Manto

by Saadat Hasan Manto

  ‘Yes, it is! It only looks good if it fits. Look at how well Surayya’s clothes fit, do you ever see a crease? Do you see how good they look? Now, come on, get on with it.’ With this, she took in a breath and pushed out her breasts. When they were suitably enlarged, she held her breath and said, ‘Come on, do it now, quickly.’

  When Shakeela exhaled, Momin felt hundreds of balloons explode inside of him. He said nervously, ‘Should I take it back, bibi, the tape?’

  ‘Wait, one minute,’ she replied dismissively.

  As she said this, the clothes measure got entangled in her arms. When Shakeela tried disentangling it, Momin saw a tuft of black hair in her pale armpits. Similar hair had sprouted in his own armpits, but something about hers felt especially agreeable to him. A quiver ran through his entire body. He had a strange urge for this black hair to become his moustache. As a child, he would take black and golden corn hair and make moustaches from them. This urge now, gave him the same sensation round his nose and mouth that he had felt then, with the corn hair tickling against his upper lip.

  Shakeela had lowered her arm and her armpit was hidden once again, but Momin still saw the tuft of black hair. The image of her raised arm, and the black hair poking out, remained fixed in his mind.

  Shakeela handed Momin the measure and said, ‘Go and give it back. And thank them profusely.’

  Momin returned the measure and sat down in the house’s courtyard. Dim thoughts rose in his mind. He sat at length considering their meaning but nothing became clear. Without intending to, he opened his little trunk, in which his newly tailored Eid clothes lay.

  The smell of new cotton reached his nose, as the lid opened, and he felt the sudden urge to wash himself, put on his new clothes and go upstairs and salaam Shakeela bibi. His new cotton salwar would crinkle and his fez… No sooner had he thought of his fez than his gaze fell on its tassel and this tassel was transformed into the tuft of black hair he’d seen in Shakeela’s armpits. He took out his new fez from under his clothes and began to finger its soft, bendy tassel when he heard Shakeela’s voice.

  ‘Momin!’

  Momin put the hat back into the trunk, shut its lid and went back to the room where Shakeela was working. She had already cut many pieces of violet satin using her sample. She put the pieces of bright, slippery cloth to one side and turned to Momin. ‘I called for you so many times. Were you asleep?’

  Momin became tongue-tied. ‘No, bibi ji.’

  ‘Then, what were you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

  ‘You must have been up to something.’ Shakeela assailed him with questions, but in fact her mind was focussed on the blouse, on which she now had to put preliminary stitches.

  ‘I’d opened my trunk and was looking at my new clothes,’ Momin confessed with a forced laugh.

  Hearing this, Shakeela laughed uproariously and Razia joined in.

  Seeing Shakeela laugh gave Momin a strangely contented feeling and he wished at that moment to say or do something funny, which would make Shakeela laugh more. So, becoming coy, and taking on a girly voice, he said, ‘I’m also going to ask the mistress for some money so that I can go off and get myself a silk handkerchief.’

  Still laughing, Shakeela asked, ‘And what are you going to do with this handkerchief?’

  ‘I’ll tie it round my neck, bibi,’ Momin said in his coy voice, ‘it’ll look so nice.’

  Hearing this, Razia and Shakeela both laughed at length.

  ‘If you tie it round your neck, don’t forget I’ll use it to hang you with.’ Then, trying to suppress her laughter, she said to Razia, ‘The cretin’s made me forget what it was I called him for. What did I call him for?’

  Razia didn’t reply, but began humming a film song she’d been learning for the past two days. In the meantime, Shakeela remembered herself why she’d called him. ‘Listen, Momin, I’m giving you this vest. Take it down to the new shop that’s opened next to the chemist, the same one you went to with me the other day, and ask them how much six vests like this will cost. Be sure to tell them that I’ll ask around and so they’d better give me a discount. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, bibi,’ Momin replied.

  ‘Now leave the room.’

  Momin stepped out of the door and a few moments later the vest landed near his feet. Shakeela’s voice came from within: ‘Tell them we want something just like it, the exact same design. There shouldn’t be any difference.’

