The Idea of Manto

• Takshi Mehta
• July 31, 2022

Janata Weekly at your finger tips!

Register to get Janata Weekly into your mailbox and whatsapp!SubscribeSubscribe to Hardcopy

Saadat Hasan Manto, born on May 11, 1912 in Ludhiana in British India, is an enduring literary icon and one of those few people that both India and Pakistan see as their own. India claims him because he lived here for the better part of his life, 36 years to be precise. Pakistan also claims him because after the Partition he migrated to Lahore and lived there for seven years until he took his last breath there. However, in reality, Manto belonged nowhere, even whilst his art is poignantly treasured on both sides of the border.

After the Partition, when he moved to Pakistan, his heart yearned for his precious Bombay (now Mumbai), the place he had called home all along. Within a span of a year, his life was altered completely and, ironically, while the world would know him as an icon claimed by both Pakistan and India, Manto himself suffered the agony of being displaced. Soon after he moved to Lahore from Bombay, he spiralled into depression and found solace in alcohol, which eventually became the cause of his death. Manto may have died eight years after the Partition, but it is no revelation that it was the Partition that killed him. Devastated and disappointed, Manto’s loneliness in a foreign land that he couldn’t call home engulfed him and sucked the life out of him.

Saadat Hasan Manto is a testament to the human tragedy that the Partition was and a reminder that it was not a political, religious or practical ‘solution’ as we are taught to believe. It was a heinous crime that went on to become not only one of the greatest human tragedies in history, but also one of the most prolonged. After all, 75 years is a long time to suffer at the hands of an atrocity, but the Partition is a gift that keeps on giving.

Even today, religious polarisation, which was the foundation of the Partition, continues to poison our country. Kashmir continues to grapple with territorial disputes that the Partition has left as its legacy. Every day, as our peace and security is threatened and disrupted, it is Manto who firmly reminds us to not let ourselves get lost in statistics. He represents the agony of individual trauma and implores us to mourn for singular losses because the only end to violence and hate is the ability to repent and regret, but if every catastrophe is measured by a number, then how fickle will a human life become?

Had Manto been alive today, I wonder what he would have said after looking at our state of affairs? I suppose he would be anguish, just like he was then. On his 110th birth anniversary, we must celebrate the idea of Manto, the writer, his rebellion and unwavering legacy he left behind.

Manto was known as a Punjabi writer but he belonged to a Kashmiri family that had settled in Amritsar. He didn’t write in Punjabi, but in Urdu and, therefore, he was also an Urdu writer. In 1936 he moved to Bombay, the only place he would ever call home. During the Partition, he migrated first to Karachi and then to Lahore in 1948. He wasn’t very religious, but he was still known as a Muslim writer, an identity that forced him to move to the Muslim-majority country unwillingly because as he solemnly says in the film Manto by Nandita Das, “itna musalman toh hoon ki mara ja sakoon (I am Muslim enough to get killed)”..

So, then who was Manto? If we call him an Indian, he was also a Pakistani. If we call him Punjabi, he was also Kashmiri, with the streets and corners of Bombay also an integral part of his identity. Manto himself, I believe, would have preferred to be all of this, but in the society he lived in, and we continue to live in, such identities that are complex and inclusive in equal parts are frequently frowned upon. He threatened conformity and the establishment when he was alive and continues to threaten it even today through his legacy, which is why rereading Manto in a contemporary light in a crumbling nation is imperative.

In contemporary society, divisive politics is more rampant than ever and in such a state of affairs, Manto symbolises all the things that do not get along well with the establishment. The easiest way to rule for the establishment is to categorise people in different brackets that are reductive and convenient. However, Manto fails to fall into these brackets, not just because of his complex identity, but also because of his radical choices and work. That said, divisive politics is crude and intransigent and seeks to box people in the barricades of “us” and “them” and all who challenge the status quo naturally fall in the latter category. It is no surprise that Manto was tried six times for obscenity, thrice in British India and thrice in Pakistan. He was never convicted.

