Third Letter to Uncle Sam

Barren

by Saa’dat Hasan Manto

We had our first encounter exactly two years ago at Port Apollo on this very day. It was evening. In the distance, the last rays of the sun had disappeared behind waves that resembled the folds of a thick, coarse fabric when looked at from the benches facing the sea. I was sitting on the bench on the other side of the Gateway of India, where a man was having his head massaged. I was staring at the ocean stretched out endlessly. At the furthermost point, where the sky and the sea came together, huge waves rose gradually ... as if the sides of a dark coloured carpet were being folded up.
All the lights around the Gateway were on. Their reflection spread in thick, shivering lines over the trembling water. Just below, along the stone wall, rolled-up sails and bamboo poles for the boats stirred gently. The sound of the waves and the voices of the sightseers permeated the atmosphere like a hum. Now and then the honk of an approaching or receding car split the air like an offending “Hunh!” in the middle of an absorbing tale.
It is truly a pleasure to smoke in such an atmosphere. I took out a packet of cigarettes and searched for the matchbox. God knows where I had left it. I was about to put the packet back in my pocket when I heard someone nearby say, “Here, use this.”
I turned around. A young man was standing behind the bench. Bombay residents are normally pale, but this man looked frighteningly so. I said, “Thank you very much.”
He held out the matchbox towards me. I thanked him again and said, “Please sit down.”
The man replied, “Please light your cigarette. I have to go.”
I felt he was lying. His tone betrayed the fact that he was neither in a hurry nor had any particular place in mind to go. True, you might ask how one can tell such things from tone. But the truth is, that was precisely how I felt at that time. So I said once more, “What’s the hurry? Sit down,” and with that I offered him a cigarette, “Please!”
He looked at the packet and said, “Thanks, but I only smoke my own brand.”
Believe it or not, I would have sworn that he was lying again. And again it was his tone that betrayed him. This piqued my interest and I resolved firmly that I would make him sit down beside me and smoke one of my cigarettes. I thought this wouldn’t be too difficult because in just two sentences he had made it plain that he was deluding himself. He, in fact, wanted to sit down and smoke but at the same time he felt that he should do neither. I could clearly detect yes-no clashing in his tone. Believe me, his very existence seemed to be suspended between being and non-being.
His face, as already implied, was incredibly thin. Besides that, the outlines of his nose, eyes and mouth were so faint that it seemed as if someone had drawn a portrait and then washed it. As I looked at him, his lips would swell at times but then fade away like a spark buried under layers of ash. It was the same with the other features of his face – eyes like two puddles of muddy water, with sparse lashes drooping over them, black hair with hue of burnt paper, dry and brittle like straw. You could make out the contours of his nose more easily, but from a distance it looked pretty flat, because, as I mentioned earlier, his features were exceedingly faint.
He was of average height, neither tall nor short. However, when he stood in a certain way, relaxing his spine, there was a marked difference in his height. Likewise, when he would suddenly stand erect, he appeared to be much taller than his true size.
His clothes were shabby, but not dirty. His jacket sleeves were frayed at the cuffs from constant wear and tear – you could see the threads unravelling. His collar was unbuttoned and his shirt looked like it could hardly survive one more washing. Yet, despite such clothing, he was trying hard to present himself as a respectable man. I say “trying” because when I had looked at him his whole being seemed to have been rocked by a wave of anxiety, and I was left wondering if he was really trying to keep himself hidden from my eyes.
I got up, lit a cigarette, and offered the packet to him. “Help yourself!”
I offered the cigarette and quickly lit the match for him in a way that made him forget everything. Taking a cigarette, he stuck it in his mouth and started to smoke. But then he immediately realized his slip. He promptly removed the cigarette from his mouth, pretending to be coughing. “Cavenders don’t sit well with me,” he said. “Its strong tobacco irritates my throat right away.”
I asked, “So what brand do you smoke?”
He stammered, “I ... I actually smoke very little because Dr Karolkar has advised me not to. Otherwise I buy 555, which is pretty mild.”
The doctor he mentioned was famous in Bombay. His fees was ten rupees. The brand of cigarettes he mentioned, as you may well know, is very expensive. He’d lied through his teeth twice in one breath, which I couldn’t digest. But I kept quiet. Though at that moment I desired nothing more than to unmask him, expose his lies, and shame him into apologizing to me. However, when I looked at him I realized that whatever he had said became a part of him. His face did not flush like that of a liar’s. Instead, I sensed that he believed whatever he said. His lies were spoken with complete sincerity and conviction, without the least bit of guilt. Anyway, let’s drop this. Recounting all these details would require reams of paper and I’d never get around to the story itself.
In a short time, after a little polite conversation, I seemed to have put him at ease. I offered him another cigarette and mentioned how truly exquisite the ocean looked. Since I’m a storywriter, I was able to talk to him about the ocean, Port Apollo and all the visitors there in such a distracting way that even after six cigarettes his throat failed to become the least bit irritated. He asked me my name. When I replied he stood up and said, “You? You’re Mr ... I’ve read many of your stories. I didn’t know it was you. I’m very pleased to have met you. Really very pleased.”
