The Dog of Tithwal

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  ‘I mean your work. What do you do?’

  ‘What do I do? Nothing, really. An idle man has no work to do. I loaf around all day and sleep at night.’

  ‘Do you like your life?’

  ‘Give me a few moments,’ Manmohan started to think. ‘The truth is, I’ve never thought about it. Now that you’ve put the question to me, I’m asking myself whether I do or not.’

  ‘So did you get an answer?’

  Manmohan took some time to reply, ‘No, I didn’t. But since I’ve been living it for so long, I suppose I must like it.’

  The voice laughed.

  Manmohan said, ‘You laugh beautifully.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the voice intoned shyly and hung up.

  Manmohan stood holding the receiver for some time, smiled and returned it to its cradle. He closed up the office and went out.

  Next morning at about eight o’clock, while he was still asleep on the desk, the phone rang. He yawned and took the call, ‘Hello, 4457.’

  ‘Good morning, Manmohan Sahib.’

  ‘Good morning,” he started. “Oh, you! Good morning.’

  ‘I guess you were sleeping,’ said the voice.

  ‘Yes, I was. Since I’ve come over here I’ve become spoiled. Settling back into life on the pavement will be difficult.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A person has to get up before five in the morning there.’

  He heard a laugh and asked, ‘Why did you cut off the call abruptly yesterday?’

  ‘Why did you say that I laugh beautifully?’

  ‘What a question! If something is beautiful, shouldn’t it be praised?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘You can’t impose such conditions on me. I’ve never accepted any conditions. If you laugh, I’ll certainly praise it.’

  ‘I’ll hang up.’

  ‘You’re free to do that.’

  ‘You don’t care about my displeasure?’

  ‘First off, I don’t want to displease myself. If you laugh and I don’t say that it’s beautiful, I’d be offending my own sense of beauty, which is very dear to me.’

  There was a brief silence. Then the voice came back, ‘Sorry, I was talking to the maid. So you were saying you care a lot about your sense of beauty. But tell me, is there anything you love to do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean…some hobby or work…or, how shall I put it, yes, is there anything you can do?’

  Manmohan laughed. ‘Nothing much, but I do like photography a bit.’

  ‘That’s a fine hobby.’

  ‘Fine or not, I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘You must own an excellent camera, then?’

  Manmohan laughed again. ‘I don’t own a camera; I borrow from friends every now and then and satisfy my urge. I have a camera in mind though. If I ever make any money, I’ll buy it.’

  ‘What camera is that?’

  ‘Exacta. It’s a reflex camera. I like it a lot.’

  There was silence. Then the voice came back on. ‘I was thinking about something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t asked for my name or phone number.’

  ‘I didn’t feel it was necessary.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What does it matter what your name is? And you already have my phone number. That’s good enough. But if you want me to call you, then give me your name and number.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘That’s another matter altogether! If I’m not asking you, the question of giving doesn’t arise.’

  ‘You’re really a very strange man.’

  There was a brief silence again.

  ‘Thinking again?’ Manmohan asked.

  ‘Yes, but I seem to have hit a dead end.’

  ‘Then why don’t you hang up? Call some other time.’

  The voice became sharp. ‘You’re very brusque. Please hang up, or better, I should hang up.’

  Manmohan smiled and put the receiver down.

  Half an hour later, after he had washed his face, changed and was about to go out, the phone rang again. He picked it up and said, ‘4457.’

  ‘Is Mr Manmohan there?’

  ‘Speaking. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’m not annoyed any more.’

  ‘I’m happy to hear that,’ he replied with good cheer.

  ‘As I was eating breakfast it occurred to me that I shouldn’t really be annoyed with you. Have you had your breakfast?’

  ‘I was just going to go out to have some. But you called.’

  ‘Then go home and eat some.’

  ‘I’m not in any hurry. Besides, I don’t have money on me today. I think I’ll skip breakfast.’

  ‘Hearing you say all this…Why do you say such things? I mean, is it because something pains you?’

  Manmohan thought for a bit. ‘No. Whatever pains me, I’ve gotten used to it.’

  ‘Shall I send you some money?’

  ‘If you want to. You’ll be one more person added to the list of my moneymen.’

  ‘Then I won’t.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘I’m hanging up.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Manmohan put the receiver down and went out with a smile on his lips. He returned at about ten that night, changed, lay down on the desk and started to wonder who the woman who kept phoning him might be. Her voice betrayed that she was young and there was a trill, a singsong quality in the way she laughed. It was evident from her conversation that she was educated and refined. He kept thinking about her for a long time.

  Just as the clock struck eleven, the phone rang. He answered it. ‘Hello!’

  ‘Mr Manmohan.’

  ‘Speaking. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I rang you up so many times during the day…Where did you disappear?’

  ‘I may be jobless, but I still have things to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like loafing around.’

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘About ten.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘I was lying on the desk, imagining what you must look like. But all I have to go on is your voice.’

