One degree above normal (Zia Mohyeddin)

I admire Manto for his genius for winkling out the hypocrisy that lies at the root of human behaviour. I admire him for writing prose which is bold in character and adult in texture; and I admire him for bringing to life characters who roam that unknowable garden from which, by being born, they were exiled. Unlike many of his contemporary fictionists, who strained thoughts through muslin without getting the lumps out, Manto’s narrative in his short stories is thoroughly distilled and shorn of convolutions.

* * * * *

My acquaintance with Saadat Hasan Manto was brief. I only met him once in 1949 at his apartment in Laxmi Mansions in Lahore in the company of two budding painters, Anwar Jalal Shamza and Moeen Najmi. They wanted Manto to inaugurate their forthcoming exhibition.

Manto was in his cups. In those days, he was hardly ever out of them. He thought all ‘inaugurations’ were a fraud. It was a word he used frequently. His talk was acerbic laced with juicy Punjabi expletives. He ranted about Krishan Chander. “That MA, that son of a …thinks he is a story writer. You don’t become a story writer by passing an MA examination. He is a fraud. He doesn’t know… nobody knows…only one man knows how to write a story — and his name is Manto.”

He was leaner than I had imagined. His eyes shone through his thick-rimmed glasses which he kept adjusting with the forefinger of his left hand. He never bestowed a glance at me but when he looked at the two painters his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to remember where he had seen them last. I remember that he was wearing a crisply-starched, spotless white kurta-pyjama which fitted his slim figure perfectly. I was surprised that it did not seem crumpled even when he stood up from the floor.

* * * * *

When I got a job in the News Department of Radio Pakistan in 1950, I moved to Karachi. I was lucky enough to be placed in the charge of Hamid Jalal, their best news editor at the time. Hamid Jalal, or Lala, as I called him, was one of the most affable and enlightened souls I have ever come across. He was very well-versed in modern English literature and he introduced me to contemporary American writers like James Gould Cozzens and John O’Hara. In those days he was in the process of translating Manto’s short-stories into English. His book, ‘Black Milk’, would be published later.

Lala was Manto’s nephew. He talked of Manto with great affection. It was from him I learned that Saadat Hasan Manto was the youngest son of his father’s second wife. They were eleven brothers and sisters. His father was a stern man and Manto spent his earlier years in constant dread of his father. He was a wayward adolescent, but he was tidy in his personal habits. It was ironical that though he was an avid reader, he failed in his matriculation examination twice. It was only with great difficulty that he got a pass on the third attempt, in the third division.

* * * * *

The humiliation rankled Manto throughout his life (His diatribe on Krishan Chander’s MA degree can be understood, if not condoned). The various ailments that Manto encountered since the age of 21 might have contributed towards the acerbity which he wore as a cloak during the last three years of his life in Lahore. His sardonic sense of humour led him to observe that a perfectly healthy man who ran a temperature of 98.6 degrees had nothing to his credit but the cold slate of his life. Manto’s body temperature was always one degree above normal.

* * * * *

Manto had to suffer the humiliation of being dragged into the lower courts on charges of spreading obscenity. There were five trials in all. One case, in particular, concerning his short-story titled ‘Thanda Gosht’ was tried three times. It went from the lower courts all the way to the high court. The lower court held Manto responsible for obscene writing and awarded him three months rigorous imprisonment as well as a fine of Rs 300, declaring that if the fine was not paid he would undergo twenty one days’ additional rigorous imprisonment.

Manto appealed. The case was moved to the sessions court where, ironically, the judge, generally considered to be a narrow-minded prig, dismissed the case with a priceless comment: “If I punish Saadat Hasan Manto he will say that he has been penalised by an orthodox, bearded man.” He acquitted Manto with a smile and remitted the earlier fine imposed on him, in full.

The authorities were not pleased and they filed an appeal in the High Court against the judgment of the sessions court. The case came up before Justice Munir who had the reputation of being a fearless and an unbiased judge.

Manto and his lawyers must have heaved a sigh of relief. The relief was short-lived. The learned judge pronounced that the ‘leanings’ of the writer had to be taken into account and not his ‘intentions’. A story could not escape from being obscene if the details of the story were obscene. A story was not like a book, which could be good in some parts and bad in some parts. He declared ‘Thanda Gosht’ to be obscene, upheld the government’s appeal, and re-imposed the fine.