I wanted to thank him but he continued, “Yes, I remember, just recently I read one of your stories. Can’t remember the title. It’s the one about the girl who’s in love with a man but the fellow deceives her. There’s another man, the narrator of the story, who’s in love with her. When he discovers the girl’s misfortune he tells her, You must go on living. Turn the memory of the moments you spent engrossed in his love, when you were happy, into a foundation you can build your life on. I don’t remember it word by word, but do tell me one thing, Is it possible? Forget possible, tell me straight out whether, by any chance, you are that man? Forgive me for asking you such a question. I really shouldn’t. But were you the person who had a tryst with her on the rooftop and then went downstairs to sleep in your own room, leaving her alone in the slumbering moonlight with all the passions of her youth?” He suddenly halted and then added, “I really shouldn’t be asking this sort of thing. After all, who opens his heart to strangers!”
“I will tell you,” I said. “But somehow it seems a bit odd to be discussing everything when we have met for the first time. Don’t you think?”
His earlier excitement suddenly cooled. He said softly, “You’re right, but who knows whether I’ll ever meet you again.”
I said, “Bombay is of course a very large city but we can meet again, not just once but many times. I’m an idle person, I mean a short story writer. You’ll find me here every evening, provided I’m not sick. Many young women come here to stroll and I come here to find one of them to fall in love with. Love’s not a bad thing!”
“Love? Love?” He wanted to say something more but couldn’t, and like a rope on fire he fell silent tortuously.
I’d brought up “love” just to be funny. But given the absolutely delightful surroundings, I would have had no regrets about actually falling in love with someone. When the waning daylight and evening shadows meet, when the rows of streetlights begin glimmering in the encroaching darkness, when the air becomes slightly chilled and the feel of romance permeates the atmosphere, one naturally longs to be close to a woman. It is that feeling, that need, which lies hidden in our subconscious.
God knows which story he was referring to. I don’t remember all my stories, especially the romantic ones. I’ve known very few women in my life. The stories I’ve written about women were done either because of a particular need or just to indulge in a mental gratification of the senses. Since they lack sincerity I don’t think much of them. I have observed women of a certain class and have written a few stories about them, but those aren’t romances. In any case, the story he’d mentioned must be one of those mediocre romances, the kind I might have written to calm my own ardour. But now I’ve started telling my own story.
So when he fell silent after uttering “love,” I felt the urge to expand further on that. I began, “Well, our forefathers have enumerated many kinds of love, but as far as I’m concerned, whether love is born in Multan or in the icy plains of Siberia, in winter or summer, in the heart of a rich or poor man, beautiful or grotesque, or whether those who fall in it are degenerate or pious ... love remains love. It doesn’t change. The manner of love’s birth remains unchanged just like that of a child’s birth. Of course, it’s an entirely different matter if Saeeda Begum gives birth in a hospital, while Rajkumari gives birth in a jungle. Or if a sweeperwoman stirs love in a Ghulam Muhammad while a Natwar Lal is smitten by a princess. Just as children born prematurely remain weak after birth, so is love born before its time. Some children are born after excruciating labour, well, so are some loves – they cause a lot of pain. Just as some women miscarry, so can love miscarry for some people. And just as sterility results in inability to conceive a child, you will find people who turn out to be incapable of love. This doesn’t necessarily mean that the desire to love has completely vanished from their hearts, or that the feeling of love has been completely smothered. No, the desire may still be there, but they lack the ability to love. Just as some women are unable to conceive because of some physical imperfection, these people are unable to ignite the spark of love in the hearts of others because of some spiritual imperfection.”
I was finding my harangue interesting, so I lectured on without even looking at him. When I did finally look at him, I found him gazing off into space across the ocean, entirely lost in his own thoughts. I fell silent.
The sound of a particularly loud horn suddenly jolted him out of his reverie and he blurted out absentmindedly, “Yes. You’re absolutely right!”
I thought of asking him, “Absolutely right? Forget that. Just tell me what I’ve been saying.” But I kept quiet, allowing him a chance to shake off his weighty thoughts.
He was lost in his thoughts for a while and then said, “What you said is absolutely correct, but ... let’s drop this topic. It ... well, never mind.”
I liked what I’d been talking about. I wanted to continue and have him listen to me, so I repeated, “Well, I was saying that some men also turn out to be barren when it comes to the matters of love. I mean they do desire to love, but are never able to. I think that’s due to some spiritual flaw. What do you think?”
He turned paler, as though he’d seen a ghost. The change was so sudden, it worried me. I asked, “Is everything all right? You aren’t feeling unwell, are you?”
“No, no ...” He sounded even more worried. “I’m not unwell or anything like that. What makes you think so?”
I replied, “Anyone who saw you now would assume that you’re ill, extremely ill. You look frighteningly pale. I think you’d better go home. Come, I’ll take you there.”
“No, I’ll go myself. But I’m not unwell ... I do feel a slight pain in my chest now and then. Maybe it’s just ... I’ll be okay. You go on.”
I remained silent as he didn’t look if he could concentrate on anything. But when he insisted I resumed, “Anyway, I was asking what you thought about people who are unable to love. I have no idea what they feel, what their inner thoughts are. But when I think of those barren women – who in hope of conceiving a child, make fervent entreaties to god and disappointed, resort to spells and charms to gain the pearl of their desire, they even bring ash from cremation grounds, recite incantations given to them by sadhus all night long, make votive offerings – it occurs to me that a person who’s unable to love must go through a similar ordeal. Such people truly deserve compassion. I feel more for them than I do for the blind.”
