Saadat Manto - Manto - Selected Stories

Since she preferred to go by Neelam, I will refer to her from hereon as that.

Neelam was the daughter of a Banarasi prostitute*. She spoke in the accent of that region, which is very pleasing to the ears. My name is Saadat, but she always referred to me as Sadaq. I once said to her, ‘Neelam, I know you can say Saadat so I don’t understand why you won’t correct yourself?’ When she heard this, a faint smile rose to her dark lips, which were in fact very thin. She replied, ‘The mistakes I make once, I don’t usually put right.’

I don’t think many people in the studio were aware that the woman they took to be an ordinary actress possessed such idiosyncrasies. She wasn’t hustling like the other actresses. Her seriousness, which every man in the studio misconstrued, was in fact, a very endearing thing.

It suited her, like rouge on her dark, clear skin. And the sadness that had settled in her eyes and the corners of her mouth set her even further apart from the other women.

I was — and still am — astonished that she had been chosen for the role of the vamp in The Beauty of the Forest; she didn’t seem at all fast or wanton. It was painful to see her for the first time on the set in the tight bodice she had to wear for her odious part. She was very good at sensing the reactions of others, and so upon seeing me, said immediately: ‘Director saab was saying, because your part isn’t that of a decent woman, you have been given these clothes to wear. I said, “If these are clothes, I might as well walk naked with you onto the set.” ’

‘And what did the director say to that?’

A faint smile appeared on Neelam’s thin lips. She said, ‘He began imagining me naked. What fools, these people are! Dressed as I am, what need is there for the poor wretches to leave anything to the imagination!’

As far as her sharp-wittedness went, little more need be said. But I want now to come to those incidents that will help me complete this story.

The rains in Bombay begin as early as June and continue until the middle of September. The rain in the first two, two and a half months, is such that work in the studio becomes impossible. The shooting of The Beauty of the Forest began in the last week of April. And when the first rain came, we were just about to complete our third set. Only one small scene remained, and as it had no dialogue, we were able to continue our work despite the rain. But when this was finished, we were put out of action for a period.

The studio crew had a lot of time to sit around and chat with each other. I’d spend whole days at Gulab’s Hotel, drinking tea. Everyone who came in was either partially or entirely drenched. The flies too, seeking shelter from the rain, collected within. It was squalid beyond words. A squeezed rag for making tea was draped on one chair; on another, lay a foul smelling knife, used for cutting onions, but now idle. Gulab saab stood nearby, devouring Bombay Urdu with his meat eating teeth: ‘I, there, not going… I going from here… there’ll be a big bust-up… O, yes, the shit is bound to hit the fan.’ Except for Harmzji Framji, his brother-in-law, Eedelji and the heroines, everyone came to Gulab’s Hotel, with its corrugated steel roof. Nayaz Muhammad, of course, came several times a day as he was rearing two cats called Chunni and Munni.

Raj Kishore did the rounds once a day as well. As soon as his large, athletic frame appeared in the doorway, everyone’s eyes, save mine, brightened. The young male actors would jump up and offer their chairs. Once he’d sat down, they’d settle around him like moths. After this, one would hear praise of Raj Kishore’s past performances, which was ready on the lips of the male extras. Then from Raj Kishore himself, we would hear the history of his leaving school for college, and from college entering the world of film. I already knew all of this by heart, and would say my hellos and goodbyes as soon as he entered, then make for the door.

One afternoon, when the rain let up and Harmzji Framji’s Alsatian, after being frightened off by Nayaz Muhammad’s cats, came bounding in the direction of Gulab’s Hotel, with his tail between his legs, I saw Neelam and Raj Kishore talking under a maulsari*. Raj Kishore was standing, swinging lightly, which he often did when by his own estimation, he was making riveting conversation. I can’t recall when or how Neelam met Raj Kishore, but she had known him before she entered the film world and might even have praised his well-proportioned, attractive body to me once or twice in passing.

I had left Gulab’s Hotel and gone as far as the porch of the recording room when I saw Raj Kishore swing a khadi bag off his wide shoulders and take out a thick notebook. I understood; this was Raj Kishore’s diary.

Every day Raj Kishore, having finished his work and taken his stepmother’s blessings, would write faithfully in his diary before going to bed. Though he loved Punjabi, he chose English for these daily entries, in which it was possible to see, here traces of Tagore’s delicate style, there of Gandhi’s political prose. There was even something of the influence of Shakespeare’s plays on his writing. But I never saw in this amalgam, anything of the writer’s own true self. Should this diary ever fall into your hands, you will know everything of Raj Kishore’s life over the last ten or fifteen years: how many rupees he gave to charity; how much he spent on feeding the poor; how many demonstrations he attended, what he wore, what he took off. And if my guess is right, on some page of this diary my name will appear next to ‘thirty five rupees’, which I once borrowed from Raj Kishore and haven’t returned to date, only because I’m certain the money’s repayment will never be recorded in the diary.

Anyway! He was reading some pages from this diary to Neelam. I could tell from a distance, from the movement of his beautiful lips, that he was praising the Lord in Shakespearean style. Neelam sat in silence on the round, cemented platform under the maulsari. Raj Kishore’s words seemed to be having no effect on her.

She was looking instead at his puffed up chest. The buttons of his kurta were open, and against his pale skin, his black chest hair looked especially attractive.

The studio had been washed clean. Even Nayaz Muhammad’s cats, who were normally filthy, were immaculate today. They both sat on an adjacent bench cleaning their faces with their soft paws. Neelam was dressed in a spotless white georgette sari. Her blouse was of white linen and it produced the gentlest, most pleasing contrast against her dark, rounded arms.

Why did she look so different?

For a moment, the question took root in my mind. When our eyes met a moment later, the disquiet in them answered my question. She was in love. She gestured to me to come over. We spoke of generalities for some time. When Raj Kishore had left, she looked at me and said, ‘Today, you’re coming with me.’

By six that evening, we were at Neelam’s place. As soon as we entered, she flung her bag onto the sofa, and without making eye contact with me, said, ‘You know, you’re mistaken?’

I understood her meaning and said, ‘How did you know what I was thinking?’

A faint, secretive smile played on her thin lips. ‘Because we both thought the same thing. You perhaps gave it no further thought. But I’ve thought hard about it and have come to the conclusion that we were both wrong.’

‘And if I say that we were both right?’

Sitting down on the sofa, she said, ‘Then we’re both idiots.’ With this, the gravity of her expression immediately darkened. ‘Sadaq, how can it be? Am I a child that I don’t know what is in my heart? How old do you think I am?’

‘Twenty two.’

‘Exactly right. But what you don’t know is that I’ve known about love since I was ten, and not just vicariously. God knows I’ve been in love. From the age of ten to sixteen, I was in the grip of a dangerous love. What effect can love have on me now?’ I looked unmoved and she grew urgent: ‘You’re never going to believe me, are you? I could lay bare my heart to you and you still won’t believe me. I know you. God help anyone who lies to you! I tell you there’s no chance of my falling in love now, but I will say this much…’ Mid-sentence, she fell into silence.