Saadat Manto - Naked Voices - Stories And Sketches

The British government considered me a writer of pornography. My own government thinks the same. The British government had let me go, but it doesn’t look like my own government will do the same. The trial court here sentenced me to three months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine of Rs 300. I appealed in the sessions court and was acquitted. But my government thinks an injustice has been done and so it has filed an appeal in the high court to review the session court’s judgment and give me an exemplary punishment. Let us see what the high court has to say.

I deeply regret that my country is not like yours. If the high court verdict goes against me, there is not a single newspaper in this country that will publish my photograph or the story of my many encounters with the law.

My country is extremely poor. It has no art paper, nor any good printing presses. In fact, I am the biggest proof of its poverty. You will, no doubt, find this hard to believe. Uncle Sam, I have written twenty-two books yet I do not have my own house to live in! And you will be astounded to know that I do not own either a Packard or a Dodge to move around in — not even a second-hand one!

I take a cycle on rent when I need to go out. And, sometimes — when I get twenty or twenty-five rupees for a newspaper article at the rate of Rs seven per column — I take a tonga and drink some locally-brewed liquor. If this liquor was brewed in your country, you would no doubt drop an atom bomb on the distillery where it is made because it can destroy a man in a year.

Look how far I have digressed. Actually, I meant to send my regards to Erskine Caldwell through you. No doubt you would know him. You have prosecuted him for his novel, God’s Little Acre for the same charge that is levelled against me here: obscenity.

Believe me, dear Uncle, I was amazed when I heard that the country that waged seven wars of independence had filed a lawsuit against him on a charge of obscenity. After all, in your country everything is naked. In your country, everything is peeled off its outer covering and showcased in display cabinets. Whether it is fruit or women, machines or animals, books or calendars — you are the King of Nudity. I used to think that in your country sanctity would be called obscenity. But what is this incredible thing you have done, dear Uncle? You have filed a case of obscenity against Caldwell!

Shocked by this news, I would have died of an overdose of my locally brewed liquor had I not, almost immediately thereafter, read about the outcome of this lawsuit. It is indeed a great misfortune for my country that it couldn’t get rid of me. But then, how would I have written this letter to you, if I had indeed been dead! Usually I am very obedient. I love my country. I shall, God willing, die in a short while. If I don’t die of natural causes, I shall do so automatically. Because where wheat flour is sold for two and three-quarters of a seer for a rupee, it would take a very shameless man to last out the usual lifespan.

So, as I was saying, I read about the outcome of the lawsuit and decided to abandon the idea of committing suicide by drinking too much bad liquor. After all, dear Uncle, you can say what you want, while everything in your country is silver coated, the judge who acquitted Brother Caldwell of the charge of obscenity is free from the influence of silver plating. If this judge (unfortunately, I don’t know his name) is alive, please do convey my warmest regards to him.

His judgment is an indication of the breadth of his vision: ‘I am personally of the view that confiscating or burying such books causes an unnecessary curiosity and amazement in people which pushes them towards seeking cheap thrills. While this book may not have been written with the intention of garnering cheap publicity and its author seems to have been actually inspired by certain sections of American life and society, I am of the opinion that truth must always be a part of literature.’

I too had said the same thing before the trial court, yet it sentenced me to three months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine of Rs 300. It was of the opinion that truth must always be kept separate from literature. Well, everyone is entitled to an opinion, I suppose.

I am willing to undergo three months of rigorous imprisonment but I cannot pay the Rs 300 fine. Dear Uncle, you have no idea how poor I am!

I am used to the rigours of hard labour but I am not used to having money. I am thirty-nine years old and I have spent most of these years doing hard physical labour. After all, do consider that despite being such a great writer I do not have a Packard!

I am poor because my country is poor. I somehow manage to find two square meals a day but some of my countrymen have to even go without that!

Why is my county poor? Why is it illiterate? You know the answer well enough. It is, as you know, the direct outcome of a conspiracy hatched between you and your brother, John Bull, but I don’t want to get into that now. For I know its very mention will besmirch your greatness. I write this letter as your humble servant and I want to remain a servant from beginning to end.

No doubt you will ask and ask with a great deal of surprise: how is your country poor when so many Packards and Buicks and such vast quantities of Max Factor cosmetics are exported from my country? This is all very well, dear Uncle, but I shall not answer your question because I know you can get the answers from your own heart (that is, if you haven’t asked your able surgeons to take it out of your breast!)

The number of people in my country who ride in Packards and Buicks do not constitute the population of my country. My country is populated by people like me and others even poorer than me.

These are bitter facts. My country does not have enough sugar, or I would have coated them before presenting them before you. Anyhow, forget that. The real issue is that I recently read a book by a writer from your friendly nation, The Loved Ones by Evelyn Waugh. I was so impressed by this book that I immediately sat down to write this letter to you.

I have long been an admirer of the individuality practiced in your country but after reading this book, I cried out uncontrollably, ‘By God, how marvellous! Bravo!’

Truly, dear Uncle, I am amazed and delighted! I must say what wonderfully alive people live in your country! Evelyn Waugh tells us that in your state of California the dead or ‘dear lost ones’ can be embalmed, and there are centres of excellence devoted to this art. If the dear departed had an ugly face, you can send him to one of these centres, fill out a form, mention your specifications and the job will be done. You can have the dead person as ‘beautified’ as you want — at a cost, of course! The best experts are available who can operate upon the corpse’s jaws and paste the sweetest smile upon its face. A twinkle can be brought in the eye, and an effulgent glow created upon the face, strictly according to requirement. And all this is done with such expertise that even the angels who come to the grave to take stock of your earthly account might think they have come to the wrong place!

Well, really Uncle Sam, by God, no one can equal your country!

We have heard of surgical operations performed upon the living. We have even heard of living people resorting to plastic surgery to improve their looks. But we had never heard that in your country even the dead can have their looks improved!

A traveller from your country had come here. Some friends of mine introduced him to me. By then I had read Brother Evelyn Waugh’s book. So I praised his country by reciting the following couplet:

Ek hum hain ke liya apni hi soorat ko bigadh

Ek woh hain ke jinhe tasveer banana aata hai