The left-wing student organization I belonged to in my college days in
Kolkata used to have a poster exhibition every year. This exhibition has
begun to take place every year after the 1992 demolition of the Babri
structure. One of them had those memorable words calligraphied red-black
in a typical Bengali left-wing style - "The child noticed the
coagulated blood on the road, pulled at his mother's sleeve and said,
'Look, ma, jelly'." That, I discovered, was a fragment of a very short
'story'; and to read the rest, I had to go to Manto.
Why did he leave Bombay? India would have been so much of a 'natural' home for him, they say
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There is a lot of hushed and not-so-hushed lamentation in this year of
Saadat Hasan Manto's birth centenary. Why did he leave Bombay? India
would have been so much of a 'natural' home for him, they say. Somewhere
between pronunciations such as these, so characteristic of the
self-congratulatory strain of elite public-secularism and a second-hand
appreciation of Manto's raw exposition of the chasm between our private
and public lives, somewhere between those things lies the attitude with
which we in India look at Manto. The Anglicized literati and their
patron, the Indian Union, wants to own Saadat Hasan Manto. They are
masters at making cages for living writers - some gilded, others
iron-made. Some cages become sarkari mausoleums after the writer's
death. Zoo tigers do not bite, generally. Clearly, the enthusiasm of
some folks on this side of owning Manto comes from a hope that sooner or
later, a suitably golden cage could be made for him in the Union of
India, for us to cheer and clap at. But I am not so sure.
The Anglicized literati of India want to own Saadat Hasan Manto. They are masters at making cages for living writers
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Today, in Delhi and other places, Manto is dramatized, commemorated,
written and read, largely in English. Urdu's currency as one of the
pervasive languages of the common public sphere (and not 'qaumi'
affairs) of the Upper Gangetic plain has seen progressive ruin. Read
primarily in English, would Manto resign himself to having a smaller
following than, say, Chetan Bhagat? Would Manto have loved this loss of
readership, would he have wanted to be primarily remembered for getting a
Filmfare award for "lifetime achievement" in writing stories for Hindi
movies? I am not so sure. He might have written about the gosht the
Union would serve up, not only mazhabi gosht, but gosht from a thousand
faultlines. He might have written about the garam gosht cooked up in
Delhi in 1984, when Sikhs were massacred on that city's streets, or
about the gosht of Muslims burned and killed in Ahmedabad in 2002, if he
lived to be 90 years old. Would he, a "Muslim" writer in our times, not
be accused of writing only against "Hindu" violence? I am not so sure.
He certainly would have written about a lot of gosht served up in East
Pakistan in 1971. He certainly wouldn't have had a postage stamp of the
kind issued in 2005 with his image on it. Dying young has its benefits.
Read primarily in English, would Manto resign himself to having a smaller following than, say, Chetan Bhagat?
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He might have looked at the Saltoro range and the slow-killing heights
of Siachen. He might have peered into that deathly whiteness, peered
deep into it and among the frostbitten parts of the limbs would have
located the new coordinates of Toba Tek Singh. Not content with
"obscenity", there might have been calls for him to be charged with
sedition. That would have been true, irrespective of his leaving Bombay
or not. He would have continued to write about the sensuality that
permeates life in the Indian Subcontinent. Invariably, they would have
intersected with more than one faith, belief and god(s), for they too
pervade public life in the Union of India. Like Maqbul Fida Hussain,
that sterling admirer of the goddess Durga who liberated her from the
patently mid-19th century blouse-clad look, re-imagining the holy mother
in her naked matriarchal glory, Manto's run-ins with "public
sensibilities" might just have been enough to eject him from Bombay.
Almost surely, as it happened with MF Hussain, a robust on-the-ground
counter to hate-mongerers would have been found wanting. Hardly being
'Pak', in the long run, perhaps he would have been easily pushed out of
Pakistan also, where he "had only seen five or six times before as a
British subject".
He might have written about the garam gosht cooked up in Delhi in 1984,
when Sikhs were massacred on that city's streets, or about the gosht of
Muslims burned and killed in Ahmedabad in 2002
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The inner crevices of the human psyche, where the shadow cast by public
stances, acculturated beliefs, socially learnt prejudices, as well as
greed, eros and love, all come together; into that twilight zone, Saadat
Hasan Manto looked critically, honestly, and compassionately. It is
this vantage that makes him an equal-opportunity lover and an
equal-opportunity destroyer. He writes in his 'Letters to Uncle Sam':
"Out here, many Mullah types after urinating pick up a stone and with
one hand inside their untied shalwar, use the stone to absorb the
after-drops of urine as they resume their walk. This they do in full
public view. All I want is that the moment such a person appears, I
should be able to pull out that atom bomb you will send me and lob it at
the Mullah so that he turns into smoke along with the stone he was
holding." Hindu fanatics are not amused by this, for they know, barring
the specifics, that Manto would have been equally acerbic towards them.
Manto stands tall, rooted in social realities, beyond the posturing
self-flagellation of "progressive writers". Elite India's sordid attempt
at appropriating Manto's sanjhi virasat, with careless drops of French
wine falling on ornate carpets in restricted entry programmes where
Manto is performed and fashionably consumed as a marker of 'liberalism'
and 'refinement', might also attract the lobbing of a thing or two.
Descended from the Kashmiri brahmin caste of Mantoo, the despair of
Saadat Hasan the Bombayite after 1947 parallels in many ways the state
of the greater community of the pandits, where circumstances slowly made
them aliens in their natural home. This decentering by forces beyond
their control is the story of Manto, and also the story of many in
today's subcontinent. Cynicism and prejudice make better bedfellows than
many would like to admit. Manto stares with irreverence at the examples
of our reverence, at our Gujarats and Rinkle Kumaris, our Asia Bibis
and Ishrat Jahans. As we grow taller in our own eyes by fashionably
'appreciating' Manto, curled up in our beds, curtains closed, windows
closed, our sad pretensions only become clearer. But there is no Saadat
Hasan to chronicle our shamelessness.
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