His eyes brimmed with tears. He swallowed and quickly stood up. Turning his face away he said, “Oh, it’s late. I have an important errand to run and I seem to have lost a lot of time talking.”
I also got up. He turned towards me and pressed my hand. He spoke without looking at me, “I really must leave now,” and walked away.
The second time I met him again at Port Apollo. Although I’m not one for walks, back in those days an evening stroll to Port Apollo had somehow become part of my daily routine. A month later though, a longish letter from a poet in Agra, which, among other things, made lewd comments about the beauties that crowded the port’s beaches and how lucky I was to be living in Bombay, pretty much took care of whatever interest I may have had in the place. Now, whenever someone asks me to go there, I’m reminded of that letter and I feel like throwing up. But I’m talking about the time before that letter. Then, I used to go there every evening and sit on the bench next to the place where many people habitually had masseurs repair their skulls.
Day had completely given way to evening, with no trace of light anywhere. The October heat was still intense but a breeze was blowing. Strollers, like exhausted travellers, made up most of the crowd. Behind me, many cars had lined up. All the benches were taken. Two chattering men, one Gujarati, the other Parsi, had settled in on the bench next to me, blabbering away in Gujarati, each with a different accent. The Parsi spoke in only two notes – shrill and deep – alternating them. When they both talked rapidly at the same time, it sounded as if a parrot and a myna were having a duel.
Tired of their endless chatter, I got up and was about to head towards the Taj Mahal Hotel when I saw him coming my way. I didn’t know his name so I couldn’t call him. But when he saw me our eyes locked, as though he’d found what he’d been looking for.
There were no empty benches, so I proposed, “It’s been a long time since we last met. Let’s go over there to the restaurant. All the benches here are taken.”
He said a few things by way of formality and came along. We walked a bit and then sat down in the large cane chairs in the restaurant. After I had ordered tea I offered him my cigarettes. Coincidentally, just that day I had gone to see Dr Karolkar and he had advised me to quit smoking altogether, or, if I couldn’t do that, switch to smoking better quality cigarettes, like 555 for instance. So, following the doctor’s advice I had bought this tin that very evening. He stared at the tin, then at me. He started to say something but then decided against it.
I broke into a laugh. “Don’t think that I’ve started smoking these on your advice. Actually you might call it pure coincidence. Today I too ended up seeing Dr Karolkar because lately I’ve been feeling this pain in my chest. Anyway, he advised me to smoke these, but much less.”
As I said this, I glanced at him and realized that my words had upset him. I took Dr Karolkar’s prescription out of my pocket and put it on the table. “I can’t read his handwriting but he seems to have crammed every vitamin on to this one prescription.”
He glanced at the prescription with Dr Karolkar’s name and address embossed in black letters along with the date. The earlier agitated look quickly faded from his face. He smiled and said, “Why is it that most writers suffer from vitamin deficiencies?”
I replied, “Certainly not because they don’t get enough to eat. It’s more likely because they work a lot and get paid a pittance.”
Meanwhile the tea arrived and we started talking about other things.
An interval of a month, maybe a month and a half, fell between our first and second meetings. His face now looked paler than before and there were dark circles around his eyes. Apparently he was suffering from some spiritual ailment which troubled him constantly. Every now and then he would stop short in the middle of a sentence and quite unconsciously, let out a sigh. Even when he tried to laugh his lips didn’t move.
Seeing him in this condition I asked abruptly, “You look sad ... why?”
“Sad?” A faint smile, like the one on the face of a person who is dying but wants to show that he isn’t afraid, appeared on his face. “I’m not sad. Could it be that you’re in a sombre mood yourself?”
He finished his tea in a single gulp and quickly got up. “All right,” he said, “I’ve got to go. I have an important matter to take care of.”
I was certain that he didn’t have “an important matter to ...” Yet, I let him leave without trying to stop him. I again failed to find out his name, but I did realize that something was bothering him – mentally and spiritually. He was sad, or rather sadness had completely permeated his being. But he didn’t want anyone to know. He wanted to live two lives – one that was real and another that he was busy creating every minute and second. Both the lives were a failure. Why? That I don’t know.
It was again at Port Apollo that we ran into each other for the third time. This time, however, I took him to my place. Although we didn’t say anything on the way, we did talk quite a bit once we got home. The moment he entered the room, a gloomy look appeared on his face and lingered there for a few seconds. He quickly steadied himself and, unlike in the past, tried to appear unusually cheerful and chatty. It made me feel even more sorry for him. He seemed to be denying the reality of something as certain as death. What was even worse, he sometimes seemed to be quite satisfied with his self-deception.
As we talked, he noticed the framed photograph on my table. Getting up and moving closer to the photograph he asked, “May I have a look, with your permission of course?”
“By all means!”
He gave the photograph a fleeting look and then sat down. “Quite a goodlooking woman. I guess she’s your ...”
