WHY I WRITE: ESSAYS BY SAADAT HASAN MANTO (13 page)

Firecrackers

Manto loved India’s culture, which he did not see as belonging to any one faith. On reaching Pakistan, he was distraught to learn that the government was discouraging firecrackers and kites, seen as Hindus’ way of celebration. Muslims in India had long been emulating Diwali through one of their festivals, Shab-e-Barat. In response to the puritanism that had begun creeping even in the early 1950s, Manto wrote this piece of short sketches to show the absurdity of cultural bans. Even today, kite-flying is discouraged in Lahore during the spring festival of Basant. The politicians and courts give out the logic that it is to prevent people from getting cut by kite-string. Here is Manto’s absurd response to such absurd thinking.

News item:

To save Pakistan’s children from the curse of fireworks, an organization was formed recently. The Anjuman Insidaad-e-Patakha jaat (Organization for the prevention of setting off fireworks). Its president will sit in the head office at Baroodkhana. It is hoped that branch offices will soon open in Russia, America and England.

Second news item:

This year twice as many children died from firecracker burns as last year. Pakistan’s parents are anguished by this and have asked the government that it should legislate the maximum number of children who may be burnt to death in a given year.

The government in response has constituted a new ministry. The man running it will be called Minister Crackers. It is reported that two senior refugees from Indian Punjab are squabbling over the job.

A conversation:

A father: It isn’t right to set off crackers.

Boy: Why not?

Father: It’s a waste of money.

Boy: We set off so many explosions in war. Isn’t that a waste of money?

Second conversation:

A boy: I’m not going to set off crackers.

Father: Why not?

Boy: I’m very responsible.

Father: What’s that?! Let’s go see a doctor. I’m sure there’s something wrong with you.

A lesson:

Don’t ever eat radish (
mooli
) in the winter. And on the night of Shab-e-Barat, don’t set off crackers.

Another lesson:

Eat radish only in the summer and other than on the night of Shab-e-Barat, set off crackers every day.

An investigation:

Experts on religious purity after much investigation have concluded that it is natural for humans to set off fireworks in celebration. Twenty thousand years ago, in the time of Prophet Az, a human head was used as a firecracker. But later, slowly, as people came to realize that each cracker burst meant one less human being, they invented other crackers.

Another investigation:

Experts on religious purity have concluded that humans invented firecrackers to scare away demons.

But when humans themselves began to turn demonic, the firecrackers were turned into bullets and bombs.

A request:

A boy: I don’t want these crackers.

Father: Why not?

Boy: They make a frightening sound. Bring me one that’s quiet.

Another request:

A boy: Dad, what’s an atom bomb?

Father: The world’s largest firecracker.

Boy: Get me one, then. I’m going to set it off on
Shab-e-Barat.

A problem:

A man takes his infant son to a faqir.

He says: ‘Master, I stay near Shah Alami. God knows what’s happened to my son. It seems like he’s a shadow of heaven. On hearing a cracker’s noise, he goes into fits.’

Another problem:

A man takes his infant son to a faqir.

He says: ‘Master, I’m a refugee from Amritsar. Give me a charm for this boy of mine. Whenever he gets a chance, he gathers things and sets fire to them.’

A
phuljarhi
(sparkler):

A boy: In Anarkali (Lahore’s red light area), a girl was passing through. Seeing her, a man said to his friend: ‘What a firecracker!’ (
Kya patakha hai!
)

Second boy: ‘Did it go off?’

First boy: ‘Yes, she took off her sandal and,
patakh se,
smashed it on his head.’

Second
phuljarhi:

A boy: ‘Why are we stopped from setting off crackers?’

Second boy: ‘These people are orthodox types. No use saying anything to them.’

First boy: ‘What idiots! On the radio, in the newspapers, in speeches, they spew this nonsense. “Children should be kept away from the curse of firecrackers.” And yet the cracker shops are full. Instead, why don’t they just stop making crackers?’

Second boy: ‘Ssssshhh. Hope nobody’s heard that.’

– (Originally published as
Patakhay)

Why I Can’t Stand Bollywood

This piece was written by Manto as a comic feature. Its quality resides not in why he doesn’t watch movies — in fact the reason is banal — but in his writing. He has a Wodehousian sense of humour, playful and inclusive. I’m not sure who he wrote this sketch for, but it is likely to have been for a magazine (because it’s fairly long) for which he might have been paid per word. This explains its trajectory as you will find out.

I have long desired that someone should ask me why is it that I don’t watch films.

My family sometimes enquires: ‘Why don’t you eat
bhindi
?’

Friends frequently demand to know: ‘Why don’t you wear trousers?’

At home, and also away, people are curious enough to ask: ‘Why don’t you get your hair cut?’

Unfortunately however, as I said, I have long been waiting to be asked this question: ‘Why don’t you watch films?’

