Baajoo Kee Gulley (The Side Lane)

Hamzad Afaqui

The dialogue between you and Manto was interesting.

For some strange reason I never developed a liking for Manto. Not that I dislike him but for me it was always the question of ``Krishan Chandar or Manto``. And my vote is always for Chandar.

I was horrified today when I came to know that I was beginning to forget the great work of such great writers as Manto, Krishan Chandar, Amarta Preetam, Bedi, etc. Well, I practically grew up reading them. The other day I brought Aag ka Darya from a local library to re-read it but counldnt go past first two pages.

I remember Mantos` one short story titled ``Mootri`` (tr:Urinal or public toilet) in which he describes a public toilet so vivedly that the stench of crap and urine just fills your mind, and I think that is the ultimate test of a great writer. One sentence that I liked most is ``deewaroN par aurat or mard kay bachcha paida karnay walay a`aza ki moheeb tasaaweer bani howeeN theen``.

And just imagine my helplessness that I cannot even remember the title of his short story that I like the best. In this story he (or the narrator) brings home a teenage prostitute who is dying on the street because of the syphilis that she contacted due to her profession. He takes care of her, tries to cure her with whatever meager resources he has-and she starts to get better. She is not bed ridden anymore. One day he finds her humming a song standing under the tree in his small courtyard. He describes the innocence and the return of that childhood that she never had so beutifully so eloquently, and so softly that it can melt ones heart. And as the days go by he becomes fond of her happiness and the inner beauty and then time comes when one day for a moment he sees her as a woman when she is little made up -but at the very next moment he realizes the innocence of the child that was beginning to return to her and he feels bad.

He admonishes her in a very harsh tone ``dekho tum mujhe yooN da`wat-e-nazara nah dia karo`` as he (or the narator) is a writer.

She replies so innocently and so ashamedfacedly and reluctantly ``Yeh da`wat-e-nazara kia hota hay ji``

I wish I could describe the innocence and beauty of a human being like him.

The girl dies after few days.

sac - ``Just like everybody `discovered` Schumpter or Hegel in silicon valley a few years ago, every Tom, Dick and Harry has `discovered` Manto recently``

yes well not everyone is born a literary giant! So if they discover it at some stage in their life - what of it? Live and learn is probably right!!

aicha

anNy - that story you put up somehow reminded me of - An Affair to Remember - have you seen it? But it has a corny ending - maybe because of hollywood!

aicha

sac

well said.

Just like everybody `discovered` Schumpter or Hegel in silicon valley a few years ago, every Tom, Dick and Harry has `discovered` Manto recently. This article in typical farangi_kush style is badly punctuated and even worse more pretentious(if that were possible) than his usual vitriolic utterings. The introduction serves no useful purpose and the ensuing descrtiption of Manto`s life sounds like straight from the jacket of his collected works.

Manto is probably rolling in his grave considering he is now the adopted son of the likes of farangi_kush and all the `critics` that keep coming up with new `insights` into his work. The guy spent all his life defending himself against the twin regressive forces of religion and nationalism. He was dragged through the courts umpteen times on obscentity charges by the farangi_kushes and hamzad_afaquis of his time. How the world turns? By the look of things, Manto may soon replace Mishkat shareef in the madressahs of Pakistan.

Just like Jinnah was dubbed Kafir-i-Azam when he was alive later to be anointed as the saviour of Muslims, Manto has now been co-opted by the establishment to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting as Pakistan`s answer to Flaubert and Maupassant. Live and learn. Life is so much fun.

later

-sac

AnNY----13

This story is one of those hurriedly written ones.If I remember correcly,it was written as a radio play(sketch/fikahyaa).Such are not supposed to be printed & saved but I guess printers & publishers do us a favour.

Manto,Ismat and to a certain extent Quasmi were not `spoiled` by education.There is no intellecualism in their stories and that is precisely why they are so original.Such guys spawn schools of art rather than being followers of a certain school.Certainly geniuses.

Now because the most important element in their stories is not anecdotal or dramatic but more about peculiarities & motives.It is for this reason it is not easy to translate these writers.The niharee ends up as a bloody curry.

Welcome back temporal :) Nice to see you here .. me excited ! however are you actually here or still there ?

love,

sa:)

chowk staff:

….really, the LEAST you guys can do is place quotation marks, spaces after commas, periods etc…shoddy presentations really detracts from your site…

freethinker:

“As a practical man, he was most irresponsible. He drank all his money in whiskey and alcohol.”

