We heard that Bari sahib had started a new weekly magazine named Khulq. Hasan Abbas and I joined him. The very first issue of the magazine carried Bari sahib’s essay, From Hegel to Marx … What is it? Why are all of you staring at me this way? Your eyes look as though you’re sleepy. You too, Mirza sahib? Pardon me, my brothers, I was supposed to tell you stories, but here I am in the clutches of history without even knowing it. I feel like laughing at myself now. Damn it, this is like an autobiography. This is why I have to tell myself sometimes—you son of a bitch, are you in your grave to peddle your autobiography? But let me tell you something before I stop. It was in that first issue of Khulq that my first story, ‘Tamasha’, came out. I thought the story was rather juvenile, which is why I didn’t publish it under my own name. It was about the period under Martial Law in 1919, seen through the eyes of a seven-year-old. I’m sure you remember I was seven too in 1919. I was always part of my stories.
All right, let me tell you some stories about our drinking. There, Mirza sahib, see how everyone’s eyes are shining now? But what’s the use? How will we get alcohol in our graves? Just like a cow chewing cud, try chewing the cud of your drinking days, you might get a little high. Bari sahib used to say no one could be bigger drunkards than Abbas and I. To tell you the truth, pardon my profanity, Abbas and I used to drink till we were full all the way down to our arse. Abu Sayeed Quraishi was always the one to unscrew the cap. There was no holding back after that. And as for Bari sahib, he was a garrulous sort anyway; with a drink under his belt, he was like a talking fountain. Abbas and I were such bastards; we would say in our heads, talk as much as you want to, huzoor, while we take care of the bottle. Bari sahib used to get drunk on giving speeches. But he didn’t dare address meetings or anything like that. All of it was reserved for us, while we quaffed our drinks.
But he was such an entertaining drinking companion that it was no fun hitting the bottle without him. One evening he turned up at home. I was sitting by the window. ‘How are you, mian?’ he asked with a smile.
— Left high and dry.
With a mischievous smile in his eyes, he said, ‘Just a minute, I’ll bring some.’ He was back soon with a bottle of alcohol wrapped in a piece of cloth. It was uncorked before I could say a word. By then Abbas had arrived too. We shut all the doors and windows. Abbas brought some water in a tumbler from the draw-well outside. And the party began. Some time later, to provoke Bari sahib, Abbas said, ‘Everyone in this family respects you. Even bibijaan, since you read the namaz regularly. What will happen if she turns up?’
Jumping up from his chair, Bari sahib said, ‘I’ll escape through the window, and I’ll never appear in her presence again.’
This was the kind of cowardice on Bari sahib’s part that I was talking about. And it was because he lacked spine that he accomplished none of the things someone of his calibre should have. After he got a job at the British High Commission, he drifted away from us. We would run into him on the road sometimes. He pretended not to recognize us. I met him at Zohra Chowk a couple of days before he died. He made me realize how a man could be destroyed in the process of making compromises. I was genuinely upset. Was this the same Bari sahib whose support had led to Manto being reborn?
Have patience, my brothers. I had written explicitly in Ganjay Farishtay about Bari sahib’s ardent desire to be a social reformer. He wanted to be well known across the entire country. He would be the venerated pioneer who had shown the nation the way. He used to dream constantly of doing something that the next generation would remember him for. But Bari sahib lacked resolve. All he could do was discuss the condition of the country with the women at Hira Mandi after a couple of drinks. When he returned, he would sit on his heels and read the namaz. I really did feel sorry for him Mirza sahib; could a man stoop so low just to save his skin? Bari sahib must be in one of these graves somewhere, perhaps he can hear me too, but there’s no window here he can escape through. There’s always a window one can use to escape, isn’t there, Mirza sahib? This is where we have to pay the price of life, with interest added to the principal. Pardon me, my brothers, for spouting philosophy again. But you know what, I couldn’t even bring myself to hate Bari sahib. I felt nothing but pity for him. Do you know what I think—the person who offers pity is a worse person than the object of it.
No, no more of this melodrama, let’s talk about Hira Mandi instead. Do you know what Lahore used to be called before the Partition? The Paris of the East. And Hira Mandi was its heart. Many people used to call it Tibbi.
