Sa'adat Hasan Manto
11.05.1912—18.01.1955
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I
picked up Stars From Another Sky a few years ago, when Penguin India inducted the
translation (Khalid Hasan) into their Modern Classics library. (The translation had
originally been published in 1998.) Along with this, I also picked up Manto's Bombay
Stories, simply because they were stories set in Bombay. I must confess
that while I'd heard of Sa'adat Hasan Manto, and of his fame as a short story
writer in Urdu, I'd never read any of his work until then. So I sat and read Bombay
Stories in one sitting. After which, I began Stars From Another Sky but I never got past the first
chapter.
Recently,
I revisited the book on the off chance that I might find it more interesting.
(It's unusual for me to keep a book aside; I typically finish reading even
books I find boring once I start reading them.) Like Bombay Stories, the
underlying tone of the book is an aching sense of loss for the city that he
loved. Since I can’t talk about one without also talking about the other, here
are two reviews for the price of one.
Stars From Another Sky
Trans: Khalid Hasan
Penguin Books
I’m
fascinated by the film industry, by the films that were/are made, by the people
who make them. For far too long, we have gone without a recorded history of one
of the most prolific of film industries in the world. Much has been lost to the
ages, and the men and women who peopled the industry in its infancy, and
nurtured it and worked to make it an important part of our cultural history, are
dead and gone. There’s no one left to ask, really. So it becomes doubly
important to salvage what was
recorded.
Sa'adat
Hasan Manto came to Bombay in 1936; he was as responsible for the creation of
the industry that he skewers so mercilessly, becoming a journalist and then
screen writer of note. The note of regret at having left Bombay for Pakistan is
present, both implicitly and explicitly, throughout the book. I’m not sure if
the translator picked and chose which articles to collate, but I found it
intriguing that the only really well-known names were those of Ashok Kumar,
Noor Jehan, Sitara Devi, Naseem Bano and Shyam.
These
stories (for stories they are) are a collection of his writings in various
newspapers, immediately after Partition. Forced by straitened circumstances, he
decided to write about the industry he knew intimately, and loved only too
well. He was well aware of people's curiosity about the film industry, and was
not beyond satisfying it for a price.
There
are nuggets of information and amusing stories: how Ashok Kumar had directed Eight Days, his first production, even
though the film was credited to DN Pai; how Manto himself, and Raja Mehdi Ali
Khan, the lyricist, had acting roles in the film; how comedian VH Desai flubbed his lines
regularly; how Rafiq Ghaznavi had never seen Ghazni, having been born in
Peshwar; how Pran was the best cardsharp in town; how Kuldeep Kaur tricked
Manto into paying for her perfume; how Manto’s sisters-in-law spent their time
calling up various actresses pretending to be their fans; how Baburao Patel
built up or tore down people based on his personal equations with them; how
Shanta Apte whipped Patel in his own office… there’s also a hint that Suraiya’s
grandmother was really her mother.
There’s
a certain poignancy in the way he writes about the actor, Shyam, and of their friendship.
It is also in this chapter that he writes of his feelings about the Partition
in more detail. “My wife and children were in Pakistan. When that land was a
part of India, I could recognise it…I found it impossible to decide which of
the two countries was now my homeland – India or Pakistan. Who was responsible
for the blood that was being shed mercilessly every day?’ And ‘… but now that
we were free, what would our dreams be? Were we even free?’ He talks about how
he came to the decision to leave India forever. And how his friendship with
Shyam suffered as a result. It’s touching to read that first person account.
It’s
also nice to read his defence of the industry he lived and worked in. In those
accounts, his is a very progressive voice, not judging anyone, least of all the
actresses who were considered not much better than prostitutes. Manto’s wife
and sisters-in-law had become very close to Nargis, who apparently, wasn’t
attractive enough or talented enough, but Manto mentions the young girl’s simplicity,
innocence and her love for life, belied by the sadness in her eyes. Naseem Bano
also comes off well, described as a beautiful, graceful, dignified woman, who was head over
heels in love with her husband.
People have often talked about the seedy side
of films, far away from the glitz and glitter that we see on screen. Tales of
exploitation, poverty, desperation, prostitution - these were the cautionary
tales with which parents regaled their star-struck children; films were not for
those from ‘good’ families. Manto’s
writings make it clear that those tales were not too far from the truth. Sex, sleaze, scandals and booze abound in this
collection, and one sees the mask stripped off those who seemingly live a
fortunate life – they are as fickle and egoistic and flawed as the rest of the
hoi polloi who idolise them.
