The poor man had no fear of disrepute while he was alive because, from beginning to end, his life remained the subject of scandals. His fear was of the disrepute that would hound him after death; he was an honourable man, you see! It wasn’t really a fear; it was his belief that here would be dishonour in death and that is why he wished to be put into a flowing river so that there would neither be a funeral nor a grave! If only he had been born in your country! You would have ensured that he got a grand funeral and had his tomb built in the form of a skyscraper. Or, if you had respected his last wishes, you would have had a glass tank constructed in which his dead body would have floated and people would have flocked to see it as they do in a zoo.
Brother Evelyn Waugh tells us that in your country there are parlours where not just dead people can have their looks improved, even dead animals can have their beaks and lashes fixed. If a dog loses his tail in an accident, he can have another one fitted in. If a man had some flaws and imperfections in his face when alive, after his death they can be miraculously removed by trained hands and he is buried with great pomp and ceremony, so much so that even ‘hands’ can be hired to shower his coffin with flowers. And when someone loses a pet, a card is sent by the parlour which carries a message along the following lines: ‘Your Tammy — or Jeffy — is shaking his tail — or ear — in Heaven remembering you.’
In your country, even the dogs are better off than us. Here, we die one day and it is business as usual the next. If someone loses a dear one here, that poor man curses his luck. He says, ‘Why did the wretch have to die! I wish I had died instead!” The truth is, dear Uncle, we know neither the art of living, nor dying!
I saw the latest issue of Life (5 November, 1951, International Edition). I must say that yet another revealing vision of life in your country unfolded before my eyes. The entire story — with pictures — of the funeral of your country’s famous gangster was splashed across two whole pages. I saw the pictures of Willie Moretti — may God grant him a place in paradise! I saw the grand home that he had recently bought for 55,000 dollars as well his five-acre estate where he wanted to go away to escape from the worries of the world and live in peace. And I also saw the dead man’s photo where he is lying in bed with his eyes closed for ever and his coffin worth 5000 dollars as well as his funeral procession that comprised 11 large vans weighed down with flowers and 55 cars. As God is the only witness, tears welled up in my eyes.
God forbid, if you die, may you get a bigger and grander funeral than Willie Moretti’s. This is the heart-felt wish of a poor writer from Pakistan who, at the same time, requests you to organize your own funeral procession in your own lifetime — since you belong to a land of far-seeing people. To err is human, after all, and someone might make some mistake later and forget to remove some flaw from your face. Think of the torment it would cause your soul! But, at the same time, it is entirely possible that you might have the flawed feature corrected according to our instructions and arrange for your funeral according to the pomp and circumstance you deem fit. After all, you are far more intelligent than me! And you are also my uncle!
Give my regards to Erskine Cadwell and to the judge who acquitted him of the charge of obscenity. Forgive me for any indiscretion that I might have committed.
Your poor nephew,
Saadat Hasan Manto
Resident of Pakistan
(This letter could not be posted since there was no money to buy the postage stamp.)
ZAHMAT-E-MEHR-E-DARAKHSHAN1
Leaving Bombay I reached Lahore via Karachi on the 7 or 8 of January, 1948. My mind was in turmoil for almost three months. I couldn’t figure out where I was — in Bombay or in Karachi in my friend Hassan Abbas’ house, or was I in Lahore where song and dance soirees are routinely organized in restaurants to collect donations for the Quaid-e-Azam Fund.
I could reach no conclusion for nearly three months. It seemed as though several reels were running on the same screen at the same time — all jumbled up and unclear. Sometimes the screen would show the bazaars and streets of Bombay, sometimes the slow-moving small trams and donkey-carts of Karachi, and sometimes the rowdy, noisy restaurants of Lahore. Where was I? I would sit in a chair all day, lost in thought.
Till one day, I came to with a start because whatever little money I had brought with me from Bombay was nearly all gone — some had been spent in the house and the rest in the Clifton Bar. By now I was sure that I was in Lahore where I used to occasionally come for various court appearances in the past and buy beautifully crafted slippers from the Karnal shop to take back.
I began to think of the sort of work I could do. The film industry was in doldrums after the Partition. The few film companies that were still around had little to show other than the boards hanging outside their offices. It made me sad. Then I found that there was a brisk trade in ‘allotments’. Muhajirs and non-Muhajirs alike were pulling every string they could to get shops and factories allotted in their names. I was advised to do the same but I declined to be a party to that loot.
Soon I discovered that Faiz Ahmad Faiz and Chiragh Hasan Hasrat were planning to bring out a new radical newspaper. I went to meet these two great men. The newspaper was called Imroze — which is today a widely read paper. The paper’s dummy was being prepared when I went for my first meeting. By my second meeting nearly four issues were out. I was delighted with the way it looked. I felt the urge to write, but when I sat down to write I found I had nothing inside my head. No matter how hard I tried I could not separate India from Pakistan or Pakistan from India. Again and again, vexing questions echoed inside my head.
Would Pakistan’s literature be different? If so, what would it be like? Who is the rightful owner of all that had been written in undivided India? Will that, too, be divided? Are the fundamental problems in India and Pakistan not alike? Will Urdu be completely destroyed out ‘there’? And what form will Urdu take here in Pakistan? Will ours be an Islamic state? We will remain faithful to our state, but will we be allowed to be critical of our government? Will the state of affairs under our own people be any better than what it was under firangi administrators?
I saw dissatisfaction and discontent in every direction. Some people were very happy because they had become rich overnight but, at the same time, they were dissatisfied with their happiness and worried that it might scatter and disappear into thin air. Some were unhappy because they had lost everything on the way across the border. I visited some refugee camps where I saw discontent with its hair on end. Someone said, things are a lot better now; you should have seen the pitiable state of these camps a few years ago. I wondered if things were better now, what was it like when they were worse?
There was chaos all around. One man’s laughter could turn into another person’s sigh. One man’s life spelt another’s death. Two streams were flowing side by side: one had life, the other death. In between there was happiness which was perpetually under the onslaught of hunger and thirst and alcoholism. A death-like atmosphere prevailed. Just as the screeching of kites, aimlessly circling the skies at the onset of summer have a sadness, so did the shouts of ‘Long Live Pakistan’ and ‘Long Live Quaid-e-Azam’. Carrying the burden, night and day, of one of the late poet Iqbal’s legendry poems, the radio waves too sounded weary. The feature programmes on radio were mostly on: How to raise poultry? How to make shoes? What is gardening? Or, how many people have come to the refugee camps? And, how many have left?
Almost all the trees were naked. The poorer refugees had stripped their bark and lit fires to escape the bitter cold and to keep their bodies warm. They had cut off the twigs and branches to quench the fire in their bellies. These denuded trees made the city look even more intolerably, heart-breakingly desolate. The buildings looked as though they were in mourning. Their inhabitants, too, looked as though they were grieving. They might laugh or play or if they found some work, they would do that too but everything seemed as though it was taking place in a vacuum — a vacuum that was filled to the brim and yet empty.