abc123amit’s blog

Manto’s Epitaph

Writer’s foreword-
Great writers are seldom, happy, drawing sustenance from art, misery, loneliness and in Manto’s case, alcohol. Misunderstood and reclusive to the last, he refused to bend to society’s norm and conventions, scandalizing the readers of that generation with stories laced with humor, irony and huge dollops of salacious gossips. However, he will be best remembered for his collection of short stories played out in the lugubrious theatre of pre-partition India. His style inspired many writers in modern India, including that octogenarian master of levity and wit: Sardar Khushwant Singh.

Manto died as he lived, thumbing his nose at society.  Knowing that death was near he refused to administered by his friends and family, covering himself with a quilt, refusing to let anybody see him in pain. When pain became unbearable he asked for his favorite brew – whiskey; however, the golden sip eluded him and he died soon after slipping into a coma.

Manto’s Prayer
Dear God, master of the universe, compassionate and merciful: we who are steeped in sin kneel in supplication before your throne and beseech you to recall from this world Saadat Hasan Manto, son of Ghulam Hasan Manto, who was a man of great piety.
Take him away, Lord, for he runs away from fragrance and chases after filth. He hates the bright sun, preferring dark labyrinths. He has nothing but contempt for modesty but is fascinated by the naked and the shameless. He hates sweetness but will give his life to taste bitter fruit. He will not as much as look at housewives but is in seventh heaven in the company of whores. He will not go near running water but loves to wade through dirt. Where others weep he laughs, and where others laugh he weeps. Faces blackened by evil, he loves to wash with tender care to make visible their real features.He never thinks about you but follows Satan everywhere, the same fallen angel who once disobeyed you.

His Epitaph as he would have Liked it
“In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful
Here lies Saadat Hasan Manto and with him lie buried all the secrets and mysteries of the art of short-story writing….
Under tons of earth he lies, still wondering who among the two is greater short-story writer: God or He.”

My previous boss, a regular harridan, loved using the fuck word. She believed that swearing was her birth right and no conversation could be complete without a liberal usage of the four letter word. Each expectoration of the exalted word would be followed by a brief pause – a brief status quo, necessary for studying the aftershocks; of course, there would be none because I would be smiling.  

But, I really enjoyed these little interactions; clearly she had a chip on her shoulder and the use of the fuck word was a manifestation of some festering wound; maybe she wanted to be one of the guys and used the oldest prop in the book- the word fuck; or, maybe she wanted to show who was the boss – whatever the reason, I gave a damn, which was not saying much, because I give a damn anyway.

Then someone close told me those immortal lines, “Sex is a beautiful word don’t spoil it by saying fuck “, and I was truly gob smacked. My reasoning: an egg is an egg and it scarcely matters whether you have it poached or half boiled – so why the fuss.  Why this exercise in polemics, eh?

I think the answer is in the intent.

Suzerainty

Many, years ago, a very young boy, the hermit, hearing scratching and mewing, opened a door and found his destiny and a yellow cat. The cat, one of those bushy little things, very business like, always running on an errand, sat on its haunches, raised its paws, and kneaded the dry winter air in little circles: Once, twice and then thrice. The hermit, sat down, and with child like naivety, proffered his hand: A handshake Mr. Yellow Cat; How do you do? Are the children all right; the missus, she okay, eh? The Yellow cat, looked at the hand, and said gravely-

“The twelve cats
So they prophesied
The hermit, he lived
Near the silver fox
With the button hole”

By reflex, and part by fright, the hand tightened, much to Yellow Cat’s discomfort; right before the hermit’s eyes it leapt nine feet high, spinning in a blur and landed at the very spot. Now, had there been a slow motion camera an astonishing feat would have been recorded, for in its ascendancy the cat had thrown in a backward somersault, one cater vault; all the while licking its paws with absolute nonchalance.

“Ouch, hurt me not
I am the messenger
Not the mole”

The Hermit sat and pondered and looked at the cat; the cat sat back on its haunches and looked at the hermit. Then thinking aloud he said, “But there is no silver fox with the buttonhole; it’s not me the cat addresses”. Clearing his throat, very business like, and then touching one whisker and then another, the cat stretched one furry hand towards Chandni the she dog lay, panting furiously, the bushy tail working overtime keeping the flies away. Jabbing furiously in that direction said the yellow cat, “There is your silver fox; isn’t it true that she belongs to the family which hunts in the night and bays at the moon.”

“What about the buttonhole”, I said: Damned if I was going believe that Chandini had anything to do with the making and the unmaking of history: Poor Chandini, wandering aimlessly trailed by a half a dozen pups angry yelping at anything that moved; look at her teats for god sake. “What about her”, the cat spoke, “ did you not notice the button shaped mark, when she rolled in the dust, made half crazy by the heat, all four legs in the air, ears flapping and nose sniffing, sniffing, sniffing.

The cat paused and reflected and I am sure he would have crossed and uncrossed his legs had this been a business meeting. One carefully manicured paw stretched towards the heavens, and he spoke with lots of gravitas,

“Its destined you know
The day of the judgment
When cats of all color rise
And fight mankind for the
Ultimate prized”

“Ah, no alien invasion then, just a mere cat-invasion then; what a funny way to die”, said I. The cat looked displeased, as if he was slightly disappointed in me, maybe he expected me to bring a saucer of milk or a piece of yesterdays fish at least. Looking at me with saucy eyes, it spoke, earnestness shining from its eyes, “laugh all you want, but not a world of this to anyone or another kind will rise” So there was another, huh? Slightly miffed that I was not the supreme one, I asked, “So, who else is there, your highness, and to what greater purpose are we decreed.

“That in time”, and saying that the cat swished its tail, once, twice and thrice and then went its way.