Saadat Hasan Manto | SabrangIndia News Related to Human Rights Fri, 12 May 2017 06:02:10 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.2.2 https://sabrangindia.in/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/Favicon_0.png Saadat Hasan Manto | SabrangIndia 32 32 Manto Lives https://sabrangindia.in/manto-lives/ Fri, 12 May 2017 06:02:10 +0000 http://localhost/sabrangv4/2017/05/12/manto-lives/ To the Dead. Who must wake up; So they may teach the living how not to die. Life is fragile.   In today’s world of uncertainty, violence, and fear where political correctness has made us spineless – story of India and Pakistan keeps us engaged. They are like old lovers – quarrelling and loving. Whatever […]

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To the Dead. Who must wake up; So they may teach the living how not to die. Life is fragile.


 

In today’s world of uncertainty, violence, and fear where political correctness has made us spineless – story of India and Pakistan keeps us engaged. They are like old lovers – quarrelling and loving. Whatever the level of hatred, in moments of peace India-Pakistan have shared a many things; memories, music, dramas, and culture. We have fought wars and then also talked about unifying our cricket teams. This ceaseless love-hate relationship gathers a many thoughts. At the present moment in history it then becomes important for us to see our story tellers as social theorists. Saadat Hasan Manto was one such writer.

Manto, the widely read and most controversial Urdu writer was born in the year 1912 on 11th May at Samrala, Punjab’s Ludhiana district. He gave the world a collection of enthralling body of literature. In a career spread over two decades of literary, journalistic, radio-scripting, film-writing, he produced twenty-two collection of short stories, one novel, five collections of radio plays, three collections of essays, two collections of personal sketches and many scripts for films. He was tried for obscenity several times, thrice before and thrice after partition/independence. It is said Manto’s greatest works were produced in last seven years of his life, which was the time of great financial and emotional hardship for him. He died a few months short of his forty third birthday in January 1955, in Lahore.  His works have been deeply studied and interpreted across the world.

Manto appeals to us all because his stories (especially on Partition of 1947) disenchant us with the apparent truths of our own times. Manto, to assert again, is especially relevant at the present moment in history because our society is plunged into sectarian and communal killings, against which Manto wrote vehemently. One idea that Manto tried to rescue and which we must rescue today was the idea of secularism. He saw secular not as the patent of the state but as work of a culture. The power of religion to pervade all categories was the reason that it was supposed to be kept away from politics. For India-Pakistan this notion of secularism could never work. The need to go beyond secularism as a form of political correctness has to be explored. One begins to question, does being religious prevents one from being secular? Bismillah Khan, a great musician once said that he wanted his Shehnai to smell of Banaras. Why can’t then we have our secularism to touch upon our memories, our stories, our myths? Manto was writing these stories, trying to find the secular in the work of a culture. He goes beyond Gandhi’s ethics, beyond Nehru’s science and rationality, and beyond the mannerisms of Jinnah. Manto wrote history of the everyday in the extraordinary.

His partition stories treat partition as a human event, a psychological event and a continuous process rather than an event in history or a political occurrence unified over and above personal experiences. Fischer had once said that in a decaying society, art, which is truthful, will also reflect decay. Manto’s stories did the same. At one level these stories make one paralysed. For example how is one to make sense of these lines from a story titled Riyayat, “don’t kill my daughter in front of my eyes.’ Alright, alright, peel off her clothes and shoo her aside.”

Manto first expressed his shock to the violence of partition in ironic and brutal short stories in Siyah Hashiye or Black Margins. There are thirty two stories in it. As an introduction to this collection Manto wrote:

“For a long time I refused to accept the consequences of the revolution, which was set off by the partition of the country. I still feel the same way; but I suppose, in the end, I came to accept the nightmarish reality without self-pity or despair. In the process I tried to retrieve from this man-made sea of blood, pearls of rare hue, by writing about the single-minded dedication with which men had killed men, about the remorse felt by some of them, about the tears shed by murderers who could not understand why they still had some human feelings left. All this and more, I put in my book, Siyah Hashiye