  Momin said ‘Very well’ and picked up the vest, which had become slightly moist, as though it had been held over steam for a moment and pulled away. It was warm and sweet; the smell of her body still resided in it—and all this, was very pleasing to him.

  Momin left, rubbing it between his fingers; it was as soft as a kitten. When he returned after enquiring about the prices, Shakeela had begun stitching her blouse, that violet satin blouse, far brighter and smoother than the tassel of his fez.

  The blouse was perhaps being made in preparation for Eid, which was around the corner. Momin was called many times that day: to buy string, to take out the iron; the needle broke, to buy a new one. Shakeela put off the rest of the work till the next day, but pieces of string and scraps of violet satin were strewn about. Momin was called in to clear them away.

  He cleared up well and threw everything away, except the shiny scraps of violet satin, which he saved for no particular reason.

  The next day he took them out of his pocket and sat alone, taking apart their threads. He remained busy at this game until the little bits of string became a ball in his hand. He rubbed it and pressed it between his fingers, but Shakeela’s armpit, in which he’d seen the clump of black hair, remained fixed in his mind.

  He was summoned many times that day as well. He saw the violet satin blouse at every stage. When it was still rough, it had long, white stitches all over it. Then, it was ironed and its creases vanished and shine doubled. After this, while it still had its preliminary stitches, Shakeela tried it on and showed it to Razia. In the dressing table mirror in the other room, she saw how it looked from every angle. When she was satisfied, she took it off, making markings wherever it was tight or loose. Then, she corrected its imperfections and tried it on once again. Only when it fit perfectly did she begin the final stitching.

  On one hand, the blouse was being stitched, on the other, strange and troubling thoughts came loose in Momin’s mind. When he was called into the room, and his gaze fell on the bright satin blouse, he’d feel the urge to touch, not just to touch, but to caress its soft, silky surface with his rough fingers.

  He had felt its softness from the scraps of satin. The threads he had saved had become softer still. When he’d made a ball of these threads, he discovered while pressing them that they had something of the texture of rubber as well. Whenever he’d come in and see the blouse, his mind would race towards the hair he had seen in Shakeela’s armpits. Would it also be soft like the satin, he wondered?

  The blouse was ready at last. Momin was wiping the floor with a damp cloth when Shakeela entered. She took off her shirt and put it on the bed. Under it, she wore a white vest, exactly like the one Momin had taken to enquire the price of. She put on her hand-stitched blouse over it, did up its hooks and went to stand in front of the mirror.

  Momin, still wiping the floor, looked up at the mirror. A new life had come into the blouse; in one or two places it gleamed so brightly that it looked as if the satin had turned white. Shakeela had her back to Momin, and the long curve and full depth of her spine were visible because of the close fit of the blouse. Momin could no longer contain himself.

  He said, ‘Bibi, you’ve even outdone the tailors!’

  She was pleased to hear herself praised, but impatient for Razia’s opinion, and only said, ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’ before running out of the door. Momin was left gazing at the mirror, in which the blouse’s dark and bright reflection lingered for a while.

  At night when he went into the room again to leave a jug
of water, he saw the blouse hanging from a wooden hanger. No one else was in the room. He took a few steps forward and looked intently at the blouse. Then, full of trepidation, he ran his hand over it. It made him feel as though someone was running their hand, as lightly as breeze, over the downy hairs on his body.

  That night he had many restless dreams. The deputy saab’s wife ordered him to smash a great heap of coal, but when he struck it with the hammer, it became a soft tuft of hair. Which were really the fine strands of a ball of spun black sugar. Then, these balls turned into many black balloons and began to fly up into the air. They went very high before starting to burst. The sky thundered and the tassel of Momin’s fez went missing. He went out in search of it. He wandered from place to place. The smell of fresh cotton greeted him from somewhere. He didn’t know what happened next. His hand fell on a black satin blouse. He ran it for some time over a throbbing object. Suddenly, he got up. For a while he couldn’t understand what had happened. Then, he felt fear, surprise and a pang. He was in a strange state. He was aware at first of a warm pain; but moments later, a cool ripple travelled through his body.

