Dozakhnama

by Rabisankar Bal

  When I moved to Lahore my drinking went out of control, Mirza sahib. Without any friends anywhere, the days ahead loomed dark. If I died my wife and family would have to take to the streets. Every now and then came the trance that made me think I was still in Bombay. I had expected Pakistan to give me the respect due to me as a writer; I had moved from India thinking of Pakistan as my own country. But soon I realized that they thought me nothing better than a stray dog. I wished I could be in an alcoholic haze all the time, alone on a hillock engulfed by fog. Besides the hours I needed to stay awake to write, there was nothing that could bring more peace than being sunk in a drunken stupor. Hundreds of people used to appear in this stupor—indistinct shadows, all of them—I lived like a haunted house. I used to talk incessantly with these shadow men. Shafia would shake me awake, destroying my reveries. As soon as the stupor left me my body would crave liquor according to its own compulsions. My madness would be further heightened. Shafia left no stone unturned in trying to release me from this alcoholic cycle. And the more she tried, the more I resorted to new ruses to get back into my world of drunkenness. I gathered a few pals; I was aware that they had no idea of Manto the writer; we were just drinking partners. When I had no money they were the ones who bailed me out, so how could I abandon them? Excessive drinking had pushed both mind and body into a corner, infuriating me when anyone offered sage advice. Ahmed Nadim Kasimi tried to persuade me many times to stop; for some time I heard him out in silence, but finally I grew furious and told him one day, ‘You’re my friend, Kasimi, not a mullah from a mosque who’s responsible for my moral character.’ Kasimi didn’t try to reform me again. I had a couple of old friends in Lahore, but they began to drift away from me too. My extended family wouldn’t even talk to me, walking away when they saw me. Oh hell, there’s Manto—let’s get away—the bastard will ask for a loan again. Yes, that was how low I’d stooped. How much did I make from writing anyway? I needed money for my drink every day, after all. I’d try to borrow money from anyone I ran into, sometimes lying that Shafia was ill, at other times that my daughters were sick. I was aware of the bottomless depths that my addiction was leading me into, but this blind dependency was beyond my control now. I couldn’t stay calm unless I had alcohol inside me, my hands and feet trembled, my temper grew even fouler.

  I played my dirtiest trick when my eldest daughter Nighat had typhoid. Borrowing some money from a relation for medicine, I returned home with a bottle of whisky instead of pills for my daughter. Normally Shafia screamed and shouted when this happened, but she didn’t say a word this time. She looked at me with empty eyes for a long time, and then left a glass of water for me before leaving the room. I could hear Nighat’s fevered moans from the next room. As soon as I drank a sip of the whisky, neat, I vomited. In the next room I found Shafia putting cold compresses on Nighat’s forehead. Grasping her feet, I said, ‘Forgive me.’

  — She has a very high temperature. Go to your room, Manto sahib.

  — No. Forgive me. I swear by Nighat not to drink again.

  — How many more oaths will you take, Manto sahib?

  — Believe me … This time, really … I’ll start afresh, Shafia. Calmly Shafia said, ‘My energies are exhausted, Manto sahib.’

  — Believe me this last time, Shafia. You know how determined I can be. I can do anything if I try hard enough.

  Shafia smiled. —Very well. Go to bed now.

  I sat down by Nighat, running my fingers through her hair. I wanted to hold her, kiss her. I was dying of shame, what kind of father was I to use the money for my daughter’s medicine to buy whisky? Forgive me, Nighat, beti. I wanted to draw her into my arms, but I did not have the strength anymore. Eventually Shafia began to pull me away, yelling, ‘Haven’t you caused enough harm already? Leave the girl alone, Manto sahib.’

  — No. I’m going to spend the night by her side.

  — Nighat’s going to get worse if you behave this way.

  — She’s my daughter … I want to …

  — Have mercy, Manto sahib. We are not your playthings. What do you think of yourself? You’d better kill all four of us instead.

  Some people came into the room, drawn by the loud voices. Hamid’s wife merely said, ‘That’s enough, chachaji. This isn’t one of your drinking dens. Go away to your room.’