“No, no. It was a long time ago. I was attracted to her, rather, I almost fell in love with her. Unfortunately, she never knew about it, and I – no, she was married off to ... Anyway, this is a memento of my first love, which died even before it had a chance to be born.”
“A memento of your first love! You must have had quite a few affairs since.” He ran his tongue over his dry lips. “I mean you must’ve had many requited and unrequited loves in your life.”
I was about to set him straight and tell him that this humble man was just as barren in the matter of love as he was. But, god knows why, I held back. Instead, I basically lied for no reason at all. “Yes, sure. Such affairs do come along, don’t they? You must’ve had quite a few yourself.”
He didn’t say anything and became completely silent, as though he had plunged into deep waters. After he’d been submerged in his own thoughts for a long time and his silence began to weigh on me, I said, “Well, sir, where are you lost?”
He was startled. “I? Nowhere. I was just thinking about something.”
“Were you reminded of something in the past?” I asked. “Stumbled on a lost dream? Some old wounds starting to hurt again?”
“Wounds? Old wounds? Well, not wounds. Just one – very deep and vicious. And I have no desire for more. One is enough.” Saying that, he got up and attempted to pace inside my room. Attempted, because my place was small and cluttered with chairs, a table, a cot and what all – there was really no room to pace. He could only go as far as the table and then had to stop. This time, though, he looked at the photograph closely and said, “How much she resembles her! Her face wasn’t quite as playful though. She had big eyes, the kind which see as well as understand.” He heaved a sigh and sat down in the chair. “Death is beyond comprehension, especially when it seizes someone in the prime of youth. I believe there’s another power besides god, extremely jealous and begrudging anyone’s happiness. Well, never mind.”
“No, no, go on,” I insisted, “if you don’t mind. To tell you the truth, I thought you had probably never fallen in love.”
“What made you think so? A few minutes ago you said that I must’ve had quite a few affairs myself, didn’t you?”
He looked at me questioningly. “If I haven’t loved, then why this sorrow which keeps gnawing at my heart? Why this affliction? This sadness? This state of being oblivious to myself? Why am I melting away like wax, day and night?”
Ostensibly he was asking me, but in fact he was asking himself.
I told him, “I lied when I said that you must’ve had quite a few affairs in your life. But you lied too, when you said you weren’t sad and that nothing was bothering you. It’s not easy to know what’s inside another person’s heart. There could be any number of reasons why you feel sad, and unless you choose to tell me yourself, I can’t very well come to any conclusion, can I? That you’re becoming frailer and frailer by the day is obvious. Surely you’ve suffered a big shock and I do sympathize with you.”
“Sympathize!” Tears rushed to his eyes. “I don’t need sympathy. Sympathy can’t bring her back, can’t pull the woman I loved out of the abyss of death and return her to me. You have never loved. No, you have not. I’m certain of that. For you’re unscathed by its failure. Look at me,” he looked at himself, “do you see any spot where love hasn’t left its scars? My entire existence is nothing more than the rubble of love’s crumbling abode? How can I relate this tale to you? And why should I? You wouldn’t be able to understand. The words, My mother died, are not likely to affect a stranger as much as her own son. To you, indeed to anybody, my tale of love would seem commonplace. But the way it has affected me, how can anyone understand it! Only I have experienced this love and only I have borne its brunt.”
He fell silent. His throat had become dry – obvious from his repeated attempts to swallow.
“Did she deceive you? Or was there something else?”
“Deceive? She could never deceive. For god’s sake, don’t use that word. She was not a woman, she was an angel. But woe to death that couldn’t see us happy and gathered her up in its wings and took her away forever – ah! You’ve opened my wounds. So now listen. I’ll tell you part of that distressing tale. She came from a distinguished, wealthy family. When we first met, I’d already squandered away the whole of my ancestral property on a life of debauchery. Nothing remained. I left my home and went to Lucknow. Since I used to own a car myself, the one skill I had was driving. So I decided to become a chauffeur. My first job was at the residence of Dipty Sahab and she was his only daughter.”
He drifted off into his own thoughts and stopped talking. I too remained silent.
After a moment he snapped out of his reverie and said, “What was I saying?”
“That the Dipty Sahab hired you.”
“Yes. She was the Dipty Sahab’s only daughter. Every morning at nine I’d drive her, Zohra, to school. She observed purda, but how long can one remain hidden from one’s chauffeur! I was able to see her face on the second day itself. She wasn’t just beautiful ... she had something quite special about her. She was a serious and poised young woman. The straight parting in her hair gave her an unusual aura of dignity. She ... she ... how do I explain to you what she was really like. I don’t have words to describe her inner and outer beauty.”
He kept reciting his Zohra’s accomplishments for a long time – making several attempts along the way to describe her in words, but failing repeatedly. It seemed, too many thoughts had crowded his head. Now and then his face would light up in the middle of a sentence, only to be quickly clouded over by a gloom which left him talking in sighs. He was telling his story extremely slowly, as if relishing it himself. His story, which he recounted one piece at a time, went something like this ...
He fell madly in love with Zohra. He spent the first few days looking for opportunities to steal a glance at her and working out all kinds of plans. But when some sense prevailed, he realized he and Zohra were miles apart. How can a chauffeur even think of falling in love with the daughter of his employer. That bitter realization clouded his days with unrelenting sadness. One day though, he dared to scribble a few lines to Zohra on a piece of paper. I remember those lines,

