Saadat Manto - Manto - Selected Stories

People swore that his eyes possessed a magnetic power; that there was a kind of magic in his voice; and then the cool of that smiling mind, which the filthiest insult and the most poisonous abuse could not, for even a fraction of a moment, perturb! It was this that was the cause of so much distress to his opponents.

Babaji had held several demonstrations in Amritsar. But I, for some reason, despite having seen all the other leaders, had never laid eyes on him, not even from a distance. And so, when Ghulam Ali spoke to me of going to see him to request his permission to marry, I asked to be taken along as well. The following day, Ghulam Ali organised a horse carriage and we set out early for Lala Hari Ram luxurious house.

Babaji, having completed his ablutions and morning prayers, was listening to a beautiful panditani singing patriotic songs. He sat on a fig leaf mat spread out over a floor of sugar white tiles. A bolster lay near him, but he didn’t use it for support.

Except for the mat on which Babaji sat, there was no furniture in the room. From one edge of it to the other, the white tiles gleamed. Their gleam seemed to accentuate the panditani’s beauty, with her faintly onion pink cheeks and her patriotic songs.

Babaji would have been older than seventy, but his body (he only wore a saffron-coloured loincloth) was free of wrinkles. There was a glow to his skin. I later found out that every morning before bathing, he had olive oil rubbed into his body. He glanced briefly at Shahzada Ghulam Ali, then looked at me as well and, responding to our greeting with a smile, gestured to us to sit down.

Looking back, I find the scene not only interesting, but worthy of close attention. Sitting before me in an ascetic’s asana on a fig leaf mat was an old, half naked man. His posture, his bald head, his half open eyes, his dark, soft body, his face’s every feature, emanated resolve. He seemed to know that the mightiest earthquake could not unseat him from the pedestal on which the world had placed him. Some distance from him, a newly blossomed flower of the Kashmir valley bowed reverentially. She bowed both out of respect for being in the presence of this elderly man, and because she was moved by her own patriotic song. Her extreme youth seemed to want to break out of the rough white sari she wore, and to sing not just patriotic songs, but songs of her youth which, apart from revering this elderly man, might also have liked to honour some young, vigorous figure who’d grab her soft wrist and take her headlong into the roaring bonfire of life. A silent contest seemed to arise between the girl’s onion pink cheeks, dark, lively eyes and storm-filled breasts, concealed in a rough khadi blouse, and the old ascetic’s robust conviction and stony satisfaction. It seemed to say, ‘Come, either unseat me from this place where I sit now and pull me down, or take me still higher.’

The three of us, Shahzada Ghulam Ali, Nigar and I, went to one side and sat down. I was struck dumb. Babaji’s presence as well as the panditani’s unstained beauty were very affecting. Even the floor’s gleaming tiles transfixed me. I found myself thinking, even if she allows me to do nothing else, I want to kiss her eyes. The image sent a shiver through my body. My mind jumped immediately to thoughts of my maid, whom I’d recently developed something of a crush on. I felt for a moment like leaving them all there and rushing home; perhaps I’d be successful in taking her up to the bathroom without anyone seeing. But when my gaze returned to Babaji and the patriotic song’s passion-filled lyrics rang in my ears, I felt a different kind of frisson go through my body. I thought, if only I could get my hands on a pistol, I’d go down to Civil Lines and make a small start by gunning down the English.

Next to me sat Nigar and Ghulam Ali, two people in love. It had been unconsummated for too long and now, perhaps a little tired, they wished for it to swiftly reveal its colours with their becoming one. And this was what they had really come to ask Babaji, their spiritual leader, permission for. In that moment, apart from the patriotic song, the beautiful, but yet unheard words of their own life song were ringing in their ears.

The song finished. Babaji blessed the panditani with great tenderness. Smiling, he turned to Nigar and Ghulam Ali, looking briefly at me as well.

Ghulam Ali was about to introduce himself, but Babaji had an excellent memory. He said immediately in his sweet voice, ‘Shahzada, you haven’t been arrested yet?’

Ghulam Ali folded his hands and said, ‘Sir, no.’

Babaji took out a single pencil from the pen holder and began to play with it. ‘But I was under the impression,’ he said, ‘that you had already been arrested.’

Ghulam Ali didn’t understand his meaning. Babaji turned to the panditani, and pointing to Nigar, said, ‘Nigar has arrested our Shahzada.’

Nigar reddened; Ghulam Ali’s mouth fell open with surprise; the panditani’s onion pink cheeks acquired a serene glow. She looked at Nigar and Ghulam Ali as if to say, ‘This is very good news.’

Babaji once again turned towards the panditani. ‘These children have come to ask my permission to marry. And what of you, Kamal? When will you marry?’

So this panditani’s name was Kamal! Babaji’s sudden question made her start; her onion pink complexion turned red.

In a trembling voice, she replied, ‘But I am to go to your ashram.’

A faint sigh seemed wrapped up in these words, which Babaji’s quick mind took instant note of. He continued to look at her, and smiling in his ascetic’s way, addressed Ghulam Ali and Nigar, ‘So, the two of you have made your decision?’

‘Yes,’ they both replied in subdued voices.

Babaji looked at them with his fine eyes. ‘When men make decisions, they sometimes have to unmake them as well.’

Despite Babaji’s formidable presence, Ghulam Ali’s naive, fearless youth spoke. ‘This decision might, for some reason, have to be altered, but it won’t be unmade.’

Babaji closed his eyes, and in a lawyerly tone, asked, ‘Why?’

Ghulam Ali, surprisingly, was not the slightest bit perturbed. Perhaps this time, the purity of his love for Nigar spoke. ‘Babaji, take the decision we’ve made to free India. Now, perhaps Time will alter our plans, but the decision itself will stand.’

Babaji, I felt, didn’t think it apposite to argue the point. And so, he smiled. The meaning of this smile, like all his smiles, could be interpreted in completely different ways. And if Babaji were to have been asked what it meant, I’m certain he would have drawn out yet another interpretation, entirely different from ours.

But, anyway! This many layered smile widened on his thin lips, and turning to Nigar, Babaji said, ‘Nigar, you come to our ashram. Shahzada will in any case be arrested any day now.’

‘Yes, alright,’ she replied in a quiet voice.

After this, Babaji turned the conversation away from the subject of marriage and towards the political activities in the Jallianwala Bagh camp. Ghulam, Nigar and Kamal sat at length, discussing arrests, releases, milk, lassi and vegetables while I, still struck dumb, was left wondering why Babaji had been so tentative in giving his consent to the marriage. Did he doubt Ghulam Ali and Nigar’s love for each other? Did he mistrust Ghulam Ali’s integrity? Had he invited Nigar to the ashram so that she might forget her soon to be imprisoned fiancé? And as for Babaji’s question, ‘When will you marry, Kamal?’, why had Kamal replied, ‘But I am to go to your ashram’? Did men and women not marry in the ashram? My mind came under the grip of a strange turmoil even as those around me discussed whether the lady volunteers would be able to prepare chapattis on time for five hundred. Were there enough chickpeas? How big was the pan? And couldn’t a single large wood stove be constructed with a pan of the same size, on which as many as six women could make rotis simultaneously?