  Khol Do

  The special train left Amritsar at two in the afternoon and reached Mughalpura eight hours later. Many people were killed en route, many injured; some went astray.

  Ten am. Old Sirajuddin opened his eyes on the cold floor of the camp; seeing the swelling sea of men, women and children, he became still more confused. He stared vacantly at the murky sky. There was chaos all round him, but he heard nothing, as if his ears were blocked. Anyone who saw him would think he was consumed by deep worry. But that was not so: his nerves were frayed; he felt as if he were floating in a void.

  His eyes struck the sun, and he awoke with a start as its sharp blaze entered him. Images assailed from all sides. Loot. Fire. Stampede. Station. Bullets. Night. And Sakina. Sirajuddin stood up immediately, and like a madman, began surveying the sea of people all round him.

  For three full hours he scoured the camp, crying, ‘Sakina, Sakina.’ But he learned nothing of the whereabouts of his only daughter. All round him, there was mayhem. Someone looked for his son, another for his mother; someone for his wife, another for his daughter. Sirajuddin, tired and defeated, sat down on one side and tried to recall where and when he had been separated from Sakina. But as he racked his brains, his mind fixed on Sakina’s mother’s body, her intestines spilled out, then he could think no further.

  Sakina’s mother was dead. She had taken her last breath before Sirajuddin’s eyes. But where was Sakina? Her mother had said as she was dying, ‘Let me be. Take Sakina and run.’

  Sakina had been at his side. They had both run barefoot. Sakina’s dupatta had fallen down. He had stopped to pick it up, but Sakina screamed, ‘Abbaji, leave it!’ But he had picked it up anyway. His eyes fell on his coat as he remembered this. He put his hand in the bulging pocket and took out a cloth: Sakina’s dupatta! But where was Sakina?

  Sirajuddin tried hard to remember, but to no avail. Had he brought Sakina as far as the station? Had she boarded the train with him? Had he become unconscious when the train was stopped, and the rioters came aboard? Was that how they were able to make off with Sakina?

  Sirajuddin’s mind was full of questions, but not a single answer. He was in need of comfort, but then so were all the people scattered round him. Sirajuddin wanted to cry, but his eyes would not cooperate. Who knew where all the tears had gone?

  Six days later, once his nerves had settled, Sirajuddin met eight young men. They had a lorry and guns and said they would help him. Sirajuddin blessed them over and over again and gave them a description of Sakina. ‘She’s fair and very beautiful; she’s taken after her mother, not me. She’s about seventeen. Large eyes, black hair, there’s a big beauty spot on her right cheek. She’s my only daughter. Please find her. Your God will reward you.’

  The young volunteers assured old Sirajuddin, with great feeling, that if his daughter was alive, she would be by his side within a few days.

  The men made every effort, even putting their lives on the line. They went to Amritsar and rescued men, women and children, and brought them to safety. Ten days passed, but Sakina was not to be found.

  One day, the men were driving to Amritsar in their lorry, engaged in their work when, near Cherat*, they saw a girl on the side of the road. She gave a start at the sound of the lorry and began to run. The volunteers turned off the engine and ran after her, managing to catch her in a field. She was very beautiful, with a large beauty spot on her right cheek. One of the men asked, ‘Are you Sakina?’

  The girl’s face became pale. She didn’t reply. It was only after the men had reassured her that her terror left her, and she confessed she was Sirajuddin’s daughter, Sakina.

  The eight young volunteers comforted her, sat her in their lorry and gave her food and milk. She was distressed to be without a dupatta, and tried vainly to cover her breasts with her arms until one of the men took off his coat and gave it to her.

  Many days passed. Sirajuddin still had no news of Sakina. He would spend the whole day doing rounds of the different camps and offices, but received no word about Sakina’s whereabouts. At night he would pray for the success of the young men. They had assured him that if Sakina was alive, they would find her within a few days.

  One day Sirajuddin saw the young volunteers at the camp. They were sitting in the lorry. Sirajuddin ran up to them. The lorry was about to head out when Sirajuddin asked, ‘Boys, have you heard anything about my Sakina?’