Zohra! I know I am your servant. Your father pays me a salary of thirty rupees a month. But ... I’m in love with you. What shall I do? I’m extremely confused.
He stuck the scrap of paper inside one of her books. The next morning when he drove her to school his hands shook and many times he very nearly lost control of the steering. But with god’s grace no accident occurred. He spent the whole day in a strange state of mind. In the evening, when he was driving her back from school, she asked him to pull over. When he did so, in an extremely serious tone she said, “Look Naim, don’t repeat this ever again. I haven’t told my father about the letter you slipped inside my book. But if you ever do this sort of thing again, I’ll be forced to report the matter to him. Understand? Okay. Now drive on.”
After that, he tried hard to quit working for Dipty Sahab and extinguish his love for Zohra, but he couldn’t succeed. This tug of war went on for a month. One day he picked up courage and wrote her another letter. He slipped it in her book and waited for the decree of his fate. He was sure that he’d be dismissed from his job the next morning, but nothing happened. On their way back from school that evening, Zohra once again spoke to him and admonished him. “If you don’t care about your own honour, at least care about mine.” She said all this with such gravity and firmness that Naim’s hopes were completely dashed. Then and there he resolved to quit his job and leave Lucknow for good.
At the end of the month, he wrote one final letter to Zohra by the dim light of his lantern. With pain and anguish he told her,