But nobody asks. Despite the fact that those who know me are also aware that I was once crazy about the movies. I often watched three in a day, and the ones I loved I watched over and over again.

From Amritsar, I’d go to Lahore — even Jalandhar — to watch. I remember that for one movie, starring a favourite heroine of mine, I had to go as far as Delhi.

So what happened that I should have given up watching them entirely?

I finally have the opportunity, this essay, to relieve myself of this burden. Else I have long suffered the invitations of my friends to see a movie with them, without their asking why, when I turned them down saying: ‘I don’t watch films.’

I wanted them to ask why, but they never did. Some of them would just shut the car’s door they had opened in invitation and move on.

Others smiled and instead of asking ‘Why not?’ would say, ‘You’re a strange man.’

Still others, behaving like Banias, would say: ‘Excellent! It saved me money.’

There was a time when from Eddie Polo to John Gilbert and from Mary Pickford to Gloria Swanson, I knew all the names, every address and even each one’s age. In fact I still remember how tall Gish was, and his sister, Dorothy Gish.

But today if someone were to bring up Paul Robinson, I think of Robinson Crusoe. If Ginger Rogers were praised, my thoughts would turn to Bombay’s Rogers Company and its delicious Ginger soda.

When my friends discuss Shanta Hublikar and Shanta Mazumdar, I shout out: ‘Shanti... shanti....’ Angel-faced Nasim Banu, gorgeous Veena, sensational Ragini. These women and their bodies no longer interest me.

You perhaps think I’ve given up on the world and its delights. That I am ready to smear ash on my forehead and head for a mountain top as a saint. But no! I live in the same world of sensory delights as you. At least for now, in any case (who can say what tomorrow will bring?)

I eat and, yes, I drink. I read good stories and praise the writing. I am moved by couplets of poetry. And yet, sirs, I don’t watch films.

At one point, the pride of my walls were photographs of actors and actresses. I was so besotted that I lovingly made the frames that held these photographs with my own hands.

In my mind I had a chamber I entered every evening. Here I would worship the stars I so loved. What has now happened that I should have locked it up? Could it be that I have become a Mahmud Ghazni-like fundamentalist?

No, sir.

Some people don’t watch films because they can’t see well. Others don’t see the films they buy tickets for because they fall asleep the instant the lights go down. Still others because they are embarrassed (or traumatized) by scenes of lovemaking. And of course there are a few among us who think this whole business of movies is the devil’s work and keep their distance.

My problem is different.

I cannot see well, it is true, but to remedy that my glasses are forever perched on my nose. My heart, praise the lord, is quite stout (and I have a cardiogram to prove it). I think of movies as the work of man, not the devil. So what’s my reason, then?

That I don’t watch films must particularly shock those who know me as a writer of films. What sort of man, they must wonder, writes them but doesn’t watch them? ‘Did he not also,’ they will think, ‘act in a movie? Yes, he did. Bugger has spent a decade in the industry but he says... “I don’t watch movies.” Must be pretending to be an eccentric.’

That isn’t true either. Let me tell you what the deal is.

It’s all make-believe. That is what has put me off the thing entirely. The story began twelve years ago, when I was looking for work in the movies.

I made many assaults on the Somnath of Bombay’s film industry. The last of these is important because, finally, I succeeded. Meaning that I was actually able to enter a studio.

I eluded a fierce Pathan guarding the gate and managed to slip in. No sooner than I did, I heard someone shout: ‘Adam bo! Adam bo!’ I froze.

A dark woman walked past. I wished she would fall for me. That we would be like the mythical Alif-Laila and this Laila would cast a spell on me. The spell would turn me into a fly, thereby sparing me the catastrophe of being discovered and thrown out.

Alas, she walked on, her ass swaying. Just then, a horde of men in armour carrying swords ran out of a corner and went into a large stable-like place. One of them, unnoticed, dropped his weapon near me. I bent to lift it, trembling, and my hand lifted it clean over my shoulder. The thing was made of plywood.

I was examining its “blade” with my thumb when a big-mustachioed man dressed as god emerged. He was walking towards the gate I had come in from, when a loud voice stopped him.

‘Where do you think you’re taking the company’s property?’ the voice demanded to know.

“God”, now afraid, whimpered: ‘What do you mean, boss?’

The boss, to me the very vision of Lord Indra, said with some arrogance: ‘
Moonch kis ka hai
?’(Whose moustache is this?)

“God” twirled the said piece of facial hair and said, with not a little pride: ‘Boss, this is real.’

Boss was convinced, and so ordered: ‘
Tum ja ne ko
sakta,
’ (You may go now). And so “God” went.

Boss now turned to me, and said: ‘You! You’re hired.’

I learnt the next day, on turning up for my first day of work that my name wasn’t Saadat Hasan Manto, but for some reason, not apparent to me, “Munshi”.