Manto
is unabashedly frank in his account of what really goes on in the
underbelly of the world of films. Yes, that’s
a plus, in a world that has gone incredibly sanitised because someone, somewhere,
will be offended by something, but what is not easy for me to overlook is the lewdness
or the thread of misogyny that runs through the book. In
the translator’s note, Hasan mentions a woman, Nayyar Bano, who had strong
words of condemnation for Manto’s writings. [She wrote a letter to the editor
in response to Manto’s piece on actor Shyam, titled Murli ki Dhun.] In response, Manto wrote: I felt pity for Nayyar Bano and her mental condition. I said to myself
that...I should make it up to her. But then I thought if I tried to do that in
the manner that I wished, she might faint...I did not want her to suffer a
shock; she might not survive the experience. He goes on to explain in
detail what should be done to punish a woman such as Bano. Punishment for what
crime? For daring to criticise him? I guess so, because when he was jailed for
obscenity (several times), he wrote: My
judge thought that truth and literature should be kept far apart.” (Letters to Uncle Sam)
He
claimed to speak the truth, with great relish. I have no doubt whatsoever that
he did. It is the manner in which he does it that is horrifying. Ashok Kumar’s shyness with women, and Raja Mehdi Ali Khan’s opportunism
are unremarkable trivia. Amusing perhaps, but not malicious. His descriptions of some of the women then acting as heroines are in the most vulgar of terms, and he often makes assumptions about their sexual proclivities of which he could have had no personal knowledge. And what in
heavens’ name has Manto’s hatred of Noor Jehan’s bra got to do with a
story? (And why is the man so interested
in someone’s lingerie?) Why does Rafiq Ghaznavi’s and Sitara Devi’s chapters have
more to do with their sexual peccadilloes than about his music or her dance,
about either of which there’s hardly any mention at all?
As
remnants of a bygone age, these writings are a chronicle of what once was. And
even in translation, the power of Manto’s writings come through. I wonder what
this would have read like in the original Urdu; certainly, Manto is
considered one of the greatest (if not the greatest) South Asian writers
of the 20th century. I suppose the tawdriness wouldn't have changed much – it
may just have sounded better in Urdu. Or perhaps not – regional languages have
an earthiness that English seldom approaches. (When it does, it merely sounds
vulgar.)
In
his foreword, Jerry Pinto has this to say: When you have put down this book, you will
feel as if a friendly voice, cheerfully malicious and yet vulnerable in its
self-revelation, has been stilled. You will miss it.
I’m not so sure that I will. In fact, I’m
quite sure I won’t.
Feeling
that sense of violation (my skin crawled as I read through), I wondered that I
had read the same man’s Bombay Stories without
feeling that same sense of something vile. I couldn’t immediately recall all
the stories, but I knew I had read
the book, and liked it, and not solely because it was set in Bombay, or because
Manto loved Bombay and always wanted to return to it. (That part resonates with
me.) So I read the book again, and was caught by how inherently bleak the
stories were, much like the lives of the people he writes about.
Bombay
Stories
Trans: Matt Reeck, Aftab Ahmad
Vintage Books
Trans: Matt Reeck, Aftab Ahmad
Vintage Books
Like Stars From Another Sky, Bombay Stories too deals with the underbelly
of society. In that focus, Manto only reflected the society of the time, where an
unbridled population explosion and the unique social conditions of the time
gave rise to prostitution on a scale hitherto unimaginable. Funnily enough,
these stories are certainly not tawdry or misogynistic, (though they are
equally frank) which is a revelation, considering most of his protagonists are
whores. In fact, most of the women, destitute and exploited, are still strong
at the end – just not in ways one expects them to be.
His
stories, set in the Bombay of pre-partition India, are a scathing indictment of
the social mores of the time which devised one law for women and another for
men. He skewers the Madonna-Whore syndrome, and his ‘bad’ women are depicted
with subtle nuance, raising them from cardboard cut-outs into true
multi-dimensional characters. It is rare to see women as protagonists, whores or otherwise, depicted
with such humanity and compassion. Their bodies, their voices, their
perceptions, are all laid bare with unabashed frankness and searing honesty,
and with a singular lack of judgement for their choices. You will scarcely see
a more strident voice for women’s rights than in this collection of 14 short stories,
in some of which Manto himself (or a character that closely resembles him) appears as
an interlocutor. That’s not the voice of a misogynist.
