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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.