….gasp!…lahol wala quwat…are you saying that mulana afaqui’s hero was a….a…sharabi??!?!…..

just recently read manto`s english transalations..i did not enjoy them very much...most of it is horrifyingly morbid...but some stories are nice (am pasting one of the best below)what i liked about him was a very crack qissam ka humour...late professor karrar hussain`s son wrote in the letters to the editor section of dawn last week something along these lines about manto..speaking of the charges of vulgarity against manto the professor said manto was not vulgar at all..he just presented to us humans with his particular brand of humor, how he saw us...very vulgar creations of god..(this is not verbatim, infact quite hazy)

http://www.alhamra.com/ (excerpt...book can be brough from same address..no theyre not paying me:))

Saadat Hasan Manto

``Kingdom`s End``

Translated from the Urdu by Khalid Hasan

The phone rang. Manmohan picked it up.`Hello, 44457.`

`Sorry, wrong number,` said a woman`s voice.

Manmohan put the receiver down and returned to his book. He had read it about twenty times, not because it was anything extraordinary, but because it was the only book in this room.

For one week now, Manmohan had been the sole occupant of this office room. It belonged to a friend of his who had gone out of town to raise a business loan. Since Manmohan was one of this big city`s thousands of homeless people who slept nights on its footpaths, his friend had invited him to stay here in his absence to keep a watch on things.

He hardly ever went out. He was permanently out of work because he hated all employment. Had he really tried, he could easily have got himself hired as director with some film company, which is what he once was when he had decided to drop out.

However, he had no desire to be enslaved again. He was a nice, quite harmless man. He had almost no personal expenses. All he required was a cup of tea in the morning with two slices of toast, a little bit of curry and bread in the afternoon and a packet of cigarettes. That was all. Luckily, he had enough friends who were quite happy to provide for these simple needs.

Manmohan had no family or close relations. He could go without food for days on end if the going got hard. His friends didn`t know much about him except that he had run away from home as a boy and had lived on the broad footpaths of Bombay for many years.

There was only one thing missing in his life-women. He used to say, `If a woman were to fall in love with me, my life wold change.`

Friends would retort, `But even then you wouldn`t work.`

`It would be nothing but work from then on,` he would answer.

`Why not have an affair then?`

`What good is an affair when the initiative comes from the man?`

It was afternoon now, almost time for lunch. Suddenly, the phone rang.

He picked it up. `Hello, 44457.`

`44457?` a woman`s voice asked.

`That`s right,` Manmohan answered.

`Who are you?` the voice asked.

`I am Manmohan.`

There was no response. `Who do you wish to speak to?` he asked.

`You,` the voice said.

`Me?`

`Unless you object.`

`No . . . not at all.`

`Did you say your name was Madan Mohan?`

`No. Manmohan.`

`Manmohan?`

There was a silence. `I thought you wanted to talk to me,` he said.

`Yes,`

`Then go ahead.`

`I don`t know what to say. Why don`t you say something?`

`Very well`, Manmohan said. `I have already told you my name.

Temporarily, this office is my headquarters. I used to sleep on the city`s footpaths, but for the last one week I have been sleeping on a big office table.`

`What did you do to keep the mosquitoes away at night? Use a net on your footpath?`

Manmohan laughed. `Before I answer this, let me make it clear that I don`t tell lies. I have slept on footpaths for years. Since this office came under my occupation, I have been living it up.`

`How are you living it up?`

`Well, there`s this book I have. The last pages are missing, but I`ve read it twenty times. One day, when I can lay my hand on the missing pages, I will finally know what end the two lovers met.`

`You sound like a very interesting man,` the voice said.

`You are only being kind.`

`What do you do?`

`Do?`

`I mean, what is your occupation?`

`Occupation? None at all. What occupation can a man have when he doesn`t work? But to answer your question, I loaf around during the day and sleep at night.`

`Do you like your life?`

`Wait,` Manmohan said.` That is one question I have never asked myself. And now that you have put it to me, I`m going to put it to myself for the first time. Do I like the way I live my life?`

`And what is the answer?`

`Well, there is no answer, but I suppose if I`ve lived my life the way I`ve lived it for so long, then it`s reasonable to assume that I like it.`

There was laughter. `You laugh so beautifully,` Manmohan said.

`Thank you.` The voice was shy. The call was disconnected. For a long time, he kept holding the receiver, smiling to himself.

The next day at about eight in the morning, the phone rang again.

He was fast asleep, but the noise woke him up. He yawned and picked it up.

`Hello, this is 44457.

`Good morning, Manmohan sahib.`

`Good morning . . . oh it`s you. Good morning.`

`Were you asleep?`

`I was. You know I have become spoilt since I moved here. When I return to the footpath, I`m going to run into difficulties.`

`Why?`

`Because if you sleep on the footpath, you have to get up before five in the morning.`

There was laughter.