  For the first time in my life, someone had dared to look me in the eye and speak to me like this, Mirza sahib. I was unable to retort. Coiling up in my shell like a snail, I returned to my room. I didn’t have the willpower to respond. Not humiliation, nor self-loathing—I felt as though I had nothing to fall back on. I had handed them the weapons to wound me with. I decided that I really wouldn’t drink anymore; I would have to start afresh in Lahore, run my household as efficiently as I did in Bombay.

  The next morning I started with the household chores. I swept and swabbed every single room with my own hands, dusted the cobwebs on the walls and furniture. One of the chairs had a broken leg; I repaired it. I sold all the old documents and liquor bottles that had gathered. In the veranda I strung up a swing for the children. I bought a cage full of colourful birds at the bazaar. Nuzhat and Nusrat—my two younger daughters— ran up to me and hugged me. Their eyes were shining like stars. I wept, Mirza sahib. These two little girls could be so happy with such small things, but I had never noticed it in my drunken haze.

  Shafia came and asked in a sombre tone, ‘What is this new madness, Manto sahib?’

  — How can a home be built without birds, Shafia?

  — Whose home are you talking about, Manto sahib?

  — Why, ours, of course, Shafia. Why should I try to build someone else’s home?

  — You want to build the home? So that you can destroy it all over again?

  Gripping Shafia’s hand, I said, ‘Have faith in me this one last time, Shafia. And help me a little. I will build a home for us once more.’

  — I have survived all this time only out of my faith in you, Manto sahib. Or else I’d have committed suicide long ago.

  — Shame, Shafia. Don’t forget you have three daughters.

  — Aren’t they your daughters too?

  — Trust in me, Shafia; those nightmarish days will never return.

  For some time I led a completely different life. I was very weak because I wasn’t drinking, for which I got vitamins and tonics. It wasn’t just our family, but everyone else around us who also joined the celebrations. Manto has given up drinking—no news could be sweeter for all of them. Not that any of them could quite believe it. This had happened several times before. This time too, Manto broke everyone’s trust. He got back together with his drinking pals in just a few days. The bottle re-entered the house. I could make out that my dependence on alcohol had reached an extreme point. I couldn’t write a word on the days I didn’t drink. And if I didn’t write, how were the expenses to be met? Survive or perish—alcohol became my final refuge, Mirza sahib.

  I had come to Pakistan with such hope. Many questions were connected with this optimism. Would the new nation of Pakistan have a different literature of its own? If it did, what form would it take? Which of the two nations was the legitimate owner of the literature that had been composed in undivided India? Would this literature also be split into two? Would Urdu be utterly destroyed across the border? For that matter, what form would the language take in Pakistan? Would ours be an Islamic nation? Would we be able to remain faithful to the nation but still criticize the government? Would we have better lives than under the British? I did not get the answers to these questions, Mirza sahib. How could someone who ran his household by peddling stories afford the time to think about such weighty matters? Moreover, the Pakistan government was perpetually out to get me. There were charges of obscenity and fines for my stories ‘Thanda Gosht’ and ‘Upar, Neeche, aur Darmiyan’—‘Upstairs, Downstairs, and In Between’. Many writers and intellectuals of Pakistan wanted me to be imprisoned and taught a severe lesson. Regular appearances in court, continuous
cross-questioning … I couldn’t take such pressure anymore, Mirza sahib. Drinking caused me pain, but so did abstinence. The doctor had declared that my liver was close to collapsing—my brain wasn’t functioning properly anymore either—I had no other option but suicide. Still, I did give up drinking a countless number of times. And fell even more severely ill each time. Once, Shafia asked, ‘Do you really want to give up drinking, Manto sahib?’

  — There can be no bigger release in my life, Shafia.

  — Then will you listen to what I say?

  — Tell me.

  — You need treatment for some time.

  — Where?

  — You will have to be admitted to the ward for alcoholics at the Punjab Mental Hospital. They will definitely cure you. You won’t feel the desire to drink again.

  — Are you sure?

  — Many people have been cured, Manto sahib.

  — All right. I’ll admit myself. Call Hamid.

