Saadat Manto - Manto - Selected Stories

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.

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.