`You rang off abruptly yesterday,` he said.

`Well, why did you say I laugh beautifully.`

`What a question! If something is beautiful, it should be praised, shouldn`t it?`

`Not at all.`

`You are not to impose conditions. I have never accepted conditions. If you laugh, I`m going to say that you laugh beautifully.`

`In that case, I`ll hang up.`

`Please yourself.`

`Don`t you really care if I get upset?`

`Well, to begin with, I don`t wish to upset myself, which means that if you laugh and I don`t say that you laugh beautifully, I would be doing an injustice to my good taste.`

There was a brief silence. Then the voice came back: `I`m sorry, I was having a word with our maid. So you were saying that you were partial to your good taste. What else is your good taste partial to?`

`What do you mean?`

`I mean . . . what hobby or work . . . or, shall I ask, what can you do?`

Manmohan laughed. `Nothing much except that I am fond of photography-just a bit.`

`That`s a very good hobby.`

`I have never thought of it in terms of its being good or bad.`

`You must have a very nice camera.`

`I have no camera. Off and on, I borrow one from a friend.

Anyway, if I`m ever able to earn some money, there is a certain camera I am going to buy.`

`What camera?`

`Exacta. It`s a reflex camera. I like it very much.`

There was silence. `I was thinking of something.`

`What?`

`You have neither asked me my name nor my phone number.`

`I haven`t felt the need.`

`Why not?`

`What does it matter what your name is? You have my number.

That`s enough. When you want me to phone you, I`m sure you will give me your name and number.`

`No, I won`t.`

`Please yourself. I`m not going to ask.`

`You`re a strange man.`

`That`s true, I am.`

There was another silence.

`Were you thinking again?` he asked.

`I was, but I just can`t think of anything to think about.`

`Then why don`t you hang up? Another time.`

There was a touch of annoyance in the voice. `You`re a very rude man. I am hanging up.`

Manmohan smiled and put the phone down. He washed his face, put his clothes and was about to leave, when the phone rang. He picked it up. `44457.`

`Mr. Manmohan?` asked the voice.

`What can I do for you?`

`Well, I wanted to tell you that I`m not annoyed any more.`

`That`s very nice.`

`You know while I was having breakfast, it occurred to me that I shouldn`t be annoyed with you. Have you had breakfast?`

`No, I was just about to go out when you phoned.`

`Oh, then I won`t keep you.`

`I`m in no particular hurry today, because I have no money. I don`t think there`ll be any breakfast this morning.`

`Why do you say such things? Do you enjoy hurting yourself?`

`No, I`m quite used to the way I am and the way I live.`

`Should I send you some money?`

`If you want to. That will be one more name on the list of my financiers.`

`Then I won`t.`

`Do what you like.`

`I am going to hang up.`

`Hang up then.`

Manmohan put down the phone and walked out of the office. He came back very late in the evening. He had been wondering about his caller all day. She sounded young and educated and she laughed beautifully. At 11 o`clock the phone rang.

`Hello.`

`Mr. Manmohan.`

`That`s him.`

`I`ve been phoning all day. Could you please explain where you were?`

`Although I don`t have a job, I still have things to do.`

`What things?`

`Loafing about.`

`When did you come back?`

`An hour ago.`

`What were you doing when I called?`

`I was lying on the table and trying to imagine what you looked like, but I have nothing to go on except your voice.`

`Did you succeed?`

`No.`

`Well, don`t try. I`m very ugly.`

`If you are ugly, then kindly hang up. I hate ugliness.`

`Well, if that`s the case, I am beautiful. I don`t want you to nurture hatred.`

They didn`t speak for some time. Then Manmohan asked, `Were you thinking?`

`No, but I was going to ask you . . .`

`Think before you ask.`

`Do you want me to sing for you?`

`Yes.`

`All right, wait.`

He heard her clear her throat, then in a very soft, low voice she sang him a song.

`That was lovely.`

`Thank you.` She rang off.

All night long he dreamt about her voice. He rose earlier than usual and waited for her call, but the phone never rang.

He began to pace around the room restlessly. Then he lay down on the table and picked up the book he had read twenty times. He read it once again. The whole day passed.

At about seven in the evening, the phone rang. Hurriedly, he picked it up.

`Who`s that?`

`It`s me.`

`Where were you all day?` he asked sharply.

`Why?` the voice trembled.