Manto’s work, primarily short stories, is known to be gut-wrenching and disturbing. They are not just a commentary of the times he lived in, but also of the broader ‘human failings’ as Naseeruddin Shah puts it, and that is why it is painstakingly relevant even today. Partition is a common theme in most of his works, such as ‘Toba Tek Singh’.

The story takes place two-three years after 1947 and focusses on the inmates of a mental institution in Lahore. Its main character, Bishan Singh, is a Sikh who is being sent to India, in an exchange of Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims between Pakistan and India. Bishan Singh is from the village of Toba Tek Singh and is distraught trying to understand whether his home is in India or Pakistan. When a soldier tells him that Toba Tek Singh is in Pakistan, but he has to go to India because he is a Sikh, he defiantly stands in the no-man’s land between the two countries and eventually dies there. Through ‘Toba Tek Singh’, Manto demonstrates how there’s more insanity in the outside world than there is inside a psychiatric ward.

In ‘Thanda Gosht’ (cold flesh), a story for which he was tried for obscenity and pornographic content, he talks about how during communal violence a man named Ishwar Singh abducts a Muslim girl after killing her family and then attempts to rape her, only to find out that she is dead.. Similar to most of his work, this story, too, dwells on how the Partition brought out the worst in mankind. Manto’s work, whether ‘Kali Salwar’, ‘Hattak’, ‘Khol Do’, is mainly focussed on uplifting and acknowledging the trauma that the downtrodden go through every day. From prostitution and sexual peversion to religious discrimination and political propaganda, Manto held up a mirror to society, a sight that many squirmed at. However, as Manto believed and often said, if his writings reeked of obscenity and impropriety, then it was only because reality was worse.

Alas, Manto’s India isn’t all that different from contemporary India that still finds itself rooted in the same prejudices and mindsets. Which is why reading Manto today teaches you to challenge authority and the status quo whenever it’s needed. It also tells you that as a species we’ve always sought ways to discriminate, and that hate is the easiest of human emotions. Had Manto been alive today, he would have turned 110 years old, and he remains an integral part of both India and Pakistan’s cultural landscape. He lives on through his readers, who attempt to make sense of their reality today by diving into the discourse of the past as documented by him.

“Hindustan had become free. Pakistan had become indepedent soon after its inception but man was still slave in both these countries—slave of prejudice, slave of religious fanatcisim, slave of barabrity and inhumanity”, writes Manto. A man with love in his heart and compassion in his pen, Manto is a reminder to the best of us, and the worst of us to be empathetic humans.

(Takshi Mehta is an independent journalist who believes that we are what we stand up for, & therefore she writes. Courtesy: Frontline magazine.)

Shared by Dr. Syed Ehtisham

Death: Evolution 

of a Working-Class Poet

On the Bicentennial of Shelley’s 

Death: Evolution 

of a Working-Class Poet

• Jenny Farrell
• July 31, 2022

Janata Weekly at your finger tips!

Revolutionary socialist Friedrich Engels’s enthusiasm for Shelley lasted a lifetime. Even before he went to England as a young man, he tried his hand at translations of the English revolutionary romantic, who had been enthusiastically received by both the English and German working classes. In bourgeois cultural circles, his name was unfamiliar—even Goethe and Heine did not know him, unlike Byron, one of the most celebrated poets of his time.

In his Letters from England, Engels wrote, “Byron and Shelley are read almost exclusively by the lower classes; no ‘respectable’ man is likely to have the latter’s work on his table without coming into the most terrible disrepute.” Together with some poet friends, he even planned a German edition of Shelley and translated some of the poems into German himself, which he later made available to Eleanor Marx (daughter of Karl Marx) for her ‘Shelley and Socialism’ lecture, when it was published in translation in the German Social Democratic press.