My tasks, and this was made clear, were three. First, getting a paan for the director every five minutes (or so it seemed). Second, to not speak. Third, if these two were performed competently, to write, every so often, a dialogue in incorrect Urdu. And then to not speak.

Those days I was not particularly in love with the Urdu language. And so, every day when I got together with the director to maul it, it was fine.

One day, however, that changed.

Boss came in to shake the director’s hand and say: ‘I sold the rights to our thirteenth film.’

What’s it called, the director asked.

Boss smiled: ‘It’s brilliant.
Pharaj-e-Ada
.’

Director turned to me: ‘Munshi saheb, begin from this moment to write
Faraj-e-Ada
. But first, please get me a paan, a
desi kalakandi
...’

I interrupted:
Desi kalakandi,
roasted supari, a little
chuna
on the side and a Passing Soap cigarette. These I will bring immediately. But this
“Farz-e-Ada”
is absolutely wrong.’

Boss went red. ‘What did you say...?’

‘I said what you said,
chalne ko nahin sakta (
won’t work).’

Director said: ‘Why
chalne ko nahin sakta
?’

I said: ‘It’s all wrong.
Adaigi Farz
(Obeying command) it could be. Or call it
Farz Adaigi
(Command-obeying). At the most you may call it
Ada-e-Farz
(The grace of the command) and perhaps in time, as the movie unfolds, its meaning might emerge. But for the sake of god change the name from
Farz-e-Ada
(Command of the grace)!’

Boss stared at me. Then he said: ‘Have you fried your brain, Munshi?
Title change hone ko nahin sakta
(The title cannot be changed
)
. I’ve already sold the movie.’

Hearing this fried my brain. And I lost my job.

The story of my losing the next job is similar. The name of the movie this time was: “
Ulloo ke Do Patthay”.

I objected. ‘What is this
Ulloo ke Do Patthay
? It should be
Do Ulloo ke Patthay
.’

I got the answer: ‘Who are you, again? It’s our money at stake here. If we want we’ll call it
Patthay ke Do Ulloo
.’

And so, dear reader, work on
Ulloo ke Do Patthay
began, and I was again looking for work.

Thus I began to fall out of love with films. My total contempt for them, however, was still a few years ahead.

After working for small units, I found work with one of the larger studios. I spent four years writing films and during this time my love ended. In short, here’s how.

An actress famed for her horsemanship was shooting one day. I noticed a wooden horse was brought to the sets. Not the whole horse, mind you, only its back. On this was a saddle. Three men lifted the actress and mounted her onto the horse.

The lights came on.

‘Go!’ the director said.

A man began to rock the horse. The camera rolled.

The next day the shot shifted to outdoors. An expert rider in the actress’s clothes tore about on a real horse — a stallion so fierce it would rear up at the very thought of someone touching it.

The shots of the horse and rider going this way and that, were taken. When all this was spliced together, I could have sworn I saw the famous actress herself astride the stallion.

Then it was required that we shoot a close up of her hands holding the reins. Alas, the hands of this fairy-bodied (
pari paikar
) woman were as ugly as her face was beautiful. Her fingers were short and stubby. The director summoned a dozen extras. Of these girls, one had pretty hands. These were dusted up with whitening agent and the close up shots taken.

At this point I thought of Chacha Ghalib: ‘
Kaghazi hai
pairahan har paikar e tasveer ka
.’
*

Another time, we had to show that a storm had broken. I saw many men climb a machan positioned over the set with watering cans in their hands and showering water on the sets. An airplane’s propeller was wheeled in and this created a terrific gale. Two other men stood with baskets of leaves. Fistfuls of these were hurled into the propeller’s wake. When I saw all this on screen, the gooseflesh of my brain flared. How could it be possible? The hero was braving this fierce storm manfully in his little boat.

And this is how it is in all films.

The milk boiling over — that’s limestone and water.

It’s snowing in Kashmir — that’s labourers showering bits of paper and soap suds. The hero and heroine are romancing in the fog — that’s actually smoke from a fire of dry grass. And it’s suffocating them. Tears are glycerine. A man sings, another moves his lips.

Wooden swords, wooden guns, wooden telephones.

Our heroine is short-haired but on screen her mane is so lustrous and long it could be for an advertisement.

A punch is thrown which touches nobody. But it sends a couple of villains flying onto the roof.

It’s a blazing hot day, but the camera has a red filter and, lo, it’s now cool moonlight. If a zebra is not to be found, a donkey is painted. All of this, over and over again, was, as we say in English, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I observed myself in the cinema hall actually cheering loudly with the crowds when I should have known better.

What an effective fraud is this business of films, that it should have also defrauded the one who helped make it.

And so, this is why, in case you had asked me, I don’t watch movies.

– (Originally published as
Main Film Kyon Nahin Dekhta
)