Come to Tibbi to see God’s charisma
You have to see it over and over again
Hira Mandi was another name for the light of the walled city of old Lahore. This was where I had discovered Sultana and Saugandhi and Kanta, my brothers. If you thought Hira Mandi was nothing but mounds of flesh, you’d be wrong. Once upon a time the scions of nawabs and badshahs and kings and emperors used to visit the courtesans of Hira Mandi to learn etiquette and culture—the adab and the tahzeeb. It was the courtesans who were the best teachers of behaviour. Their tools were the song and the dance, the lingering glances and conversation. Those of you who have read Mirza Ruswa’s Umrao Jaan Ada will know exactly what I’m talking about. And our Mirza sahib knows everything too. He met so many famous courtesans in his lifetime. The kotha of the courtesan was not just a place you visited for pleasure. To be part of the gatherings you had to master the necessary social graces. It’s not as though you could pounce on anyone you liked. Wooing was necessary. Only if you managed to set a woman’s heart on fire did the question of going to bed with her arise. Else, listen to all the thumris and dadras and ghazals you want, watch the kathak, and then make your payment and go home.
Yes, now you’re standing at the bottom of the stairs of a kotha in Hira Mandi. There are pimps, there are flower sellers. Only after negotiating with the pimp will you be able to enter the kotha. But before that, you must buy a garland from the flower seller and wrap it around your wrist. Then you climb the stairs to the rangmahal, the hall of entertainment. The light from the chandelier, the mirrors on the walls, the classical paintings, and the fragrance of the flowers and the perfume converts your heart into a garden in an instant; the nightingales begin singing from the trees. A fine white sheet is spread over the carpet on the floor. Bolsters await you, lean back on them. The baiji appears and takes her position in the middle. Behind her are the musicians playing the sarangi and the veena and the tabla. You see that old woman sitting a little apart from everyone else, she’s the owner of the kotha. Once she was a courtesan herself, now she supervises everything. She puts the apprentices through their paces, turning them into alluring tawaifs too. Next to the owner is the silver salver, adorned with golden and silver foil, piled high with paan. On a marble stool is a golden filigree jug of rosewater. Sliced betelnuts dusted with saffron, masala and zarda lie in a small bowl. The owner will first exchange a word or two with each of the guests, sizing them up. Then a young woman will circle around the room, handing paan to everyone. What must you do? You must give her at least one silver coin. Then the baiji will come up to you in her silk shalwaar and kurta, its front embellished with an intricate pattern in golden or silver zari. Her face will be hidden behind a translucent veil, as though she’s put on a cloud of fog. Her ornaments will glitter under the lights.
Now the baiji will begin singing. A different song for each of the guests, as she sings she will give you lingering looks and gentle smiles. When the song ends, beckon her to come closer and put a bundle of currency notes in her hand. Then she will turn her attention to the other guests. You may be keen on watching her dance too. The anklets will start their patter. Cries of ‘wah wah’ and ‘bahaut khoob’ and ‘marhabba, marhabba’ will mingle with the song and the music and the rhythms of the dance. Although the glory of Hira Mandi had faded after the advent of the British, the glow of the sunset had not disappeared. But from the Second World War onwards, Hira Mandi turned into a prison of flesh. Who were
the clients then? Freshly sprouted businessmen, contractors, scum who had cashed in on the war to make quick money. They didn’t even know the meaning of the word decorum. I have seen both the Hira Mandis, my brothers. I have seen the baijis of the kothas turn into call girls, ready to get into a hotel bed with you as soon as you paid them. But to me Hira Mandi was a gold-enamelled picture.
I have seen a man become a pauper here, not for flesh but for love. I will not tell you his name, he was a landowner from Punjab. He fell in love with Zohra Jaan from Hira Mandi. He used to visit her frequently and stay with her. People used to say it was he who made her a woman. You understand what that means, don’t you, my brothers? Suddenly the landowner had a fancy for buying a car so that he could take Zohra around Lahore’s streets in it. He might have been a landowner, but he hadn’t been able to save much money; and he had spent extravagant amounts on Zohra’s family. But he had to buy a car. Eventually he bought one on loan. He had promised to return the money in two instalments a year, from the proceeds of selling the crops on his land. The loan should have been paid back in three years. The car company got its money on time only twice. After that the landowner disappeared. No one knew where he had vanished. All that could be discovered was that he had sold all his land and gone off to Calcutta with Zohra Jaan. The car was parked next to his country home, which was why the company at least got its vehicle back.