  ‘Did you succeed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t try. I’m very ugly.’

  ‘Pardon me, please hang up if you are really ugly. I loathe ugliness.’

  ‘In that case, let’s say I’m beautiful. I don’t want to foster hatred.’

  Neither of them spoke for a while, then Manmohan asked, ‘Were you thinking?’

  The voice started, ‘Well, no. But I was going to ask you…’

  ‘Think hard before you ask.’

  The sound of a refreshing laugh came on, and then, ‘Shall I sing you a song?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  He heard her clear her throat and then start to sing the ghazal by Ghalib which begins with the line, ‘Nukta-cheen hai gham-e dil…’

  She sang it in the entirely new style of Saigal. Her voice was soft and full of pathos. When she finished, Manmohan commended her heartily, ‘Very nice! Bravo!’

  ‘Thanks,’ the voice said shyly and hung up.

  As he lay on the desk, the ghazal kept reverberating in Manmohan’s mind throughout the night. He got up quite early the next morning and sat in the chair, waiting for the phone to ring for a good two and a half hours. He gave up, feeling a strange bitterness in his throat. He started to pace up and down the room restlessly. Then he stretched out on the desk feeling pretty annoyed. He picked up the solitary book and began reading it all over again. The phone rang in the evening.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked
in a stiff voice.

  ‘It’s me,’ the voice replied.

  ‘Where were you all this time?’ he asked, still stiffly.

  ‘Why?’ the voice quaked.

  ‘I’ve been rotting here since morning. Haven’t had breakfast or lunch, even though I have money.’

  ‘I only call you when I feel like it. You…’

  ‘Look here,’ he cut her off, ‘stop being whimsical. Fix a time to call. I can’t stand waiting all day long.’

  ‘I apologize. Starting tomorrow, I will call you in the morning and again in the evening.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were so touchy.’

  Manmohan smiled, ‘I’m sorry. Waiting really irritates me, and when I feel irritated, I start punishing myself.’

  ‘Oh? How?’

  ‘You didn’t call this morning. Logically, I should have gone out. But I stayed cooped up here, fretting away all day.’

  ‘Oh, how I wish I hadn’t made this mistake,’ the voice was saturated with emotion. ‘I didn’t call on purpose.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Just to find out whether you would miss my call.’

  ‘You’re very naughty,’ he laughed. ‘Now hang up. I’ve got to go eat.’

  ‘Fine. When will you be back?’

  ‘Say, in half an hour.’

  When he returned half an hour later, she called. They chatted for quite a while. She sang him another ghazal by Ghalib and he complimented her enthusiastically. They hung up.

  She began to call him every morning and evening after that and he hurriedly leaped to take her call. Sometimes they talked for hours, but he never asked for her name or phone number. In the beginning he had tried to imagine her face from the sound of her voice. Now, though, he seemed to be contented with just her voice, which was everything – her face, her body, her soul.

  He smiled, ‘For me, your name is your voice.’

  ‘Which is very musical.’

  ‘No doubt about it.’

  Another day she threw a very abstruse question at him, ‘Mohan, have you ever been in love with a woman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  A sudden despondency came over him. ‘This is not a question I can answer in a few words. I’ll have to sift through the entire rubble of my life. And if I still can’t get an answer, it would irritate me very much.’

  ‘Then let’s drop it.’

  Their telephonic contact had now endured for almost a month. She called him twice every day without fail. Meanwhile, a letter arrived from his friend, the owner of the office – he had managed to get the desired credit and would be back in Bombay in a week’s time. A feeling of gloom washed over Manmohan.

  When she next rang him up, Manmohan said, ‘My kingdom is about to end.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My friend has succeeded in getting the loan. The office will become functional very soon.’

  ‘But one of your friends must surely have a telephone?’

  ‘Several of them do, but I can’t give you their numbers.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to hear your beautiful voice.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I’m very jealous.’

  She smiled and said, ‘This is going to be a big fiasco.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’

  ‘Well then, on your kingdom’s last day I’ll give you my phone number.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  That feeling of gloom disappeared in an instant and he started waiting anxiously for the day when his dominion over the office would end. He again tried to imagine what she must look like. He conjured up several images. None satisfied him. Well – he told himself – it’s now only a matter of a few days. Since she was willing to give her phone number, he could be reasonably sure that he would also be able to see her in person. And that thought left his mind in a daze. What a day that would be when he would see her!

  The next time she called him, he said to her, ‘I’m dying to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You said you’ll give me your phone number on the last day of my dominion here.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘It’s reasonable to expect that you’ll also give me your address and I’ll be able to see you.’

  ‘You can see me whenever you want. Even today.’

  ‘No, no. Not today. I want to see you in proper clothes; I mean respectable clothes. I’ll ask a friend; he’ll order me a new suit.’

  She laughed suddenly. ‘You absolutely behave like a kid. Listen, I’ll give you a present when we meet.’

