Saadat Manto - Manto - Selected Stories

But presently his heart sank. A voice told him that Khaled would not live to turn one. Mumtaz wished he could tear its tongue from the root. But the voice came from no place other than his own mind; Lord knows how it came and why.

Tormented by his fears, Mumtaz remonstrated with himself: ‘For God’s sake, have mercy on me! Why have you chosen a poor soul like me to cling to?’

Evening fell. Many doctors had examined Khaled. Medicines had been given; many injections administered, but Khaled remained unconscious. All of a sudden, a voice rang in Mumtaz’s head, telling him to leave the hospital room, to go away immediately or Khaled would die.

Mumtaz went out of the room. He left the hospital. The voice continued to ring in his head. He gave in to it, his every movement, his every action surrendered to its will. It took him into a hotel. It told him to drink alcohol. The alcohol came; it ordered him to throw it away. Mumtaz threw the glass from his hand; the voice told him to order more. A second glass came; it told him to throw this away too.

After paying the bill for the alcohol and the broken glasses, Mumtaz went outside. Everywhere there seemed to be silence and more silence. In his mind alone, there was clamour. He arrived back at the hospital and headed for Khaled’s room, but the voice spoke: ‘Don’t go there, Mumtaz. Khaled will die.’

He turned around. There was a bench in a grassy maidan. He lay down on it. It was ten at night. The maidan was dark and silent. Sometimes the horn of a car would graze the silence as it went past. Up ahead, over a high wall, the illuminated hospital clock could be seen. Mumtaz thought of Khaled. ‘Will he survive? Why are children who are meant to die born in the first place? Why is that life born that has to go so quickly into the mouth of death? Khaled will definitely…’

That instant, he felt a rush of fear and fell to his knees. The voice ordered him to remain in this position until Khaled recovered. Mumtaz remained prostrate. He wanted to say a prayer, but was told not to. His eyes filled with tears. He prayed not for Khaled, but for himself. ‘God, free me from this ordeal! If you want to kill Khaled, then kill Khaled! What torment is this?’

Then he heard a noise. Some distance away, two men were sitting on chairs, eating and talking amongst themselves.

‘Such a beautiful kid.’

‘I can’t bear to see the mother.’

‘The poor thing, she falls at the feet of every doctor.’

‘We’ve done every possible thing on our end.’

‘It’ll be difficult to save him.’

‘I said to the mother, “You have to pray, sister.” ’

One doctor looked towards Mumtaz, who was still prostrate on his knees. He yelled loudly, ‘Hey, what are you doing there? Come here!’

Mumtaz rose and approached the doctors. One asked, ‘Who are you?’

Mumtaz, running his tongue over his dry lips, said, ‘Sir, I am a patient.’

‘If you’re a patient,’ the doctor replied harshly, ‘then you must go inside. Why are you in the maidan doing squats?’

Mumtaz replied, ‘Sir, my boy… is in that ward over there.’

‘That’s your child who…’

‘Yes, perhaps it was him you were speaking of. He’s my son. Khaled.’

‘You’re his father?’

Mumtaz nodded his tormented head, ‘Yes, I am his father.’

The doctor said, ‘And you’re sitting here? Go upstairs. Your wife is beside herself!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mumtaz said and went towards the ward. He climbed the stairs and saw his servant outside the room, crying. When the servant saw Mumtaz, he cried even harder. ‘Saab, Khaled mian is no more.’

Mumtaz entered the room. His wife was lying there, unconscious. A doctor and a nurse were trying to revive her. Mumtaz went and stood by the bed. Khaled lay there with his eyes closed. Death’s peacefulness was apparent on his face. Mumtaz stroked his silky hair, and in a choking voice, said, ‘Will you have a sweet?’

Khaled did not move his head to say no. Mumtaz implored him, ‘Khaled mian, will you take my fears away with you?’

Mumtaz thought Khaled nodded his head in assent.

This story is from the days when there wasn’t so much as a hint of the present war. It happened some eight or nine years ago, when, unlike today, even life’s upheavals came in an orderly fashion.

I was employed at the time with a film studio, earning forty rupees a month, and my life moved at an even, happy pace. I’d arrive at the studio around ten, give Nayaz Muhammad Villain’s cat two paise worth of milk, write B-grade dialogues for a B-grade movie, joke a little with the Bengali actress who, in those days, was called Bulbul Bangal, then suck up to Dada Gore, who was the biggest film director at the time, and finally make my way home.

The studio owner Harmzji Framji, a fat, red-cheeked bon vivant of sorts, was madly in love with a middle aged actress who looked like a transvestite. His favourite pastime was sizing up the breasts of every newly arrived actress. Another Muslim hooker from Calcutta’s Bow Bazaar carried on affairs simultaneously with her director, sound recordist and scriptwriter. The point of these affairs of course, was to ensure that all three remained in love with her.

The Beauty of the Forest was being shot at the time. And it was for this film that, after feeding Nayaz Muhammad Villain’s wild cats — which he’d bred in order to create heaven knows what effect on the crew — two paise worth of milk, I would write dialogue as if in another tongue; for I knew nothing of what the film’s story or plot was. At the time, I was a mere clerk whose job it was to stand with a pencil and paper, noting down whatever was said, wrong or right, in Urdu that director saab could understand.

But, anyway! The Beauty of the Forest was being shot and a rumour had begun to circulate that Harmzji Framji was bringing a new face onto the set for the role of the vamp. The part of the hero had already been given to Raj Kishore.

Raj Kishore was a handsome, well-built young man from Rawalpindi. People generally thought that his physique was manly and attractive. I thought about this often, and though his body was certainly athletic and proportionate, I could never see the attraction. This might well be because I, myself thin and weedy, generally favour people of my own body type.

That’s not to say that I hated Raj Kishore; I’ve hated very few people in my life; but I didn’t like him much. I’d like to reveal my reasons to you gradually.

Raj Kishore’s accent and manner of speaking, which were typical of Rawalpindi, I adored. If ever there is beauty and music to be found in Punjabi, it is to be found in the language spoken in Rawalpindi. The language of that city is at once masculine and feminine, both sweet and textured. When a woman from Rawalpindi speaks to you, it’s like the taste of a ripe mango’s juices flooding your mouth… It wasn’t mangoes I was speaking of though, but Raj Kishore, of whom I was considerably less fond.

As I said before, he was a handsome, well-built young man. If the matter had ended there, I would have had no objection. The problem was that he, Kishore that is, was only too aware of his good looks and physique, a vanity which I find insufferable.

To be well-built is one thing but to foist it on everyone else like an illness is quite another. And Raj Kishore was badly afflicted with this disease. He was always trying to impress those smaller and weaker than him with an unnecessary show of his physique.

There’s no doubt that I myself am sickly and weak; one of my lungs can barely draw air; but God be my witness, I have never once advertised this weakness. I’m aware that men can profit from their weaknesses no less than they can from their strengths, but I believe it’s wrong to do so. Beauty, for me, is something to be praised quietly, not loudly and garishly.