Zohra! I’ve tried my best to act on your advice. Believe me I have. But I cannot control my heart. This is the last time I write to you. I’ll leave Lucknow by tomorrow evening so you need not say anything to your father. Your silence will decide my fate. I’ll live far away from you ... but don’t think I can ever stop loving you. My heart will always be at your feet no matter where I live. I will always remember the days when I drove the car so carefully and slowly in order to save you from jolts. What else could I have done for you anyway?

This letter too he slipped into her book as soon as an opportunity presented itself. As they drove to her school in the morning, Zohra didn’t say a word to him. Nor did she speak to him on their way back in the evening. He went to his room utterly dejected. He packed the few belongings he had and put the bundle away in a corner. Then he sat down on his cot and, in the pale light of the lantern, thought about the precipitous gulf that separated him from Zohra.
He was too despondent, extremely aware of his own insignificance. He was just a lowly servant after all! What right did he have to fall in love with his employer’s daughter. But every now and then he would think – it wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen in love with her. And besides, his love was not a deception. Around midnight, as he was mulling over these thoughts, he heard a knock on the door. His heart jumped to his throat, but then he thought it must be the gardener. It was possible someone had fallen sick at his home and he’d come for help. But when he opened the door, Zohra stood there, yes, Zohra, in the December chill, without even her shawl.
He was tongue tied. He didn’t know what to say. There was a deathly silence for a few moments and then, finally, her lips moved and she said in a trembling voice, “Well, Naim, I’m here. Tell me what you’d like me to do. But before you tell me, I have a few questions of my own.”
Naim was silent. Zohra asked, “Do you really love me?”
Naim was hurt. His face flushed.
“Zohra,” he said, “you’re asking a question that would debase my love if I attempted to answer it. Instead, let me ask you, Don’t I?”
Zohra didn’t respond. After a brief silence she asked, “My father has a lot of money, but I don’t have a single paisa to my name. Whatever is said to be mine is, in reality, not mine but his. Without wealth would you still love me as dearly?”
Being an overly sensitive man, Naim felt as if the question was an affront to his dignity. In a voice weighed down with sorrow, he said, “For god’s sake, Zohra, please don’t ask such questions, answers to these can be commonly found in even third rate romance novels.”
Zohra stepped into the room and sat down on the cot. “I’m yours,” she said, “and will always be.”
She kept her word. After she and Naim had moved to Delhi, married, and set themselves up in a small house, Dipty Sahab came looking for them. As Naim had already found work, he wasn’t home. Dipty Sahab scolded Zohra up and down, accusing her of sacrificing her honour. He wanted her to leave Naim and put all that had happened behind her. He was even willing to pay Naim two or three thousand rupees. But none of this had any effect, and, ultimately, he had to return home disappointed. Zohra wasn’t ready to leave her husband at any cost. She said to her father, “Daddy! I am truly happy with Naim. You would never have found a better husband for me. We don’t ask you for anything. But if you can, give us your blessings, we’ll be grateful for that.”
Dipty Sahab was incensed. He threatened to have Naim arrested. Zohra, however, asked him matter of factly, “But Daddy! What is Naim’s crime? The truth is we’re both innocent. We love each other and he’s my husband. This isn’t a crime. And I’m no longer a minor.”
Dipty Sahab was a shrewd man. He immediately realized he wouldn’t be able to prove Naim guilty when his own daughter was a willing partner. He left Zohra for good. Later on, he tried to put indirect pressure on Naim through other people and even tried to buy him off, but failed in that as well.
Zohra and Naim were living happily, even though Naim’s salary was dreadfully small and Zohra, who’d been brought up in great comfort and luxury, now had to contend with homely clothes on her body and do all the chores with her own hands. But she was happy and found herself in a new world where she continually discovered fresh dimensions of Naim’s love. She was contented, very contented, and so was Naim. But one day, as god had willed it, Zohra felt a severe pain in her chest and before Naim could do anything, she passed away, leaving his world dark forever.
It took him four hours to recount this story. He spoke haltingly, as if relishing every word he uttered. By the time he finished, his face no longer looked pale. It was flushed, as though blood had been injected into him slowly, but his eyes had tears in them and his throat was dry.
His tale told, he got up quickly as if in a terrible hurry, and said, “I made a big mistake. I shouldn’t have told you the story of my love. I made a terrible mistake. All this about Zohra should have remained sealed inside my heart, but, but ...” His voice became hoarse. “I’m alive and she ... she ...” He couldn’t say anything more. He shook my hand quickly and left the room.
I never saw him again. I went to Port Apollo many times purposely to look for him, but never found him there. I did receive a letter from him six or seven months later in which he wrote,

Sir!
You will recall, I told you the story of my love at your place. It was only a story, an untrue story, for there’s no Zohra, nor a Naim. Although I do exist, I’m not the same Naim who was in love with Zohra. One day you said there were people who were truly barren of love. I am one of them, one who has spent his entire life merely deluding his heart. Naim’s love for Zohra was a pastime and Zohra’s death – I still don’t understand why I killed her – it’s quite possible that that too had something to do with my inner darkness.
I don’t know if you believed my story to be true or false, but let me tell you something very strange. I, the creator of that false story, believed it to be true, based completely on reality. I felt that I had really loved Zohra and she had really died. It might surprise you even more to hear that the story became increasingly real to me as time passed. I could clearly hear Zohra’s voice, even her laughter ring in my ears … I could feel her warm breath on my body. Every little detail of the story came to life and so, in a manner of speaking, I dug my grave with my own hands.
Even if Zohra isn’t fiction, I am. She’s dead, so I must die too. This letter will reach you after my death. Farewell. I will find Zohra, I’m sure. But where? Of that I’m not so sure.
The only reason I’ve scribbled these lines to you is because you’re a writer. If you can turn all of this into a story you may be able to sell it for seven or eight rupees, since you once said you can make that much from a story. That will be my gift to you. Goodbye.
Your acquaintance, Naim.

