Saadat Manto - Why I Write - Essays

Another investigation:

Experts on religious purity have concluded that humans invented firecrackers to scare away demons.

But when humans themselves began to turn demonic, the firecrackers were turned into bullets and bombs.

A request:

A boy: I don’t want these crackers.

Father: Why not?

Boy: They make a frightening sound. Bring me one that’s quiet.

Another request:

A boy: Dad, what’s an atom bomb?

Father: The world’s largest firecracker.

Boy: Get me one, then. I’m going to set it off on

Shab-e-Barat.

A problem:

A man takes his infant son to a faqir.

He says: ‘Master, I stay near Shah Alami. God knows what’s happened to my son. It seems like he’s a shadow of heaven. On hearing a cracker’s noise, he goes into fits.’

Another problem:

A man takes his infant son to a faqir.

He says: ‘Master, I’m a refugee from Amritsar. Give me a charm for this boy of mine. Whenever he gets a chance, he gathers things and sets fire to them.’

A phuljarhi (sparkler):

A boy: In Anarkali (Lahore’s red light area), a girl was passing through. Seeing her, a man said to his friend: ‘What a firecracker!’ ( Kya patakha hai! )

Second boy: ‘Did it go off?’

First boy: ‘Yes, she took off her sandal and, patakh se, smashed it on his head.’

Second phuljarhi:

A boy: ‘Why are we stopped from setting off crackers?’

Second boy: ‘These people are orthodox types. No use saying anything to them.’

First boy: ‘What idiots! On the radio, in the newspapers, in speeches, they spew this nonsense. “Children should be kept away from the curse of firecrackers.” And yet the cracker shops are full. Instead, why don’t they just stop making crackers?’

Second boy: ‘Ssssshhh. Hope nobody’s heard that.’

— (Originally published as Patakhay)

This piece was written by Manto as a comic feature. Its quality resides not in why he doesn’t watch movies — in fact the reason is banal — but in his writing. He has a Wodehousian sense of humour, playful and inclusive. I’m not sure who he wrote this sketch for, but it is likely to have been for a magazine (because it’s fairly long) for which he might have been paid per word. This explains its trajectory as you will find out.

I have long desired that someone should ask me why is it that I don’t watch films.

My family sometimes enquires: ‘Why don’t you eat bhindi ?’

Friends frequently demand to know: ‘Why don’t you wear trousers?’

At home, and also away, people are curious enough to ask: ‘Why don’t you get your hair cut?’

Unfortunately however, as I said, I have long been waiting to be asked this question: ‘Why don’t you watch films?’

But nobody asks. Despite the fact that those who know me are also aware that I was once crazy about the movies. I often watched three in a day, and the ones I loved I watched over and over again.

From Amritsar, I’d go to Lahore — even Jalandhar — to watch. I remember that for one movie, starring a favourite heroine of mine, I had to go as far as Delhi.

So what happened that I should have given up watching them entirely?

I finally have the opportunity, this essay, to relieve myself of this burden. Else I have long suffered the invitations of my friends to see a movie with them, without their asking why, when I turned them down saying: ‘I don’t watch films.’

I wanted them to ask why, but they never did. Some of them would just shut the car’s door they had opened in invitation and move on.

Others smiled and instead of asking ‘Why not?’ would say, ‘You’re a strange man.’

Still others, behaving like Banias, would say: ‘Excellent! It saved me money.’

There was a time when from Eddie Polo to John Gilbert and from Mary Pickford to Gloria Swanson, I knew all the names, every address and even each one’s age. In fact I still remember how tall Gish was, and his sister, Dorothy Gish.

But today if someone were to bring up Paul Robinson, I think of Robinson Crusoe. If Ginger Rogers were praised, my thoughts would turn to Bombay’s Rogers Company and its delicious Ginger soda.

When my friends discuss Shanta Hublikar and Shanta Mazumdar, I shout out: ‘Shanti… shanti….’ Angel-faced Nasim Banu, gorgeous Veena, sensational Ragini. These women and their bodies no longer interest me.

You perhaps think I’ve given up on the world and its delights. That I am ready to smear ash on my forehead and head for a mountain top as a saint. But no! I live in the same world of sensory delights as you. At least for now, in any case (who can say what tomorrow will bring?)

I eat and, yes, I drink. I read good stories and praise the writing. I am moved by couplets of poetry. And yet, sirs, I don’t watch films.

At one point, the pride of my walls were photographs of actors and actresses. I was so besotted that I lovingly made the frames that held these photographs with my own hands.

In my mind I had a chamber I entered every evening. Here I would worship the stars I so loved. What has now happened that I should have locked it up? Could it be that I have become a Mahmud Ghazni-like fundamentalist?

No, sir.

Some people don’t watch films because they can’t see well. Others don’t see the films they buy tickets for because they fall asleep the instant the lights go down. Still others because they are embarrassed (or traumatized) by scenes of lovemaking. And of course there are a few among us who think this whole business of movies is the devil’s work and keep their distance.

My problem is different.

I cannot see well, it is true, but to remedy that my glasses are forever perched on my nose. My heart, praise the lord, is quite stout (and I have a cardiogram to prove it). I think of movies as the work of man, not the devil. So what’s my reason, then?

That I don’t watch films must particularly shock those who know me as a writer of films. What sort of man, they must wonder, writes them but doesn’t watch them? ‘Did he not also,’ they will think, ‘act in a movie? Yes, he did. Bugger has spent a decade in the industry but he says… “I don’t watch movies.” Must be pretending to be an eccentric.’

That isn’t true either. Let me tell you what the deal is.

It’s all make-believe. That is what has put me off the thing entirely. The story began twelve years ago, when I was looking for work in the movies.

I made many assaults on the Somnath of Bombay’s film industry. The last of these is important because, finally, I succeeded. Meaning that I was actually able to enter a studio.

I eluded a fierce Pathan guarding the gate and managed to slip in. No sooner than I did, I heard someone shout: ‘Adam bo! Adam bo!’ I froze.

A dark woman walked past. I wished she would fall for me. That we would be like the mythical Alif-Laila and this Laila would cast a spell on me. The spell would turn me into a fly, thereby sparing me the catastrophe of being discovered and thrown out.

Alas, she walked on, her ass swaying. Just then, a horde of men in armour carrying swords ran out of a corner and went into a large stable-like place. One of them, unnoticed, dropped his weapon near me. I bent to lift it, trembling, and my hand lifted it clean over my shoulder. The thing was made of plywood.

I was examining its “blade” with my thumb when a big-mustachioed man dressed as god emerged. He was walking towards the gate I had come in from, when a loud voice stopped him.

‘Where do you think you’re taking the company’s property?’ the voice demanded to know.