In
Khushiya, the pimp is aghast (and
later, furious at being insulted) when one of his ‘girls’, Kanta, appears near-naked
in front of him. ‘His masculine dignity had
been affronted, and when he remembered Kanta’s naked body, he felt humiliated.’This
is a man who lives off pimping women; yet, he’s
insulted that she didn’t think it necessary to cover up when she receives him,
that she does not feel at all ashamed of her body. He feels less of a man, even
though there’s a dawning realisation in him that even a whore can be
attractive. So what happens to Kanta in the end?
In
10 Rupees, Sarita goes one better.
She’s barely 15, coerced into prostitution by her mother to help support the
family. Beginning with getting into the car with three men, it is Sarita who sets
the tone for the afternoon. At the end, untouched by any of them, she drops the
10-rupee note that one of the men has given her, querying, ‘This money – why
should I take it?’
Barren is the first of the stories in which Manto
makes his appearance. It is also one of the best stories in the collection,
layering deceit upon deceit until one is not quite sure just where the lies end
and the truth begins – if at all it does. In this tale, where people meet as
chance acquaintances, and share parts of their life stories, ‘Naim’ (the
narrator) tells ‘Manto’ his ill-fated love story; ‘Zahra’ comes alive, and as
she become more and more real to the narrator, the sooner he dies, thus
sacrificing himself to his art. For Naim’s mendacity is his gift to Manto, an author
he admires.
In The Insult, we meet Saugandhi, yet
another exploited prostitute, and her married lover, Madho. Madho scolds
Saugandhi for being a whore, promises to take care of her financially but
instead takes money from her – both he and she strive to keep the pretence
going. When a brief meeting with a client and his summary rejection of her gives
Saugandhi an epiphany, she regains both her voice and her self-respect.
Smell (Bu)
was one of the stories for which Manto was tried for obscenity. A story of a
chance encounter, inexplicable attraction, unbridled lust, and a disconcerting
consequence was, as Manto puts it himself, ‘…as
real and as old as the story of men and women itself.’ Both poetic and
erotic at the same time, the girl’s smell lingers on, leaving the protagonist
strangely dissatisfied with the reality in which he’s trapped.
Babu Gopi Nath becomes Manto’s mouthpiece when he says
(of the resemblance between whore houses and shrines): ‘Because there, from top to bottom, it’s all about deception. What
better place could there be for a person who wants to deceive himself?’ Not
a stupid man, this Nath, even though his friends use him: ‘They think I’m stupid, but I think they’re smart; at least, they’re smart
enough to see how they can take advantage of me.’
These and other stories in this collection, set wholly or partly in Bombay, brings that city to life
– read about it today, and you get a sense of another place and time, but he
wrote many of them after he emigrated to Pakistan (as evident in the narrative
where he places events in the past). The translators have striven to collate
his writings on Bombay, organising them chronologically, and in Reeck’s own
introduction: ‘…this collection of writings is both a sample of his work and
represents a specific aspect of it.’
Manto, never willing to be member of a
club that would have him, was castigated even by the Progressive Writers’
Movement for writing about the sleazy side of life. On his part, Manto saw no
reason to present a shiny, idealistic façade; instead, he felt that writing
about life as it was, was more beneficial to change. Indeed, in these short
stories, and the three brilliant essays that are appended to the book, Manto
shows himself to be as much, if not more progressive than any of those who
criticised him. In 'Women and the Film World' he writes (Pg 256): Society produced prostitutes, and its wide-reaching laws foster their existence. So why are they stigmatized, why is their collective death wished, when they, too, are part of society? If we want to transform them into something good, then we will have to work to improve society as a whole.'
In the same essay, he also notes '...if women can be chaste, can't men be too? If women can be promiscuous, can't men be too? Then why do we direct our wrath only at women?' (Pg 257)
The
translations are impeccable, true to the essence of the Manto's
writing, and quite simply told. The only false note I could find was the
use of American colloquialisms, which did not sit right with the setting of the stories, but that's a minor peeve. However, these are definitely stories that I would love to read in the original.
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