Partition lives on in the consciousness of people, across borders, in its ‘division and contradiction.’ Manto’s stories remind us that the very humanity has been assaulted and violated; there are only victims whose trauma go beyond the physical pain and loss of life but remain scarred both in mind and soul. Manto’s stories have offered a different kind of language which goes beyond fixed categories of good and evil, victims and perpetrators, and a narrow minded focus on the insanity and barbarity of partition. The human dimension of partition which was lost in only capturing the political developments that led to partition is noted by Manto in his stories – the human aspect dealing with loss and sharing, grief and joy, friendship and enmity. These stories provide insights into relationship between two communities, a struggle, a resistance coloured with trauma, violence, pain, and suffering. Two line vignettes in Manto’s Siyah Hashiye speak of the kind of weariness that filled the air because of religious differences, where killings took place and people forcibly converted to other religions. A story called Determination reads, “Under no circumstances am I prepared to be converted to a Sikh. I want my razor back,” or another powerful story, which also reminds one of Gujarat riots and callousness (or helplessness) of police, is Prior Arrangement, it reads:

“The first incident took place near the barricade. A constable was immediately posted there.

The very next day, another incident took place in front of the store. The constable was shifted to where the second incident had taken place.

The third incident happened near the laundry at midnight. When the inspector ordered the constable to move to the new place, he took a few minutes before making the request: “please depute me to that spot where the next incident is going to take place.”
Sometimes in Manto’s stories when the characters confront the ruthless violence and inhumanity it seems their only conceivable response is madness. His stories like Khuda ki Qasam depict that.  Physically partition may have divided but psychologically India-Pakistan remained connected intimately. Manto’s greatest story, as considered by many, Toba Tek Singh, uses madness in the story as a metaphor for sanity. Like other stories, this too renders pain and trauma of the experiences of the partition with great sensitivity, it questions the wisdom of partition and the madness it unleashed. Another story, Khol Do, records the cries of pain, vile sexuality, violation and pleas of mercy and also hope. Stories like Thanda Gosht and Mozelle address issues of rapes, mutilations and violations of body, they ridicule religion, and also discuss how even after disappearing in the depths of depravity some human aspect remains.

Manto has been considered a humanist and rightly so. Many of his stories find the concern for humanity at the centre and themes of friendship, hope and love emerge too. Manto’s Ek Akhri Salute is about two friends Ram Singh and Rab Nawaz on the opposite sides of the border who suddenly meet in the middle of the battle. They are delighted to listen to each other’s voices. They had grown up together, their fathers were childhood friends too, and they went to school together. Ram Singh gets up to show himself to Rab Nawaz from the across the border, Rab Nawaz shoots in that direction for fun and realises that he actually has shot Ram Singh. Upon seeing the blood of his friend he felt as if he had been shot. He calls for a doctor and puts temporary bandage on him. In their conversations, Ram Singh asks, “do you really need Kashmir?” to which Rab Nawaz replies, “Yes.” “I don’t believe that, you have been misled” says Ram Singh. Rab Nawaz sits next to him till his last breath. Throughout the story these two friends are calling out to each other by shouting across the dividing line, recalling old times, cracking jokes, but their reunion ends in tragedy. It shows the dilemmas of pre-partition friends having become enemies port-partition because of a line drawn creating borders. It also shows how people remained friends no matter if the animosity between their countries grew. Manto recognises the Kashmir conflict and with the growing worsening situation of Kashmir one only sees blood and tears in the valley no humanity; and hence the need for us to reflect.

Swaraj Ke Liye is another story where the scene is set in post Jalianwala Bagh Amritsar which is highly charged with political activity. When Ghulam Ali becomes the leader of the local branch of the Congress party, he gets drunk on patriotism and becomes a sort of dictator (does that remind us of groups high on nationalism today?). When he gets married, he is asked not to have sex until India gains independence. After eight months of repressing his sexual urges he returns to normal married life and has children. Manto blends politics and sex, questioning the validity of two institutions – marriage and nationalism or patriotism, which becomes useless when they curb people’s natural impulses.

Manto’s stories relate not just loss of moral senses, of life, of home, of tradition, of integrated community but place us in the midst of a depraved, absurd universe. One cannot help but ask, will I be courageous enough to be essentially human to bring down the senselessness and brutality of violence? The full value of Manto’s humanism and secularism would only be realized when the white chalk with which he wrote on the blackboard to enhance its blackness becomes a catalyst for reassessing our selves across borders, in different territories and write a new narrative of shared history, culture, pain, fear, love and hope in our various spaces – hope that will avenge itself on history.