Shelley was born shortly after the French Revolution, heir to a substantial estate and also to a seat in Parliament, on August 4, 1792, in Sussex, England. As a son of the upper classes, he attended Eton College and was subsequently enrolled at Oxford University. Britain was in political turmoil in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, with food riots, Luddite rebellion, unrest in Ireland, the threat of Napoleon’s armies, and a growing bourgeois reform movement. The ruling class feared the example set by the French might infect their own working class and reacted with repression. The young Shelley took part in campaigns for the release of imprisoned democrats and worked to create an association of radical democratic people. At Eton, he began to write and also to express atheist views. Atheism was deemed infinitely more dangerous in repressive Britain than the suspect Dissenters and Catholics. In 1811 Shelley was expelled from Oxford University and disowned by his family for publishing The Necessity of Atheism.

The Necessity of Atheism is one of the earliest treatises in England on atheism and argues that since faith is not governed by reason, there is no evidence for the existence of a god. The universe could always have existed, and if there had been an initial impetus, it need not have been a god.

This text led to his exclusion from the circles of power to which he was entitled by birth. In the same year, at 19, Shelley also eloped with Harriet Westbrook, three years his junior, and married her in Scotland. This led to further estrangement from his family, as well as from the Westbrook family. Shelley was a follower of the radical publicist William Godwin, author of An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice (1793), who argued, among other things, for gender equality and against the marital morality of the time. Both Godwin and Shelley respected the views of the women around them, which included unmarried couples, as well as independent women who worked and raised their “illegitimate” children. Shelley rejected the marriage institution as deeply misogynistic and was one of the early advocates of women’s emancipation.

In February 1812, Shelley and Harriet sailed to Dublin. Here they campaigned vigorously for the emancipation of Catholics and the abolition of the Union. As early as 1811 Shelley had written a “poetical essay” in support of the imprisoned Irish journalist Peter Finnerty, a former editor of the United Irishmen’s journal, The Press. In preparation for his campaign in Ireland, Shelley had penned An Address to the Irish People. His second pamphlet, Proposals for an Association, even appealed to the remaining United Irishmen to give Irish politics a more radical direction by peaceful means. Shelley was a great admirer of Robert Emmet and the United Irishmen and wanted to form an association that openly worked toward an egalitarian republic, and supported legal equality and freedom of the press. He also had a Declaration of Rights printed in Dublin in the tradition of the American Revolution, distributed it, and appeared at various events. Together with John Lawless, an associate of Daniel O’Connell, he planned to found a radical newspaper and publish a new history of Ireland. Shelley advocated peaceful means throughout his life, despite Godwin’s disapproval that he was planning “bloody scenes.” Nevertheless, he realized that he had to go beyond Godwin and Thomas Paine.

The Shelleys moved to Wales to agitate for better conditions among the agricultural workers. This even led to an assassination attempt on Shelley in early 1813, probably instigated by the landowner Robert Leeson, son of one of the wealthiest Ascendancy families in Ireland, whereupon Shelley fled from Wales back to Ireland. There, in the seclusion of Ross Island in Killarney, he completed his first major verse narrative, Queen Mab, and returned to London shortly afterward. Here he met with Godwin, whose An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice alongside Rights of Man, by Godwin’s friend Thomas Paine, had become one of the best-known political pamphlets in England. Godwin’s wife Mary Wollstonecraft, who died in childbirth, had written A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, a foundational document of the early women’s movement, following Paine’s Rights of Man.

Shelley’s relationship with Harriet had become difficult. In 1814 he fell in love with Godwin’s daughter Mary and fled with her to war-torn France and Switzerland at the end of July; they returned in mid-September. In November 1814 Harriet gave birth to a son, and in February 1815 Mary Godwin delivered a premature daughter who died days later; the following January, Mary had a son. Byron left England at the end of April 1816. Shelley and Mary followed him to Switzerland in May. In December 1816, Harriet Shelley committed suicide by drowning, pregnant again by another brief relationship. Shelley, who had continued to care for Harriet, then married Mary Godwin. He lost custody of his two children when Harriet’s family cited Queen Mab as evidence of his atheism and rejection of marriage. The children were placed in the care of a clergyman.