  Manmohan became emotional. ‘There could be no greater present than meeting you!’

  ‘I’ve bought an Exacta camera for you.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I’ll give it to you, but on one condition: that you’ll take my picture.’

  He smiled. ‘I’ll decide about that after we meet.’

  They talked for a little while longer. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I won’t be able to call you tomorrow or the day after.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, feeling quite anxious.

  ‘I’m going away with my relatives. Just for two days. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?’

  He stayed inside the office for the rest of that day. When he woke up the next morning his body was unusually warm. Oh, it’s nothing – just a slight depression brought on by the thought that she won’t be calling today – he concluded. But by afternoon he was running a high temperature and his body was on fire. His eyes were burning. He lay back down on the desk. He felt terribly thirsty, which obliged him to get up repeatedly and drink from the faucet. By evening his chest felt as though it was thoroughly congested, and by the next day he was totally run down. His chest pains had become unbearable.

  In his delirium he talked to his beloved’s voice over the phone for hours. His condition had deteriorated badly by evening. He looked at the wall clock through blurry eyes. His ears were buzzing with strange sounds, as if countless phones were ringing all at once, and his chest was wheezing without letting up. He was engulfed in a sea of noises, so when the phone did ring, the sound failed to reach his ears. It kept ringing for a long time. He came to with a start and rushed to the phone. Holding himself steady against the wall he picked up the receiver with a trembling hand, ran his stiff tongue over his parched lips and said, ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hello, Mohan!’

  ‘Yes, it is Mohan,’ his voice faltered.

  ‘Speak a bit louder.’

  He opened his mouth to say something but the words caught in his dried-up throat.

  ‘I returned early,’ she said. ‘I’ve been calling you for quite a while. Where were you?’

  His head started to spin.

  ‘What’s happening to you?’

  With great difficulty he could only say, ‘My kingdom ended – today.’

  Blood spilled from his mouth and trickled down his neck, leaving a long, thin streak.

  ‘Take down my number: 50314, repeat 50314. Call me tomorrow.’ She hung up.

  Manmohan fell over the phone face down. Bubbles of blood began to spurt from his mouth.

  Translated by Muhammad Umar Memon

  For Freedom’s Sake

  I DO NOT REMEMBER the year but it must have been when cries of ‘Inqilab Zindabad’ were ringing throughout Amritsar. There was excitement in the air and a feeling of restlessness and youthful abandon. We were living through heady times. Even the fearful memories of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre had disappeared, at least on the surface. One felt intensely alive and on the threshold of something great and final.

  People marched through the streets every day chanting slogans against the Raj. Hundreds were arrested for breaking the law. In fac
t, courting arrest had become something of a popular diversion. You were picked up in the morning and quite often released by the evening. A case would be registered, a hearing held and a short sentence awarded. You came out, shouted another slogan and were arrested again.

  There was so much to live for in those days. The slightest incident sometimes led to the most violent upheaval. One man would stand on a podium in one of the city squares and call for a strike. A strike would follow. There was of course the movement to wear only Indian-spun cotton to put the Lancashire textile mills out of business. There was a boycott of all imported cloth in effect. Every street had its own bonfire. People would walk up, take off every imported piece of clothing they were wearing and chuck it into the fire. Sometimes a woman would stand on her balcony and throw down her imported silk sari into the bonfire. The crowd would cheer.

  I remember this huge bonfire the boys had lit in front of the town hall and the police headquarters, where in a wild moment my classmate Sheikhoo had taken off his silk jacket and thrown it into the flames. A big cheer had gone up because it was well known that he was the son of one of the richest men of the city, who also had the dubious distinction of being the most infamous ‘toady,’ as government sympathizers were popularly called. Inspired by the applause, Sheikhoo had peeled off his silk shirt and offered it to the flames too. It was only later that he remembered the gold links that had gone with it.

  I don’t want to make fun of my friend, because in those days I too was in the same turbulent frame of mind. I used to dream about getting hold of guns and setting up a secret terrorist organization. That my father was a government servant did not bother me. I was restless and did not even understand what I was restless about.

  I was never much interested in school, but during those days I had completely gone off my books. I would spend the entire day at Jallianwala Bagh. Sitting under a tree, I would watch the windows of the houses bordering the park and dream about the girls who lived behind them. I was sure one of these days one of them would fall in love with me.

  Jallianwala Bagh had become the hub of the movement of civil disobedience launched by the Congress. There were small and big tents and colourful awnings everywhere. The largest tent was the political headquarters of the city. Once or twice a week, a ‘dictator’ – for that was what he was called – would be nominated by the people to ‘lead the struggle.’ He would be ceremoniously placed in the large tent; volunteers would provide him with a ragtag guard of honour, and for the next few days he would receive delegations of young political workers, all wearing homespun cotton. It was also the ‘dictator’s’ duty to get donations of food and money from the city’s big shopkeepers and businessmen. And so it would continue until one day the police came and picked him up.