Naim created Zohra for himself and died. I created a story for myself and lived – that’s my injustice.

khalid saab, shukriya!

i returned to chowk after a long time and my jaw dropped when i saw the three letters by Manto....had been trying to get hold of them for some time.

I must also thankyou for your translations of other Manto writings, `Stars from Another Sky`...while Manto`s most powerful writings are on partition, his sketches of filmstars provide a window to the Bombay of that era and how Manto saw it.

Manto longed for Bombay, but i dont think we can equate that with a longing for India. I think he longed for the cosmopolitan culture that Bombay was and of which only a shadow remains today.

Once again, thank you and please post the rest of the letters.

Another Masterpiece here: Nayaa QuanooN.

Seldom has a character been created with such skill and finesse. Our Urdu literature of ``progressive`` days is full of crocodile-tears about plight of the poor and `humanity`, while smoking cohibaas & rimming over a vodka glass.

Now to find happiness among the downtrodden was a Manto speciality. Under worst circumstances all humans have the will & resolve to retain their dignity. The rich & powerful are perhaps more inflicted by depression and deprivation because they always pant for more. A human who does not need union protection or state support and is self-employed is certainly superior to a sell-out professor on tenure.

This is the story of such a man--a ``highly-educated`` but unschooled Tonga-driver of Lahore who hated the British baboons with a vengeance.

---

Urstruly,

A prostitute is a human being. It is truly sad that you tend to overlook these minor details in your frenzied jihad.

Please don’t quote a lame hadith now … perhaps one where someone tortured a prostitute to death for fornication … and the prophet (pbuh) approved of it.

Cipram:
I am delighted that you are enjoying and appreciating this service. Please always create a network of more with alike interests. This way our Urdu adab will flourish & counter the ugliness & vulgarity of Rushdick lit-LeehcuRR here.

---

Mozail:

This story is about an unrequited love of Mozail, a jewish girl in Mumbai, and a Sikh during the killing & mayhem of `freedom`-grant by the Britto-baboons.

[ It has always amazed me that no Christains, Parsis, jews or other westernised-scum were not killed. How come? Were these working for their colonial masters & had special protection. This give rise to suspicion that the killings were orchestrated by the British-baboons through its civil-service, police & military--just as they deliberately created the Bengal famine [it is admitted & on record now--so Ba Ba Blacksheep] to murder 10`s of millions of hindus and muslims ONLY.]

No wonder that our Vardee-poash & Rishvat-noash do not like to make these as ``research`` subjects. How com e all the reasearch is reserved to bring discredit to muslims & Islam?

Points to ponder and teach our young generation where their hate should truly be directed: Not at their fellow muslim brethren or their hindu/sikh neibours--but at those who gloat about converting our society into their own kanJaRR kulture.

---

Urstruly #15

“Only Manto could turn a prostitute into a human being with his pen like that.”

I can understand that echoboom is neurotic but you too!
Prostitutes were not human being until Manto wrote about them! Warped sense of humor or early morning hang over?

drlokraj:14
After what you wrote here, please take my #9 as a compliment because your reading & understanding of Urdu literature is quite superb as compared to some urdu-daans here.

Aah! about the sketches:

Of course you are right. Manto excels even when he hastily scribbles. Nothing is ``chaaloo``. If anyone else had dared, the stuff he wrote, would have been sued left right and center or gotten killed by a hitman for exposing them so much.

Unbelievable insights one gets when one reads the ones about Rafique Ghaznavi & Sitara*. So difficult to comprehend that such characters enjoyed great & `respectable` lives in India & Pakistan. One has to `know` the subtleties, nuances, and metaphors of Urdu adab to fully appreciate what he said there. One `grand-production` of Ghaznavi even became the top-star in Bollywood, but of course now she is western hence `respectable`...but then Ghaznavi was also known to have `produced` her mother as well

---

enough said...

[and the CHOWK rushdicks and rushdickies thought that they have a monoply on sensationalism--as if the west discovered everything.The west discovered NOTHING--they are thieves & credit-takers & propagators of `ownership`.

`` Unless the West says it, we don`t believe it; `` Their hates are our hates, talking against holocaust is not blasphemy it is hate-speech. Hitler was a bad man; they told us; they discovered sexual positions & all what the mullahs call perversions, what did daadaajaans know. ``--

[``tumhheeN ho maataa pitaa hUmaaray, tumHeeN ho bundHoo tumHeen khuudaa ho--Only you(west) are our mother, our father, our brother--nay you are our god--the Ba Ba Blacksheep( `jee mujhhay urdu naheeN aatee` kanjaRRs) bleat in chorus. Nearby the Crows caw & perform their swandance--umpteenth time. The totaa-mainaas and the apes) provide the ensemble.

