‘The truth of the matter is that I am exactly like Manto’
There are many shades of Saadat Hasan Manto’s personality in this recently-published anthology of writings by his friends and detractors. Extracted here is Manto’s own take on his writerly persona.
By Vibha Chauhan and Khalid Alvi (Translators) Speaking Tiger Books Pages: 287 Price: Rs 499
Much has already been written and said about Manto. Some in his favour but most roundly condemn him. If one were to pay attention to the opinions expressed about Manto as a whole, they would make it extremely difficult for any person with even an iota of wisdom to hold a favourable opinion about him. I decided to write this article but I still do feel that it is tough to express any opinion about Manto. Not for me, though. I can make this claim only because I have had the good fortune of knowing him quite intimately. The truth of the matter is that I am exactly like Manto. Actually, I am like Manto’s twin.
I have no serious objection to the things that have been written about Manto but I feel that much of what has been expressed is far from truth. Some portray him as a devil and others call him a bald angel, a ganja farishta. Just a moment… Let me make sure that the good-for-nothing fellow is not listening to us on the sly… No, no, it’s fine. I just remembered that this is when he sits and drinks. He is in the habit of drinking bitter spirits after six in the evening.
We were born at the same time and I think we will also die at the same time; but it could also happen that Saadat Hasan dies but Manto lives on. This suspicion has always caused a great deal of pain to me because I have done all I could to sustain my friendship with him. If he lives on but I kick the bucket, it will be as though the shell of the egg is safe and sound but the egg white and the yoke have faded out.
Now, I have no desire to stretch this preface further. I must plainly let you know that I have never met anyone more crafty. and devious than Manto. One, two, Mantoo!* In short, Manto can stand in for three. In other words, he alone is as good as three people. Actually, Manto is an expert at triangles but what is also true is that this triangle is still incomplete… Of course, these hints about Manto can be understood only by those who have some modicum of wisdom.
As things go, I have known Manto from the moment he was born. We were born at the same time on 11 May 1912. But he tried to live life like a tortoise. What I mean is that it becomes impossible to discover the tortoise if it decides to tuck its head into its shell… But, then, I am his twin after all and have also managed to scrutinise all his actions very closely.
Fine then, I will now tell you how this big-headed, arrogant man was fashioned into a writer. Critics write elaborate articles as evidence of being well-informed and all- knowing. They quote John Kerry tells the story of his remarkable American life—from son of a diplomat to decorated Vietnam veteran, five-term United States senator, 2004 Democratic presidential nominee, and Secretary of State for four years— a revealing memoir by a witness to some of the most important events of our recent history. Every Day Is Extra is Kerry’s passionate, insightful, sometimes funny, always moving account of his life. from Schopenhauer, Freud, Hegel, Nietzsche, Marx; but the fact is that they are completely distanced from the real world.
Manto’s writing is a consequence of the mutual contradiction between two aspects of his life. His father, may God grant him mercy, was a very stern and severe man, and his mother was extremely tender-hearted. You can well imagine the condition of that pellet of wheat which would have emerged after being pulverised between two such grindstones.
Now let me talk about his schooldays. He was a very intelligent and mischievous boy. He would have been at the most three- and- a-half feet tall in those days. He was his father’s last born. He did receive affection from his parents but he never got the opportunity to meet his three step- brothers, who were much older than him and were studying abroad. He deeply desired that his brothers meet him and treat him like their younger brother. However, he got this love and regard from them only after he had been accepted as an eminent short-story writer in the world of literature.
So now, let me talk to you about him as a short-story writer. To put it briefly, he is a fraud of the first order. His first story titled “Tamasha” was about the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. He did not get this story published under his name and therefore escaped arrest.
After this his erratic mind became obsessed with the idea of studying further. It is interesting to note here that he passed his “entrance”, the high-school exam, only after two failed attempts. That was not all! He finally managed to scrape through with a third division— and you would be truly bowled over by the fact that he failed his Urdu exam.
People now accept him as a great Urdu writer and I can’t help laughing when I hear this because the truth is that he does not know Urdu even today. He chases words like a hunter, running with his net to trap butterflies, does. They, however, keep escaping and he fails. It is because of this that one sees a dearth of beautiful words in his writings. He is uncivilised and seems to be wielding a baton instead of a pen. Nonetheless, he too has been knocked around innumerable times by the baton and what one cannot take away from him is the fact that he has borne all these beatings with a smile.
There is, however, a difference between the thrashings that Manto received and those he bestowed. The latter are not merely the flaunting of brawn or brute force, devoid of culture and finesse. In fact, these are well-mastered, elegant tricks of the trade— like banot and faket, those graceful yet invincible styles of accomplished wrestlers. Manto is that distinctive individual who refuses to walk the straight path, choosing, instead, to balance himself on the tightrope. People keep expecting him to slip any moment but this ruffian Manto has not lost his footing even once. Well, he may sometime or the other fall flat on his face, never again to get up, but I do know that he will in, these last moments, announce quite loudly and clearly to everyone: ‘ I fell only to destroy the belief that one need not despair if one falls.’
I have already mentioned that Manto is a fraud of the top order. The most unshakable evidence of this is that he often asserts that it is not he who thinks about the story, it is the story that seeks him out. This kind of posturing is certainly a fraud. I know for a fact that when he has to write a story, his condition is exactly like that of a hen about to lay an egg. He, however, lays this egg not in hiding but in front of everybody—with his friends sitting around him and his three daughters creating a racket.
Manto sits on his favourite chair, pulls his feet up, folds his knees and begins to lay the eggs that later crack open, bringing out stories that run around squawking like chickens.
His wife is really distressed and often tells him, “Forget all this story-writing. Just open up a shop…”
But the shop in Manto’s mind is packed with stuff that is very different from what one finds in any other. He often thinks that if he were to open one, he himself would turn into a cold storage with all his emotions and writings kept there, frozen.
People now accept him as a great Urdu writer and I can’t help laughing when I hear this because the truth is that he does not know Urdu even today.
Extracted with permission from ‘ Manto- Saheb: Friends and Enemies on the Great Maverick’, translated by Vibha Chauhan and Khalid Alvi, published by Speaking Tiger