Courtesy: Newsclick

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A Stormy Relationship: Manto and the Progressives https://sabrangindia.in/stormy-relationship-manto-and-progressives/ Sat, 13 Feb 2016 06:30:55 +0000 http://localhost/sabrangv4/2016/02/13/stormy-relationship-manto-and-progressives/   Extracted from ‘The Progressive’, Introduction to Saadat Hasan Manto, The Armchair Revolutionary and Other Sketches, translated by Khalid Hasan, Prologue by Nandita Das, LeftWord, pp. 231, Rs 325.   The first major rift between the leadership of the Progressive Writers’ Association (PWA) and Manto took place after the publication of Manto’s 1942 story Bu, […]

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Extracted from ‘The Progressive’, Introduction to Saadat Hasan Manto, The Armchair Revolutionary and Other Sketches, translated by Khalid Hasan, Prologue by Nandita Das, LeftWord, pp. 231, Rs 325.
 
The first major rift between the leadership of the Progressive Writers’ Association (PWA) and Manto took place after the publication of Manto’s 1942 story Bu, which was famously charged with obscenity by the colonial government along with Ismat Chughtai’s Lihaaf (The Quilt). In the joint trial that followed, a defiant Manto and Chughtai refused to apologize, but were eventually acquitted. Despite the fact that Bu was published in Adab-e Lateef, a progressive magazine edited by Ahmad NadeemQasmi (who was also one of the co-accused in the trial), the story seems to have irked some among the leadership of the PWA, especially Sajjad Zaheer, who thought that “the portrayal of the sexual perversions of a satisfied member of the middle class, no matter how much reality it is based on, is a waste of the writer’s and the reader’s time.” Consequently Zaheer, along with Dr. Abdul Aleem, drafted a resolution against obscenity, which was presented at the PWA conference held in Hyderabad in 1945. The resolution was also meant to warn other writers against the trend of anti-progressive anarchist-conservatism emerging within European literature, which Zaheer felt was unduly influencing the writers of the PWA.
 
For an organization that had its roots in Angaare(Embers) — a collection of short stories that itself faced the charges of obscenity — this was a strange development. Fortunately for the PWA, the resolution, which the leadership had expected to be passed without fuss, was scuttled in a dramatic fashion by Maulana Hasrat Mohani, a PWA stalwart as well as elder. The Maulana pointed out that the obvious problem with the resolution lay in the fact that obscenity was impossible to define, and that the vast majority of Urdu and Farsi poetry could easily be considered obscene by some. He proposed instead that the resolution include language endorsing sophisticated eroticism (lateefhavasnaaki). The intervention had the desired effect, and the resolution was withdrawn in its entirety.
 
While this is pointed to as evidence of the PWA’s inability to deal with issues of gender and sexuality, the story of this resolution highlights the crucial point that far from being a monolithic organization, the PWA often represented a heterogeneity of opinions on key issues. Rather than seeing the issue in a way that pits Manto and Ismatagainst the PWA, one can read it as reflecting the growing pains of a young but dynamic movement. What the Hyderabad conference also highlighted were differences between the positions of certain doctrinaire figures in the PWA’s leadership (such as SajjadZaheer and SardarJafri) and those of others such as MaulanaHasratMohani. 
 
It is also worth noting that relations between Manto and the Progressives did not sour in the aftermath of this debate within the PWA. In fact, when Manto left Bombay for Lahore after the Partition, he handed the manuscript of a collection of his short stories, Chughad, to Kutub Publishers, and wrote to Sardar Jafri requesting that he write a foreword for it, adding that “whatever you write will be acceptable to me.” In response, Jafri wrote: “I will be very happy to write the foreword, though your book needs none, and certainly not one by me. You know that our literary outlooks differ considerably, but despite this I respect you a lot and harbor great hopes for your work.” Manto wrote back saying that, in that case, it was best to let the book come out without any foreword. However, by the time his letter reached Bombay, the book had already been published along with what proved to be an ill-conceived foreword by Jafri.
 