About ten years passed. The manager of the car company was at Hira Mandi with his friends for a colourful evening. Standing before a kotha, he discovered the absconding landowner looking sickly with his eyes glazed over.
— Would you like to hear Zohra Jaan sing, huzoor? The landowner approached the manager.
— What’s happened to you? Where were you all this time?
— It’s all fate, huzoor. I took Zohra to Calcutta. I tried very hard to get her into films.
— And then?
— Didn’t work. We ran out of whatever little money I had. They simply wouldn’t let Zohra work in films.
— So you came back?
— What else could I do? Zohra had to survive. How could I abandon her? So I have to get clients for her now.
Just like all the light in Hira Mandi, darkness fell on some people’s lives too. But even in this darkness I have seen a glowworm, my brothers. The glow-worm of love. Even though he was a pauper, he had not abandoned Zohra Jaan. From her lover he had become her pimp. But his love hadn’t died.
People like Bari sahib didn’t see any of this in Hira Mandi. And I used to go to Hira Mandi in search of jewels within flesh, in search of glow-worms. I swear by Allah, Manto never considered sleeping with them. Is that the truth? Or is this another of my lies?
13
What do I say of my plundered heart
This city has been looted again and again
ust like me, Dilli has also been destroyed repeatedly, only to be back on its feet each time. Sometimes I feel that the lord wrote our destinies—Dilli’s and mine—with the same quill. Although a degree of peace had returned to Dilli when I came to the city, it was the peace of death, for Dilli had long lost its lustre. You’ve read it in the history books—how waves of Farsi and Afghan and Maratha invasions, along with the infighting in the court, left the city in ruins. Everyone knows that poets like Mir and Sauda were forced to leave Dilli for Lucknow. Why did they have to go? Let me tell you a sher of Mir sahib’s, then:
Once a bustling city, it’s emptied out now
Once there was a house here at every step
Dilli was emptied out this way before my own eyes too. It felt like being in Karbala, but still I could not abandon this city. Often I wondered whether I was needed here. It had come into my life in the form of a prison, but still I had not been able to bid farewell to it. Do you know why? As I said, because the lord wrote our destinies with the same quill, Dilli’s and mine. How could I run away? Whatever life gave me, and whatever it held back, were all carved on the soul of the city. People might call it madness, but how was I to live without this junoon, this obsession? I had my back to the wall, but so what? Fire away, keep firing, I would say to myself. Let me find out how much more blood you want to see flowing, how much more of my brain you want to spill; humiliate me as much as you like, but you will still not be able to touch the fragrance deep inside, you will still not be able to damage the words that I put together for my ghazals. My sins will not survive, people will forget your attacks too. Only the words and rhythms will still be alive, and their name will still be Mirza Ghalib. But never mind all this, people will laugh; they’ll say no one can beat poets at blowing their own trumpet. When I was in Calcutta, I heard someone say, ‘You cannot live with Lakshmi and Saraswati at the same time.’ I couldn’t share a house with Lakshmi. I had fallen in love with Saraswati, after all. Ya Allah! The things I say! Gustakhi maaf, but I haven’t seen any other Hindu goddess with a veena, you see. I fell in love with Munirabai for her music. Umrao Begum would only whisper the Quran and the Hadith into my ears. Just imagine sacred flowers, Manto bhai, which no bee has ever alighted on. If the bee doesn’t drink the nectar that the flower is shoring up, where is the fulfilment? My father-in-law, Nawab Illahi Buksh Khan, would also get enraged when he heard me say all this. He wrote shers too, his pseudonym was Mahroof, as you well know. Do you know what makes me laugh? Can you locate even a single sher of Mahroof’s today? But history says he was a devoted Muslim. I bow to such devotion. Allah didn’t write about the poet Mahroof in any of his books. Do you know why not? Allah understands poetry, you see. How many wives did Hazrat, his messenger, have? And the Quran? The Hazrat had received it from Allah in the form of the rhythms of poetry. The Quran is an extraordinary work of poetry for me, Manto bhai. Birth and death, love and destiny, the entire universe, are engaged in sport in it. Just like the Vedas and the Upanishads or the Bhagvat Gita or the Zend-a-vesta; I was exhausted trying to enter this sport through my ghazals. Couldn’t I have written like Zauq sahib or Momin sahib? But I staked my life; I even told my shagird, my pupil Hargopal Tafta, look, a ghazal isn’t pretty words or rhythm, you cannot write a ghazal unless your heart has bled. In my solitude I have known how blood soaked each of my words is, Manto sahib.