`I`ve been waiting. I haven`t had anything to eat, although I had money.`

`I`ll phone when I want to . . .`

Manmohan cut her short. `Look, either put an end to this business or let me know when you will call. I can`t stand waiting.`

`I apologise for today. From tomorrow I promise to phone both morning and evening.`

`That`s wonderful.`

`I didn`t know you were . . .`

`Well, the thing is that I simply can`t bear to wait and when I can`t bear some thing, I begin to punish myself.`

`How do you do that?`

`You didn`t phone this morning. I should have gone out, but I didn`t. I sat here all day fretting.`

`I didn`t phone you deliberately.`

`Why?`

`To find out if you miss my call.`

`You are very naughty. Now hang up. I must go out and eat.`

`How long will you be?`

`Half an hour.`

He turned after an hour. She phoned. They talked for a long time.

He asked her to sing him the same song. She laughed and sang it.

She would now ring regularly, morning and evening. Sometimes they would talk for hours. But, so far, Manmohan had neither asked her her name nor her phone number. In the beginning he had tried to imagine what she looked like, but that had now become unnecessary. Her voice was everything-her face, her soul, her body. One day she asked him. `Mohan, why don`t you ask me my name?`

`Because your voice is your name.`

Another day she said, `Mohan, have you ever been in love?`

`No.`

`Why?`

He grew sad. `To answer this question, I`ll have to clear away the entire debris of my life and I would be very unhappy if I found nothing there.`

`Then don`t.`

A month passed. One day Mohan had a letter from his friend. He said he had raised the money and would be returning to Bombay in a week. When she phoned that evening, he said to her, `This is my kingdom`s end.`

`Why?`

`Because my friend is coming back.`

`You must have friends who have phones?`

`Yes, I have friends who have phones, but I can`t give you the numbers.`

`Why?`

`I don`t want anyone else to hear your voice.`

`Why?`

`Let`s say I`m jealous.`

`What should we do?`

`Tell me.`

`On the day your kingdom ends, I`ll give you my number.`

The sadness he had felt was suddenly gone. He again tried to picture her, but there was no image, just her voice. It was only a matter of days now, he said to himself, before he would see her. He could not imagine the immensity of that moment.

When she called next day, he said to her `I`m curious to see you.`

`Why?`

`You said you would give me your phone number on the day my kingdom ends.`

`Yes.`

`Does that also mean you`ll tell me where you live? I want to see you.`

`You can see me whenever you like. Even today.`

`Not today. No, I want to see you when I am wearing nice clothes. I have asked a friend of mine to get me some.`

`You`re like a child. When we meet, I`ll give you a present.`

`There can be no greater present in the world than meeting you.`

`I have bought you an Exacta camera.`

`Oh!`

`But there`s a condition. You`ll have to take my picture.`

`That I`ll decide when we meet.`

`I shan`t be phoning you for the next two days.`

`Why?`

`I`m going to be away with my family. It`s only two days.`

Manmohan did not leave the office that day. The next morning he felt feverish. At first he thought it was boredom because she hadn`t phoned. By the afternoon, his fever was high. His body felt on fire. His eyes were burning. He lay down on the table. He was very thirsty. He kept drinking water all day. There was heaviness in his chest. By next morning, he felt completely exhausted. He had trouble in breathing. His chest hurt.

His fever was so high that he went into a delirium. He was talking to her on the phone, listening to her voice. By the evening, his condition had deteriorated. There were voices in his head and strange sounds as if thousands of phones were ringing at the same time. He couldn`t breathe. When the phone rang, he did not hear it. It kept ringing for a long time. Then suddenly there was a moment of clarity. He could hear it. He rose, stumbling uncertainly on his feet. He almost fell, but steadying himself against the wall, he picked it up with trembling hands. He ran his tongue over his lips. They were dry like wood.

`Hello.`

`Hello, Mohan,` she said.

`It is Mohan,` his voice fluttered.

`I can`t hear you.`

He tried to say something, but his voice dried up in his throat.

She said, `We came back earlier than I thought. I`ve been trying to call you for hours. Where were you?`

Manmohan`s head began to spin.

`What is wrong?` she asked.

With great difficulty he said, `My kingdom has come to an end today.`

Blood spilled out of his mouth, making a thin red line down his chin, then along his neck.

She said, `Take my number down. 50314 . . . 50314. Call me in the morning. I have to go now.`

She hung up. Manmohan collapsed over the phone, blood bubbling out of his mouth.

© Nighat Patel, Nuzhat Arshad, Nusrat Jalal

© Khalid Hasan, for English translation

Harpreet--8

Manto never aligned or even feigned or implied his bent in any direction.Quite an achievement given the times when practically every writer or wannabee just could not be ``in`` or glamorous if he/she did not become a bullhorn for communism & anti-colonialism.

