“Hindustan had become free. Pakistan had become independent soon after its inception but man was still a slave in both these countries -- the slave of prejudice … slave of religious fanaticism … slave of barbarity and inhumanity.” - Manto
I lent my friend a copy of "Manto and Chughtai: The Essential Stories" a while back. It's a beautiful little book with some 15-20 short stories by both of these prolific writers, and it made quite the journey. He passed it along to a couple of others, and it eventually found its way back to me after just two days. Their unanimous verdict? "It's too visual and uncomfortable." Well, to each their own, right? But you see as a lifelong fan, I am biased.
Saadat Hasan Manto and Ismat Chughtai had a lot in common. They were progressive, honest, and had a ‘no holds barred’ approach toward their art. Although married to different people and happily, the country called them a ‘match made in hell’. “The two kept writing, saying the bitter bad truths, getting punished for it. Through financial suffering and mental illness, both grew,” says writer Hamd Nawaz.
They emerged onto the Indian Urdu literature scene a decade before the partition of India and would go on to write for quite a long time. During this period, Manto was summoned by the court six times on charges of obscenity in his work but was never convicted.
Chughtai was summoned by the Lahore High Court on a similar charge for her “obscene” short story ‘Lihaf’ (Quilt). Who accompanied her? Manto. Not only because he was a friend and a fellow member of the Progressive Writer’s Association, but also because he had also put out an “obscene” piece of literature, 'Boo'. Simply put, they would write things that were true and uncomfortable. In a time when a word like ‘chest’ and talking about a woman’s odour were considered obscene, both of them stood for art, truth and free speech, and in some way, they are still helping us make a stand.
“If you cannot bear these stories, then society is unbearable. Who am I to remove the clothes of this society, which itself is naked? I don't even try to cover it because it is not my job; that's the job of dressmakers.” - Saadat Hassan Manto
I have read and re-read their work over the past five years. They are distinctly different. Whereas Chughtai wrote about female sexuality and femininity, middle-class gentility, and class conflict, Manto was penning down pieces about sex and desire, alcoholics, and prostitutes. The common thread is one of unabashed realism, the abstract truth, and the art of intensifying the curiosity of a clueless reader and providing closure up until the last paragraph of their stories.
Given this context, my reason for writing this piece is their work on the Partition of India. The prevalent ideology that wherever there’s sadness, there is art is true. But with mutual genocide, societal changes, displacement, migration, and killings of over a million people, the art that emerges from it needs to start a conversation. The barbarism of communal conflicts, evident from the aftermath of the partition, led to an extreme loss of life and property and damage so deep that we are still struggling with its repercussions.
In "Thanda Gosht" by Manto, amidst the chaos of the Hindu-Muslim-Sikh riots, a Sikh man returns home and is stabbed by his wife during sex when he confesses to raping a corpse. In "Toba Tek Singh," he takes us to an insane asylum, of all places, to mirror the absurdity of the Partition. The story isn't just about political boundaries; it's about the existential crisis faced by individuals caught amid this genocidal event. Bishan Singh, a Sikh inmate, becomes this poignant symbol of the partition's senselessness. Manto's use of dark humor and irony forces us to confront the irrationality of the imaginary carved line that tore families and communities apart.
Chughtai’s work "Lihaf" is a story that could either be labelled 'progressive' for its bold exploration of gender, desire, and societal norms during the Partition or, as the court chose, 'obscene.' Through the protagonist Begum Jaan's intense relationship with the quilt, Chughtai invites us to explore the hidden desires and suppressed emotions of women in a patriarchal society. The quilt, which conceals a passionate relationship between two women, becomes a metaphor for the untold stories and hidden realities that the Partition brought with it. Just as the quilt hides their love, the Partition concealed countless stories of suffering and displacement. Chughtai's audacity in addressing women's desires and complex human relationships in 1940s India was groundbreaking, controversial, and ‘madness’, exactly the way Manto describes The Partition of India.
“Don’t say that 100,000 Hindus and 100,000 Muslims have been massacred,” he wrote, “say that 200,000 human beings have been slaughtered. And it is not such a great tragedy that 200,000 human beings have been butchered, but the real tragedy is that the dead have been killed for nothing.” Manto was vocally against the partition of the country, and in his journalism, he had also predicted the rise of Islamic fundamentalism in the then-newly formed Pakistan. He lived in Mumbai and wanted to take his last breath in the same city. One evening, when he was sharing a drink with his Hindu friends, one of them commented. He mentioned that if they weren't friends, he might have killed Manto. The following day, Manto relocated to Lahore with his family. It was in Lahore that he penned the stories that delved into the cruelty of the partition.
Just as Manto’s reluctance to leave his home, in Ismat Chughtai’s story "Jadein" (Roots), when the entire family decided to migrate, no amount of force or persuasion could make Amma leave her haveli. “We tried everything, but Amma wouldn't move from where she was. She was as immovable as the strong roots of a big oak tree in a powerful storm.” Sadly, Amma, by the end, does not find peace even when she remains in her haveli because the people, her family, who had made the home, had been forced out of it.
People were killed for the god they worshipped; houses were destroyed based on how many times they prayed in a day. Today, we sit in front of our television sets cheering the loudest when we play against our own people.
In today's context, where hyper-nationalism feeds traditional gender roles, and communal conflicts while curtailing freedom of expression and of the arts, it is essential to remember Manto and Chughtai as symbols of liberation. They would still be charged with the same ‘obscenity’ in today’s day and age. They weren’t convicted then, but today?
Similar reads :
1. Manto’s Boo and Savarna Guilts by Yogesh Maitreya
2. Ismat Chughtai’s Quilt and Queer Desire by Sakhi Thirani
Art recommendation for the week:
Take some time out to watch 'Sita Sings the Blues.' It is an animated romantic comedy-drama film written, directed, produced, and animated by the American artist Nina Paley. Give it a try, and let me know what you think of it. Watch here