On the one hand, Jafri’s foreword reflected his evident respect for Manto’s work: “Manto’s craft is a jewel that sparkles on the tip of his pen. He paints vivid pictures of those characters whose humanity has been snatched from them by the capitalist rule, who have been turned into savages by a society that is founded on the principle of loot. Manto looks into the depths of their souls and sees the human heart beating within.” However, Jafri in a strange turn of affairs also seems to have decided that this foreword was an appropriate place to advance a critique of Manto. According to Jafri, the problem with Manto was that although he clearly loved humanity, was keenly aware of the wretchedness of society, and had shown the ability to launch a strident critique against the capitalist system, his fixation with protagonists who were either broken by the system or perverted by it (or both) rather than those who had taken the path of struggle and resistance in order to recover their lost humanity kept him from being a true progressive.
 
This was however not a categorical indictment of Manto. Jafri felt that despite these “shortcomings,” Manto’s current point of view was not too far removed from a revolutionary one. Manto had occupied this position as a young writer, and a return to it was eminently possible. Jafri concluded with the following declaration: “Today, the masses are on the road to revolution. Their enemy is right in front of their eyes. The demon of capitalism is on its way out. This caravan of people, its entire army calls out to SaadatHasanManto: Bring the sharpness of your pen, the loftiness of your thinking, and the intensity of your emotions. You are ours, and there is no place for you in the entire world, except among our ranks.”
 
Jafri’s critique — the idea that Manto’s stories had become too focused on the pathological aspects of society without any redeeming characters or story-lines to alleviate their overall pessimism — was neither odd nor unexpected, coming from a leading member of a movement organized around the principle of “life-affirming art.” It was also not the first time that Manto had faced such charges. The problem was with the choice of platform. The foreword to Manto’s book, moreover one whichJafri had been invited to write by the author, was hardly the place to articulate it. Manto rightfully felt blind-sided as well as slighted by Jafri. The timing and context of the critique was also unfortunate, coming as it did at a time when Manto was already struggling with feelings of loss, alienation and despair. It is hardly surprising, then, that he should have reacted strongly to it. Manto later excised the foreword from the 1950 edition of Chughad(published in Pakistan), and in its place wrote a scornful critique of what he saw as the confused and hurtful actions of the “so-called Progressives.” This essay is usually anthologized under a phrase Manto used to describe Jafri’s act: Taraqqi Pasand Socha Nahin Karte (Progressives do not Think).
 
Despite all this, Manto remained close to several key members of the PWA in Lahore in the period following independence. The only consistent job he had as a writer in this early period in Pakistan was for Imroze, a leftist Urdu daily edited by Faiz Ahmed Faiz. He was a frequent visitor at the office of Savera, another key progressive publication. His closest friends at the time, such as Ahmad NadeemQasmi and Ahmad Rahi, were significant Progressives. The first short stories that Manto wrote after his initial period of introspection following the move to Lahore were published in PWA journals: Khol Do (Open It) in Naqush, which was edited by Ahmed NadeemQasmi, and ThandaGosht in Javed, edited by Arif Abdul Mateen and published by ChoudhryNazeer Ahmad. Naqushwas consequently slapped with a several month long ban, and the charge of obscenity against ThandaGosht by the Punjab government swept up Arif Abdul Mateen and Nazeer Ahmad along with Manto. During the trial Faiz and other Progressives appeared as witnesses for the defense on Manto’s behalf.[1]

 


[1]       Even though Faiz unambiguously rejected the charge of obscenity leveled at Manto’s story, his testimony can be seen as less than full-throated. Some argue that Faiz was responding to the PWA call for Manto’s boycott issued during the 1949 conference. One can only speculate about this, but there are two factors that make one question this reading. One, Faiz was not the sort to abide by the PWA’s pronouncements in such matters; he faced his own share of censure during this period for holding independent opinions. Two, Manto himself writes about the fact that the trial was essentially an endeavour to go after Javed, a leftist publication. By Manto’s own account, Faiz tried hard at the meeting of the Press Advisory Board to dissuade the state from bringing a case against Thanda Gosht, but failed. Further, in Manto’s recollection of the trial, there’s never any sense that he felt betrayed by Faiz.
 