  When Hamid appeared I told him, ‘Make arrangements for my admission to the hospital, Hamid. As quickly as possible.’

  Hamid made all the arrangements the very next day. However, I had to run away before they could take me to the hospital. I was told that the hospital superintendent’s fee was thirty-two rupees. The money had to be collected. I took some advances from a couple of magazines, on the condition that I would deliver stories to them when I was released from the hospital. I borrowed some more money from one or two other people and came back home. They had thought that I had fled in order to avoid being hospitalized. But I was indeed admitted to the hospital. The first few days were terrible. A demon used to stir inside my body, demanding sustenance. But six weeks later, it was a different Manto who walked out of the hospital. My body was ravaged, it was true, but still my former sheen seemed to be in evidence. Believe me, my brothers, I didn’t drink for eight whole months after this. And besides a string of stories, I wrote all kinds of other things as well.

  One day I told Shafia, ‘I’ve recovered. Let’s go away from Pakistan now.’

  — Go where, Manto sahib?’

  — To Bombay.

  — You cannot forget Bombay, can you?

  — Bombay is my second birthplace, Shafia.

  — Who will give you a job in Bombay?

  — Let me write to Ismat … I’m sure she can arrange something in Bombay.

  — Ismat behen doesn’t enquire after you, Manto Sahib.

  — She lives in her own world. She’ll definitely respond if I return to Bombay. You’re ready to go, aren’t you?

  — I’ll go wherever you go.

  I wrote to Ismat at once—I want to return to Bombay. I want to stay in India. Make arrangements for me, Ismat. So that all of us can go back. I am absolutely fine now. If you can find a job for me with a studio, we can spend our lives together again, all of us.

  I wrote to Ismat twice or thrice more. She didn’t answer. Did Ismat believe till the end that I was an opportunist who had moved to Pakistan to look after his own interests? Or perhaps she had come to know that alcohol had consumed me completely, that I had no way of returning. But I waited for her letter every single day. My drinking also intensified in proportion. I passed the days in a drunken haze, holding conversations with the characters from my stories.

  Yes Mirza sahib, I was dying, consciously dying a little every day. I lacked the courage to kill myself by putting a noose round my neck or taking poison or slitting my veins. I used to love myself and Shafia and our three daughters madly. So I chose the path of slow poisoning. I had no wish to stay alive in a country that had heaped nothing but calumny and condemnation on me. And I was only too aware of the burden I was becoming on my family with every passing day. Neither hatred nor pity—they did not even consider me a human being anymore.

  One night in my sleep I heard someone whispering to me, ‘Manto bhai, Manto bhai …’

  I opened my eyes to find Ismat at my bedside, crunching an ice cream bar between her teeth and smiling.

  — When did you come, Ismat behen?

  — Ages ago. I’ve been trying to wake you all this time.

  — Where’s Shahid? Hasn’t he come.

  — Of course he has. Get dressed quickly.

  — For what?

  — You’re going to Bombay.

  — Bombay! I leapt out of bed. —Have you fixed up a job for me?

  — You bet!

  — Shafia … Shafia … I shouted. —Come quickly, Shafia. Didn’t I tell you Ismat couldn’t possibly ignore my letters?

  Shafia came and put her arms around me. —What is it, Manto sahib? Did you have a bad dream?

  — Give Ismat some nashta-paani. Where’s Shahid? Call him.

  — Where’s Ismat, Manto sahib?

  — Here she is … Right here … Where did she go? She must be hiding in your room, Shafia.

  Shafia clasped me to her breast like a baby. Running her fingers through my hair, she made me lie down again. —Go to sleep, Manto sahib, go to sleep. Her fingers played like a feather all over me.

  I woke up early next morning. The strains of a Punjabi folk song I had heard long ago wafted in from somewhere. I found Shafia asleep near my feet. Her face was glowing, as though she had been born only this morning. The Partition had not cast a shadow on it; it was not spattered with blood from the riots. She was a sleeping maiden in a Pahadi painting; a new world was being born around her. The sky, the water, the air, the clouds, the flying cranes, the deer and does—a celebration was underway in my room.

