ‘I’ll call for another bottle.’

Iqbal: ‘You don’t need to. What’s wrong with having this soda?’

Munshi: ‘No... problem... as... such.’

Iqbal: ‘So have it.’

Munshi: ‘What will you have then?’

Iqbal: ‘Me... I’ll ask for another bottle.’

Munshi: ‘You don’t need to. What’s wrong with having this lemon?’

Iqbal: ‘Nothing wrong at all. What’s the problem with having this soda?’

Munshi: ‘No problem at all.’

Iqbal: ‘The thing is that soda is a little better.’

Munshi: ‘In my opinion, lemon is a little better.’

Iqbal: ‘Must be. But I’ve heard from my elders that soda is better.’

Munshi: ‘What of it? Even I’ve heard from my elders — lemon is better.’

Iqbal: ‘What’s your personal opinion?’

Munshi: ‘What’s your personal opinion?’

Iqbal: ‘My opinion... My view... Is that... But why don’t you tell me what your opinion is?’

Munshi: ‘My opinion... My view... Is that... But why must I reveal my opinion first?’

Iqbal: ‘This way we’ll never know. Let’s both cover our bottles and settle this at leisure.’

Munshi: ‘That’s not possible. The bottles are already open. Now we’ll have to drink from them. Decide quickly, else we’ll lose all the gas. And the gas is the main thing in these drinks.’

Iqbal: ‘I agree. And I see you also accept that there’s no real difference between lemon and soda.’

Munshi: ‘When did I say there’s no difference between lemon and soda? There’s a lot of difference. Lemon has sweetness, fragrance, sourness. That is, three things more than soda. What does soda have? Only gas — and so much of it that it gets into the nose. Compared to this, lemon is delicious! Have a bottle and you’ll be good for hours. Soda is for those who are unwell. And you admitted a while ago that lemon was tastier than soda.’

Iqbal: ‘All right. But I didn’t accept that lemon is better than soda. Being more tasty doesn’t necessarily mean it’s more beneficial. Pickle is very tasty but you know how bad it can be for you. Merely being fragrant and sour doesn’t make something good or better. Ask any doctor and you’ll know that sourness brings indigestion. But soda! Now here’s a great thing for digestion.’

Munshi: ‘Look, let’s settle this by mixing the two.’

Iqbal: ‘I’ve no objection.’

Munshi: ‘Then fill that glass half with soda.’

Iqbal: ‘Why don’t you fill it half with lemon first?’

Munshi: ‘What’s this? Why don’t you want to pour it first?’

Iqbal: ‘I want to have a mix of soda-lemon.’

Munshi: ‘And I want to have a mix of lemon-soda.’

– (Originally published as
Hindi Aur Urdu
, in
Manto Ke Mazameen
, 1954)

Thirteen Types of Freeloaders

The Second World War brought severe shortages to India as goods and services were diverted to the war effort in Europe. The army had been expanded and consumed vast quantities of foodstuff. These were rationed across India, as also were cigarettes, which now had to be got from the black market. Manto was always short of money, and often in debt. His circle of friends was mostly writers, poets and artists, none of whom was particularly well off either. How did such people manage? With difficulty. Manto tells us in this piece about how people regularly bummed cigarettes off him.

Type 1:

You’re watching a movie. You take a cigarette out of your pocket. The man on the next seat is a freeloader. He’ll stare at your tin and say, ‘Where do you get these from, sir? The black market?’

‘Yes,’ you say.

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I’ve been looking for them for a long time. Can’t find them anywhere. It’s a great smoke, isn’t it?’

‘Be my guest,’ you say, holding out the tin.

‘Thanks.’

During the interval, he’ll hit you for one unsolicited. ‘I enjoyed the first half, thanks to you. Another would really seal it.’

Type 2:

You’ve boarded a train. It sets off. You pull out your packet. The man next to you begins to pat his pockets. He then says something. Like, ‘Damn!’ or ‘Not again!’

You’re certain to ask: ‘What’s wrong?’

He’ ll smile and say, ‘Nothing really, forgot my cigarettes in the tonga.’

‘Oh,’ you say, ‘for now, smoke mine.’

And he will. Several times.

Type 3:

Zaid is your friend. But you haven’t figured out he’s a freeloader. Every day he puts his arm around your shoulder, sighs and says, ‘
Lao bhai, ab cigarette pilvao’
(Come brother, give me a cigarette) as if he were doing you a favour by smoking your quota.

Type 4:

You’re on a park bench. The man next to you is focussed on his book. You pull out a tin of cigarettes. He’s a freeloader. He quickly strikes a match and holds it out for you. You in turn offer him a cigarette. He thanks you.

Type 5:

You’re acquainted with Bakr, but not too well. Not enough to know he’s one of them. He offers you his packet. You take it, but it’s empty, of course.

He’s shocked to know this, and expresses his regret. You take out your stock and offer one to him.

Type 6:

This is a special type of freeloader who only smokes particular brands. The moment he sees a friend or acquaintance bearing 555 or Craven A cigarettes
*
, he cries out in joy - ‘Zindabad! Now here’s a cigarette worth smoking.’