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Ismat versus the World https://sabrangindia.in/ismat-versus-world/ Fri, 11 Dec 2015 12:42:58 +0000 http://localhost/sabrangv4/2015/12/11/ismat-versus-world/   BJP Government Purging Plurality and Diversity from Textbooks   My grandmother told me years ago that "Ismat apa", as she always called the illustrious writer,  wrote lying flat on her stomach, in the middle of a room buzzing with people. My grandparents were part of the great current of people who contributed to and […]

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BJP Government Purging Plurality and Diversity from Textbooks

 
My grandmother told me years ago that "Ismat apa", as she always called the illustrious writer,  wrote lying flat on her stomach, in the middle of a room buzzing with people. My grandparents were part of the great current of people who contributed to and were carried along by the Progressive Writers' Movement in the 1940's. While my grandfather was directly involved in literary production, my grandmother's contributions were more tangential, and her observations rather pithy. She told me that she loved visiting Ismat apa's home near Shivaji Park in Mumbai, a far trek from where she lived in Andheri. The windows of this house were always wide open, she recalled, and its curtains billowed all day in the sea breeze. From these observations I formed my own image of Ismat Chughtai, a woman of formidable achievement who wrote in an accessible voice. In my mind, she is the writer who wrote no matter what, belly down on a chatai (mat) on the floor, thriving on the bustle of the household around her.  The prolific writer was in the news recently, when the Rajasthan government decided to drop her stories from school textbooks. It also removed poems and short stories by the late theatre activist and writer Safdar Hashmi.
 
In her life, Chughtai was adept at offending people. Her work dealt with taboo themes and took readers into places that had never before been described. She wrote in the 'ghareloo zabaan': the turns of phrases and idioms of her busy household, the gossip of inner courtyards and women's quarters. I read her memoir Kaghazi Hai Pairahan (translated in English as A Life in Letters) as a college student. It was as transformative a text as other feminist tracts I encountered during those years, if not more so for the immediacy of its setting. Chughtai wrote in a style that was fearless, irreverent and often very funny. She began writing in the 1930s, but the story that defined her was Lihaaf (The Quilt), published in January 1942 in Adab-i-Latif, a literary magazine published from Lahore. The story earned her a court summons for obscenity, along with her friend Saadat Hasan Manto. They both chose to stand trial rather than apologize for their work, and eventually the cases were dropped.
 
Chughtai's canon includes works like her novel Terhi Lakeer (The Crooked Line) and stories like Masooma, Chauthi ka Joda (The Wedding Dress)  and Ziddi (The Stubborn Girl). The latter was adapted into a film script directed by her husband Shahid Latif. The duo collaborated on a host of other films including Arzoo (1950). Chughtai also wrote the dialogues for the 1978 film Junoon in which she played the role of a grandmother. And Chauthi ka Joda formed part of the story for the Partition classic Garam Hawa (1973), directed by MS Sathyu.

The years of student life are made special by exploration, by tuning into the abundance and diversity of nations, voices and realities. All this would be denied to the young minds who read the purged textbooks.
 
In every way, Chughtai stood for progressive values for most of her life.  She had to fight for an education, first from the iconic Isabella Thoburn College in Lucknow and then to gain a Teachers Training degree from Aligarh. She went on to write books that challenged parochialism and patrirachy and championed the cause of social justice. She wrote for all of India, and almost 25 years after her death, she stands as a proud symbol of India's syncretic values and her own compassionate humanity. So to weed her out of textbooks for schoolchildren is a self defeating move.
 
According to media reports, the reason for the removal of Chughtai and Hashmi's writings is that "they were were loaded with Urdu words…" and were "highlighting practices of a particular community." They are sought to be replaced by readings that promote "local cultural practices and beliefs". This runs counter to the idea of Indian plural culture, that takes pride in its diversity. It also fails to understand the entire culture of reading, and of exploring different worlds through words, ideas and books. As a young woman in Aligarh, where Chughtai set many of her stories, I devoured translations of Chekhov and Maupassant, besides the writings of PG Wodehouse and Agatha Christie. It is limiting to think that reading should be about your own life or what is familiar. The years of student life are made special by exploration, by tuning into the abundance and diversity of nations, voices and realities. All this would be denied to the young minds who read the purged textbooks.
 
It is both sad and ironic that Chughtai's works continue to fall foul of government diktats, decades after her trial by the British Crown, in the India of 2015.  Perhaps the only sane response to this is what I imagine Ismat would have done: continue writing, in a room with the windows flung wide open, open to the breeze from all directions.  
 
(The writer is a journalist based in Mumbai )
 

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