  Suddenly my belly churned and vomit gushed out. A stream of blood spread across the bluish-yellow water in the bathroom sink. And then there was nothing but blood. I was startled when I rinsed my mouth out and looked at myself in the mirror, Mirza sahib. Who was this? Was it Saadat Hasan Manto, or was it Death himself? I patted his back. ‘You’ve won this time, Manto. Just hang on by the skin of your teeth for a few days more.’

  45

  anto’s pen will stop now, my companion, my reader. Mirza sahib is sunk in deep sleep. What else does he have left to say? The death of the tehzeeb that came with the death of Shahjahanabad also marked the end of Mirza Ghalib. The next twelve years were just a question of surviving, alive but lifeless. Afflicted by disease and old age, unable to walk, hard of hearing, his vision dim, his memory fading. I do not want to write about this ruin anymore. Now it only remains to wait for the day when I will say ‘Khudahafiz’ and take your leave.

  But I want to tell you about my dream last night before I go. I was strolling outside the Jama Masjid. Suddenly someone came up to me and grasped my arm. Looking up, I saw it was Kallu.

  — What are you doing here, Manto bhai?

  — Do you know me?

  — How could I not? Kallu smiled. ‘I’ve been hearing so many stories from you and Mirza sahib from my grave.’

  — From your grave?

  — You were in your grave too, Manto bhai, don’t you remember?

  — But I’m not dead yet, Kallu.

  — Really? Kallu scratched his head. ‘I must have dreamt it then.’

  — Dreamt? But you’re dead, Kallu …

  — So what, Manto bhai?

  — Do dead men dream?

  — You bet they do. Do you know how many dreams are floating about in this world? There are more dreams than people on earth. That’s why they possess dead men as well. Would you like to hear a story, Manto bhai?

  — A story? Who’s telling stories here?

  — Oh I come here every day. And I inevitably find a dastango. There he is …

  — Who?

  — That man there, wrapped in a blanket, he’s a wandering storyteller.

  — How do you know, Kallu?

  — See for yourself—he can’t stop laughing to himself. Do you know why? People who have stories bursting out of them just cannot stop laughing. Come, come with me.

  Going up to the man, Kallu sat down in front of him.

  — Mian …

  — Who is it? Glancing
at Kallu, the man smiled. Oh, it’s Kallu mian …

  — You know who I am, mian?

  — Is there anyone in the whole wide world who doesn’t know you? Damned Kallu Qissakhor, Kallu the story addict.

  Kallu burst out laughing. Tugging at my arm, he said, ‘Sit down here, Manto bhai, sit down.’

  — I see you’re famous, Kallu. I chuckled.

  Turning to me, the man in the blanket said, ‘How many people really know how to listen to stories, janab? Some scratch their ears, others finger their arse. Their eyes wander. There’s an etiquette to listening to a story. Just as you trust in the lord, so too must you trust in the story and keep listening. I wander about on the road, I look for an audience, but no one has the time these days for stories. The world has become far too violent, janab. No one understands that stories can restore peace to the heart.

  — Then start, mian. Kallu spoke excitedly.

  — Don’t rush me, Kallu mian. Give me time to turn over the pages of my heart. How will telling a story make me happy unless I’m fulfilled by it?

  For a long time the man sat with his head bowed, muttering to himself, and crooning softly. Then he said with a smile, ‘The story of the shaikh will go down well today. This is a story about the search for the eye that lies within the heart.’

  He remained sitting with his eyes shut for a few moments, and then began his tale.

  A shaikh had lost both his sons to illness. But no one had ever seen him weep or grieve for his children. He went to work punctually every day, even hummed to himself at work, and laughed and joked with everyone when he returned home. The shaikh’s mother and wife grew increasingly surprised at this behaviour. One morning, when the shaikh was at breakfast, his mother exclaimed, ‘Can you imagine the state we’re in, beta, after losing two of our boys? Our hearts bleed constantly. Have you even looked at your wife lately? She’s wilting by the day. You go to work as usual every day, as though nothing has happened …’ The shaikh’s mother broke down in tears.