Justice Munir sounds like a myopic literary critic of a provincial weekly. Ignoring his remark that a book can be good in parts and bad in some parts — a bland statement if ever there was one — I am curious as to what he meant by ‘details’ of a story. Did he mean the incidents that occur in the story or the language that some characters used, or the bits of narrative between dialogue? If a story is to be judged by its ‘details’ then nearly every story written by Salinger and Updike is obscene. And how did the learned jurisprudent perceive the difference between Manto’s ‘leanings’ and his ‘intentions’?

The irony is that Justice Munir’s judgement was hailed as a landmark on the subject of obscenity. A lesser mortal would have wilted and broken down. That Manto ignored the denunciation of the court and the sneers of the “respectable” people and continued to write in his impertinent vein is a tribute to his indomitable courage.

Manto’s status as an excellent short-story writer is beyond dispute, but Manto is a fine essayist as well. The irreverent manner in which he creates the persona of iconic figures (Agha Hashr, Bari Aligue, Meerajee, Charagh Hasan Hasrat, Ismat Chugtai) is a most valuable contribution to our literature. The fact is, he was a maverick. In his earlier work, his intention might have been to shock the reader but as his style gained maturity his stories instilled a sense of wonderment in the mind of the reader.

* * * * *

For a brief period, Manto worked for All Indian Radio as a ‘staff artiste’. (Someone should write a whole book about the many highly talented writers, actors and musicians who worked as ‘staff artistes’ for All India Radio and Radio Pakistan). Manto’s, job was to vet scripts, but he soon turned into a radio playwright of repute.

The poet Noon Meem Rashed, who was a Programme Executive in AIR at the time, told me that Manto had become so adept at the craft that he could write a play about a lecherous mistress bought for a song as easily as he could write a play about a lecherous song bought for a mistress — and in one sitting. He once sat down at his desk and announced to his colleagues that they only had to mention a subject or a theme and he would write a play on it there and then. They were discussing the matter when a man appeared at the door. “May I come in? he enquired. “Well, here is a title,” said a colleague, “Why not write about it?” Manto inserted a paper in his typewriter and began to click the keys. He finished the play by late afternoon. The play ‘May I come in?’ was broadcast more than once. It is a great pity that our own Broadcasting Service never made any use of Manto’s expertise in the genre of radio drama.

* * * * *

Manto is not going to fade away from our memory. The man who laid bare the festering sores of society will, I am sure, continue to be the subject of many studies. Some bright spark might even consider to examine how badly his art suffered as a result of his migration to Lahore.

Other than Amritsar, a town he speaks of with warmth in all his reminiscences, Bombay was the only city he felt comfortable in. He knew the byways of Bombay intimately and had a large circle of friends and admirers there. He had achieved his fame as towering writer of fiction while he was in Bombay and he was more than well-off in Bombay.

Manto didn’t have any roots in Lahore. In his early youth, he had lived there for two years as a young literary aspirant. In the post-partition Lahore, he felt rejected and abandoned and he must have found it a most dispiriting chore to go begging editors and publishers of flyblown magazines to buy his stories.

In his ‘profile’ of Anwar Kamal Pasha, he recounts that the hotshot producer-director once invited him to his studio and asked him for his help in solving a knotty problem with the script he was filming. Manto immediately saw the problem and not only pointed it out but suggested a new development which could tighten the story and make it more gripping. Pasha was awe-struck. He liked what Manto had suggested but was doubtful as to whether he should accept a solution offered on the spur of moment. Manto could read his mind clearly: “You would have been thrilled,” he said, “if I had taken the script home and brought it back after a week to tell you that having mulled over it for days my suggestions are as follows. No, my friend, I think quickly.”

As he was about to leave, he said flippantly, “And do you know how much my advice would have been worth?” Shamefaced, Pasha offered him a cheque for a measly five hundred rupees. “I should have torn the cheque into bits and thrown it in his face,” he writes, “but my needs…oh my needs. I accepted it and wept bitter tears realising how low I have sunk.”

No wonder he died soon afterwards.

The writer is actor, columnist and president NAPA.