  They all said in one voice, ‘We will, we will.’ And the lorry drove away. Sirajuddin prayed once again for their success and his heart was a little lighter.

  Towards evening, there was a disturbance in the camp near where Sirajuddin sat. Four men were bringing something in. He made enquiries and discovered that a girl had been found unconscious near the rail tracks; she was being brought in now. Sirajuddin set off behind them. The people handed her over to the hospital and left.

  Sirajuddin stood still outside the hospital beside a wooden pole. Then slowly, he went in. There was no one in the dark room, just a stretcher with a body on it. Sirajuddin approached, taking small steps. Suddenly, the room lit up. Sirajuddin saw a mole on the pale face of the body, and cried, ‘Sakina!’

  The doctor who had turned on the lights said to Sirajuddin, ‘What is it?’

  Sirajuddin managed only to say, ‘Sir, I’m… sir, I’m… I’m her father.’

  The doctor looked at the body on the stretcher. He checked its pulse and said to Sirajuddin, ‘The window, open it!’

  At the sound of the words, Sakina’s corpse moved. Her dead hands undid her salwar and lowered it. Old Sirajuddin cried with happiness, ‘She’s alive, my daughter’s alive!’

  The doctor was drenched from head to toe in sweat.

  * A town in the North West Frontier Province.

  Khaled Mian

  Mumtaz had taken to rising early and sweeping all three rooms of his house. He made sure he removed cigarette butts, burnt matchsticks and things of this kind from every nook and cranny in the house. When all three rooms had been cleaned, he breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

  His wife was asleep outside in the courtyard. The child was in his crib.

  The reason Mumtaz had taken to rising early and sweeping the house’s three rooms himself was that his son, Khaled, had just started walking. And, like all children at that age, he picked up whatever came his way and put it in his mouth.

  It never failed to surprise Mumtaz that despite cleaning the entire house himself every day, and with great care, Khaled, his firstborn who was not yet a year old, would always find something or the other—a flake of plaster with dirt and dust sticking to it—to pick up with his tiny nails.

  Mumtaz had become obsessed with cleanliness. If ever he saw Khaled pick something up off the floor and put it in his mouth, he would chide himself with all his heart—why had he been so careless?

  He didn’t love Khaled; he ador
ed him. But as Khaled’s first birthday approached, Mumtaz felt a dark fear grow into something of a conviction that his son would die before he was one.

  He had mentioned this foreboding to his wife. Mumtaz was famous for not believing in such superstitions. So when his wife first heard of it, she said, ‘You? And these kinds of fears? By God’s goodwill, our son will live to be a hundred. I’ve made arrangements for his first birthday that will leave you speechless.’

  Hearing this, Mumtaz felt a kind of jolt in his heart. Of course he wanted his son to live, but how could he rid himself of his fear?

  Khaled was in excellent health. One day in winter, after he had returned from taking Khaled for a walk, the servant said to Mumtaz’s wife, ‘Begum saab, you mustn’t put rouge on Khaled mian’s cheeks; someone will put the evil eye on him.’ His wife laughed loudly when she heard this. ‘You fool, what need is there for me to put rouge on his cheeks when, mashallah, they are naturally so red?’

  In winter, Khaled’s cheeks had been red, but now in summer, they seemed somewhat sallow. He was very fond of water. Before going to the office, Mumtaz would stand him in a bucket of water. Khaled would stay there at length, splashing about and spraying water all around him. It made Mumtaz and his wife very happy to see him, except that with Mumtaz now, his happiness was obscured by a cloud of sadness. He would think, ‘God, may my wife be right! Why am I possessed with this fear of his death? Why has this dread that he will die crept into my heart? Why will he die? He’s a happy, healthy kid, many times healthier than other kids his age. I must be going mad. It’s my excessive love for this child that’s causing this fear. But why do I love him so much? Do all fathers love their children in this way? Does every father live with the fear that his child will die? What the hell has happened to me?’

  After Mumtaz had swept all three rooms thoroughly, he liked to put a mat on the floor and lie down. After sweeping, especially in the summer, he would rest for half an hour without a pillow. This was how he relaxed.