He’ll light one and stuff six or seven in his pocket: ‘Sorry, but I can’t do with just one.’

Type 7:

This is an unusual type. You’re standing with your friends outside the YMCA Hall. You put a cigarette in your mouth and are about to strike a match. A man walking past quickly turns into you and takes the cigarette from your lips, and the match from your hands. He lights it, and then walks off, puffing.

You think he’s mad (he isn’t) and this is the subject of your discussion for some time.

Type 8:

This is a particularly brazen type. You’re fed-up with him and say: ‘Boss, why don’t you smoke your own?’

He replies: ‘I’ve promised never to smoke cigarettes I’ve bought myself. Smoking those that others have paid for is far more pleasurable. You should try it.’

Type 9:

Slightly different from
Type 8:

You’re fed up with him and say: ‘Boss, why don’t you smoke your own?’

He replies: ‘The doctor says I shouldn’t be smoking. If I carry them on me, I can’t control myself. That’s why every now and then I ask for one from a friend...’

Type 10:

This one is like a court poet.

‘I swear to god, Manto is a prince among men when it comes to cigarettes. You may not find a good cigarette anywhere in the world, but he’ll be carrying one for certain. My friend, show us what you’re carrying these days.’

You pull out your pack of cheap smokes.

‘You and Capstan?’ he exclaims, ‘Hmm, it’s sure to have something good about it, then. Let’s have a look.’

Type 11:

This one attacks not just a cigarette but your entire tin. ‘Sorry man, I’m taking it,’ he says with regret, ‘I’ve left mine at another friend’s place.’ Or he says, ‘Give me two tins. My stock’s coming tomorrow or the day after. I’ll return them...’

Type 12:

The sort of extreme freeloader, seeing whom people tighten their grip on the cigarettes in their fingers. And they throw away their half-empty packet on the ground in his sight, as if it were empty.

Type 13:

The type who’ll chat with you for some time and then, as he’s leaving, pick up the half-empty pack you had tossed away, saying: ‘I’ll take this for my boy. He loves playing with empty boxes.’

– (Originally published as
Muft Noshon Ki Terah Qismein
in
Talkh, Tarsh Aur Shireen
, 1954)

How Arms Control Works

Manto lived through the Second World War and his most productive writing years in India were between 1939-1945. This was the period when nations had converted industrial factories into armament-producing units and the world was awash with weapons. The theory of deterrence was also used, although this was a surprise because it was before the nuclear age.
Manto’s response to this development was to write a farcical essay, which was published in 1942, while he was still working in Bollywood. It was only after Partition that his writing became very dark.

International relations is so complex that to understand it is tiresome. In fact one can get lost in that maze if one enters to figure it out.

I’m sure you’ve read about the threat of weapons of mass destruction at least twenty times. But tell me the truth — have you really understood how deterrence works? I don’t think so.

I’m not questioning your intelligence, mind you. It’s just that recently has the thing dawned on me and what I’ve understood about the subject can be put so simply that even a child would not be confused. Interested?

Imagine that you and I are slightly less clever than we are. It’s possible that I possess a pillow and it’s likely that at some point I thump your head with it. Now it’s possible that you in turn possess an egg, which you proceed to smash on my face. My pillow and your egg are weapons of mass destruction — you follow?

To bring about peace, we call a conference on the threat from these weapons. The result of our conference is that we agree to giving you the right to possess a pillow and me the right to possess an egg.

Both now have the material needed to retaliate in equal fashion if attacked. This ensures peace. Neither of us has the right to increase our arsenal without consulting the other, because this would threaten the peace.

After some time, however, I bring to your notice your ownership of a pen knife which could, logically, double up as a weapon.

You in turn point to the axe in my shed — using which I could sever your head with one swing. These discoveries suddenly produce in both of us strong and neighbourly yearnings for maintaining the peace. And so I get myself a pen knife and you add to your property an axe, though you don’t have a garden.

Now, just as it happens so often in international relations, things sour between us. I come over and tell you that since I’m threatened by the equilibrium between us, I should be better off getting a pistol from the market. Your response is to be alarmed and to get a pistol as well as a glittering sword.

To be safe, I get a sword and purely to ensure my security, I get a machine gun and mount it on my car.

Surely peace should break out anytime now. But then you go off to an arms dealer and buy a tank. You also get a bomb which can blow the roof of my house clean off.

Yours truly notices and gets a couple of bombs for himself. I also order (just in case) a couple of cylinders of poisonous gas. The gas can turn you and your children a pale yellow and the skin of your faces the texture of roasted brinjal.

In response you look for a gas that can make my head, my arms and my legs entirely vanish from my torso. You also buy a fighter-bomber and park it in your compound.

We have collected so much explosive material inside our homes now that it’s impossible to think of war.

Even so, we soon fight and destroy ourselves. However, this is incidental and shouldn’t be blamed on us because at least we tried so hard to keep the peace.

– (Originally published as
Tahdeed-e-Asliha
)