But I drift. Pardon me, my entombed brothers who are listening. You know what, the failures of my life are all connected with these meandering thoughts of mine. I couldn’t even answer my accusers properly; I used to have memory lapses, you see. Every day was a new one for me—my life lasted one single day only—I have no idea what happened the next day. I admit without reservations to all of you that I have sinned many times—since the Shariyat calls such acts sins. But then judgement is not for this world, it will be delivered when the qayamat comes, in the court of the lord. But I had no desire to avenge myself on anyone. Do you know why? You’ll laugh, but I’ll say it anyway. Thank goodness I went to bed with poetry. Thank goodness I never thought of building my own haveli in Dilli. Thank goodness I was belittled at one mushaira after another. Thank goodness I did not get my pension despite my best efforts to chase it. Thank goodness I had to rely on the charity of nawabs and maharajas. Thank goodness I was reminded over and over again that your father did not possess a house, Ghalib, and you don’t possess one either. Thank goodness I was born like an orphan and lived like an orphan. Thank goodness I did time in jail for gambling—for this was how I got to know human beings. In fact, they are all shadow puppets—they have no idea where life is taking them. I didn’t, either. But they blindly believed that they were on their way to Mecca. I had never wanted to tread that path, Manto bhai. Do you remember this sher?
I am witness to the ever-changing colours of desire
Whether my desire will ever be fulfilled is irrelevant
Gustakhi maaf, all I’ve been talking about is the darkness inside. No, let’s turn to something a little more colourful. No one likes hearing about the desolate road. I don’t, either; can anyone possibly endure the incredible lightness of being without laughter and jokes? Life is s
o fragile—we will soon be separated from one another—that we cannot bear living. Would anyone believe, Manto bhai, that I could not bear the paltry weight of a single petal from a dead rose? What will people say when they hear all this? That the scoundrel knew how to charm people with his words, but what did he give his wife? Why didn’t any of their children survive beyond fifteen months even though they had so many of them? What did that idiot ever do for his sons and daughters? There’s a story that I tell these people. Have you heard of Rabeya? I’m talking of the famous Sufi devotee Rabeya of Basra, who was born to a family of beggars and was forced to survive much of her life after her parents’ death as a slave. Ittar sahib had written a story about her in his Tazkirat al-Awliya—Memoirs of the Saints. It was an amusing tale.
Someone had asked Rabeya, ‘Where are you from?’
— Another world, smiled Rabeya.
— And where are you going?
— To yet another world.
— Then what were you doing in this one?
— I dropped in to play, bhaijaan.
Don’t mistake me for a Sufi devotee because I told this story. I never had the capability of being one. I am only a man who sat before the mirror all his life, staring at his own reflection. How could I walk the path of devotion? I never made any such claim. But when those who had led their entire lives correctly, without leaving a single stain anywhere, told me that they were following the road to the Din, I had no option but to chuckle. Why had the Lord made Adam with dust, then? Why did he push him towards sin? If Allah had confined himself within his shell, how would he have known himself? Through Adam he saw himself. In the process of sinning he saw where salvation lay. Oh no, I’m not making excuses. I have heard many stories from the Mahabharata. Who has the right to be considered the most virtuous? Only Yudhishthira, whose entire life is a saga of sin. None of the other Pandavas sinned as much as he. But still the God Dharma chose to accompany him in the guise of a dog. Why? Even I don’t have the answer, Manto bhai. Let me tell you about another person. Have you heard of Pingala the prostitute? She’s been written about in the Uddhava Gita. I heard the story from a dastango at the Jama Masjid. Dattatreya Avadhoot Rajarshi was telling Yadu about his twenty-four gurus, one of whom was Pingala. Avadhoot had seen her one evening, standing in front of her house in search of a client. Evening deepened into night, but no one passed by. No client tonight, Pingala mused. It has come to this because I do not pray to God. Her mounting disappointment changing finally to serenity, she fell asleep at dawn. What did Pingala teach Avadhoot? Peace comes from abandoning hope. Just imagine, even a prostitute can be a guru.
Dozakhnama Page 11