Manto was so completely free & non-subservient that it sometimes came as a surprise to him that what he had written was not palatable to authorities.

His first taste of state censorship & proscription came when he wrote a story about soldiers(british) returning drunk,boisterous,and throwing up on the return train to Bombay(from andheri--I think,after gambling at the races).It was a crime,then,to be critical in any way(kind of like these days)to cast aspersions on the absence of sainthood of such creatures.

These laws are still on the statute books of Pakistan(perhaps India too--``whats the hurry to rid of them,not a priority``).

_____________________.

``Mujhay jail jaanay sey dar lagtaa hai.Mein vahaan khatmal kee maut naheen marnaa chahtaa``

tr:I am scared to be incarcerated in a dungeon.I do not want to be squashed like a bed-bug.....is how he viewed ``revolutionaries``.

He was like a video-camera of the times--except that he could also record emotions and mood of the era.

No mean feat,you`ll agree.

Aamir:

thanks for the urdubazar site.

This short story TTS must be savoured word by word and sentence by sentence and one should linger on the subtelities & nuances to truly appreciate its power & beauty.

For example:

When a muslim lunatic who was read the newspaper,zamindar,for twelve years,apprehensively asked maulvi sahib where is pakitan---gets the answer ``It is a place where barber-blades are manufactured``.

First:Choice of the name of newspaper ``Zamindaar``

(there WAS a very radical muslim paper by that name but others were too--but Zamindaar,the one with land so much fits in the context)

Then about barber-blades:They are used for circumcision as well as to remove hair----now what could be more terrifying for a sikh...

Just thought inter-actors would enjoy this `analysis`.

Manto needs to be projected more on CHOWK.

Sometimes I wonder if Pakistanis and Indians will
ever get beyond the ``Toba Tek Singh`` mentality.
It often appears to be a mad house out there...

Ras

Umer Murtaza--1

Thank you.

``poochtaayn hain voh key ghalib kaun hai

koee butlao,keh hum butlain kyaa``

tr:They enquire who is this Ghalib

Someone tell(me),what should I say.--;)

_________________________.

Freethinker---2

I am envious of you sir.Please tell us more of that occasion.

I never ever as much as attended a mushaira back home.That is how much I was in awe of those who knew literary Urdu & in contemt of myself to be not worthy enough for such gatherings.Later on,I discovered that I was not entirely right on both counts.

Hamid Jalaal in his article,``Manto Mamoon kee maut``,written shortly after Mantos death,vividly describes the last moments.When he was about to breath his last a full bottle was emptied in his throat to give him the final comfort.Most of the sketches about his Bombay days were written as cheques for a couple of bottles only as payment.

AAysha Jalaal(YLH where are you) is perhaps the daughter or niece of Hamid Jalaal.

__________________________.

Kim--3

And what led you to belieeve that?I know,I know but then please uderstand that everything has its time & place.

``Aye shakhs agar Josh ko too dhoondnaa chahay

Voh pichhlay pehr hulqua e irfaan mein milay gaa.

Aur subh o ko voh ----::------nazzara e qudrat

tarf e chaman o sehn e gulistaan mein milay gaa

aur shaam ko vo --sargushta e asraar o maani

buzme turub o sohbat e rindaan mein milay gaa

aur raat ko vo -----::------kaakul o rukhsaar

aghosh e --::---- koocha e khooban mein milay gaa``

(---::--- words I cannot recall now,very frustrating but I hope the intent is conveyed)

Many more would be ``surprised`` as well,but then masjid & maikhaana have their own utility.....:)

(This is all metaphorical,please do not take it literally---or maybe not;).

_______________________.

Subroto--4

True.

And thank you very much for referring me to that site.I subscribed to the annual of urdu studies at one time.Maybe I`ll renew it.It is a great way to begin the nostalgic odyssey.Umar Memon is doing a yeoman service in this regard.

____________________________.

temporal---5

Thanks for this tidbit.Did you have a chance to visit this house?

I hope through inter-acts we could re-introduce him a little more.It was not easy for me to repress the urge to outpour details.It would all depend on the interest expressed here.

Please write about some of his stories,with an appreciative angle--rather than as a ``critique``;).

__________________________________________________

Manto is the only Urdu writer I have ever read.I rate him very highly.

In the back of my Penguin India edition it says he was born in Jalandhar, not Ludhiana district though.

Hamzad Afaqui, please elaborate on ``the Progressive writers,for whom he had nothing but contempt``

thanks

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