Even Hollywood today would be beetred to report. Of course it is incapable of cultured manner style all of that has been written. But then this is Urdu Adab--no matter how hard the west tries it can never ever come close to it even in its dreams.

Of course, it is possible that our ``lit-LeechURR``, as is exhibited here on CHOWK, to go to the low vulgar and uncultured western-kanjaRRpUn.


One does not invite one`s guests into a bathroom & one does not put urinals & shitpots in the living & dining rooms for their ``convenience``. That is why it is called Adab in Urdu, Farsi, and Arabie and not simply literature--as in the vulgar & third rate western society.

[To myself:``Keep hammering, drilling and chiseling echoboom--you know it works and it IS working. `Raushan kaheeN bahaar kay imkaaN huay toa haiN`]

Those submitting articles here can never ever have even a whiff and iota of the cultured-superiority because these wretched & unfortunate souls grew & got educated (not learning) educated in mushroom houses. These are Ba Ba Blacksheep, Mcauley`s children were their Grand-Daddys, these are now RushdicKs children. They can never write a single line without exposing their hipcracks & necklines. Without mentioning their drinking & debauchery--to establish that they are `western` & henece somewhat superior to those from Madrassa-wallas. Oh what do they know--they meet only low IQs like their own. The worst among them are the ones who went to Peela schools aur taat school in the village but always looked longingly at their corrupt boss`es son aur Jagirrdaar`s son going to english-medium and nursed a desire to be like them one day. Arriving in Farangi lands gave them that freedom & opportunity. It is such ``KallOO-brahmins``[south-Indian Brahmin is feared! he is worse than the real thing--like Slave foreman] who are the scorpions, worse than even the real thing--meaning those from `expensive` schools who had no choice because of their dads A sizeable number of Afghan & Kashmiri mujahideen are exactly from this latter background--in case nobody is paying attention]

[* Incidentally, that man-eater Sitara even today at the age of 85/90 , dances for two hours nonstop. Someone who arrived last year from India attended her dance performance
told me that it seems that she never ever tires. Of course, she is not `fashionable` and western in the sense of taking drugs & having the urge to go naked in the world. Whatever she was, she preferred hypocricy--as one should, over exhibiting her warts & moles in her crevices to anyone within a earshot and eyesight.

Urtruly:

I am happy to see you here.

Oh how I wish, CHOWK devised a way that these posts could be in Urdu. To quote Manto, with some license, ``.......angraizee bole bole kay miray jUbbRRay duukh jaatay haiN, aur aisaa lUGtaa hai meiN jhhoot bole rahaa hooN``

tr:(for illiterates)``....... speaking in english makes my jaws ache, and I get the feeling as if I am lying...``

Then it would have been real fun to discuss it line by line word for word and marvel together at this work of an undoubtedly genius man.

I think Hatak is one of the best of manto. Though Kaali Shalwar deal with the same subject matter, Hatak is more down to earth. Only Manto could turn a prostitute into a human being with his pen like that.

Re: # 9
MaineN urdu kisi ustad say nahiN seekhi na...is liye abhi bhi nausikhiya hi hooN.You know what the successive governments of India did to urdu after 1947 and I was born many years after that.
What you said about sketches may be true about some,but some of them were written out of his own interest,like those of Mira ji,Shyam,Kuldeep Kaur,Noor JehaN,although he was admitted in a mental hospital for teatment of Alcohol dependence when he wrote about Shyam after hearing the news of his untimely death.

# 5 echoboom.
thanx to send Hattak.
such a horrible aspect of woman life.so sad.
It`s new new something new for me.

very nice delightful reading.
keep on sending more.

very nice delightful reading.
keep on sending more.

very nice delightful reading.
keep on sending more.

drlokraj:7
It is hatak with a ``kaaf`` and not ``Quaaf``. I thought you could read nastaalique.

His sketeches: His tribute to Agha Hashr is great as well, but to be honest it shows in his compositions that he is just scribbling away as if recovering from bouts of withdrawals in-between.

Now that would really make a very interesting research project: To spot Manto`s mental condition through these sketches which he `wrote` for a bottle or two . Some of them he wrote in a few minutes sitting outside the stairs of the office of the magazine publishers.

Hello chusni/echoboom

coffee?-

Re: # 6
I share your views on Hattaq.I think Diwan Gopi Nath should not be far behind and he has no parallel in writing pen sketches(of Mira ji for example)