The deaths of two more children left deep scars, and as late as June 1822, a few weeks before Shelley’s death, Mary miscarried and nearly died herself. After the suspension of habeas corpus in March 1817, opposition journalists fled or were imprisoned. Shelley wrote Laon and Cythna, which appeared edited as The Revolt of Islam at the end of the year. In March 1818, the Shelleys emigrated to Italy. In the remaining four years of his life in exile, Shelley wrote his major works.

Two hundred years ago, on July 8, 1822, Shelley drowned in a sailing accident. Condemned by conservative critics as an immoral outsider, he did not live to see the bourgeois-democratic and burgeoning proletarian movements take possession of his work.

Eleanor Marx continued Marx and Engels’s Shelley enthusiasm. In her Shelley lecture, she answered the question of Shelley’s socialism as follows:

“Shelley was on the side of the bourgeoisie when struggling for freedom, but raged against them when in their turn they became the oppressors of the working class. He saw more clearly than Byron, who seems scarcely to have seen it at all, that the epic of the nineteenth century was to be the contest between the possessing and the producing classes.”

Moreover, Eleanor Marx underlines the influence on him of Mary Shelley and her mother, the feminist Mary Wollstonecraft:

“All through his work, this oneness with his wife shines out…. The woman is to the man as the producing class is to the possessing. Her ‘inferiority,’ in its actuality and in its assumed existence, is the outcome of the holding of economic power by man to her exclusion. And this Shelley understood not only in its application to the most unfortunate of women but in its application to every woman.”

Love was a central category in Shelley’s thinking. In open rebellion to the norms of bourgeois aristocratic society and the Church of his time, love is the capacity for true humanity and the purpose of human life. With this core category, his poetry expresses a concrete utopia: what is conceivable, becomes a possibility, and inspires action to bring about this vision. Love requires solidarity and action against the enemies of humanity. In this sense, Shelley’s utopia was perceived as anti-religious and subversive.

“Bible of the Chartists”

Completed in 1813, Queen Mab, a blank verse narrative, has the character of a poetic credo and a political poem. In a cosmic dream journey, the fairy queen reveals to young Ianthe the misery of humanity in history and the present. Shelley emphatically rejects religious arguments of something intrinsically “sinful” in humankind and cites the real culprits:

Man’s evil nature, that apology

Which kings who rule, and cowards who crouch, set up

For their unnumbered crimes, sheds not the blood

Which desolates the discord-wasted land.

From kings, and priests, and statesmen, war arose,

Whose safety is man’s deep unbettered woe,

Whose grandeur his debasement. Let the axe

Strike at the root, the poison-tree will fall;

And where its venomed exhalations spread

Ruin, and death, and woe, where millions lay

Quenching the serpent’s famine, and their bones

Bleaching unburied in the putrid blast,

A garden shall arise, in loveliness

Surpassing fabled Eden.

Shelley becomes even more specific, naming “the poor man” as his own liberator: “And unrestrained but by the arm of power,/ That knows and dreads his enmity.” Only people committed to reason and to love are able to realize a humane future, which includes the free association of women and men. In his notes on Queen Mab, he further underlines the insights quoted here:

“Kings, and ministers of state, the real authors of the calamity, sit unmolested in their cabinet, while those against whom the fury of the storm is directed are, for the most part, persons who have been trepanned into the service, or who are dragged unwillingly from their peaceful homes into the field of battle. A soldier is a man whose business it is to kill those who never offended him….

“The poor are set to labour,—for what? Not the food for which they famish: not the blankets for want of which their babes are frozen by the cold of their miserable hovels…no; for the…false pleasures of the hundredth part of society.”

This poem was so enthusiastically circulated among radicals and the rising working class that it became known as the “Bible of the Chartists.”

The emancipatory aim of poetry

After the war with Napoleon ended, Britain was hit by a new wave of mass unemployment, food riots, and new state reprisals. The Holy Alliance’s struggle against all emancipation efforts on the continent led to a desperate search among radicals for new means of resistance. When Mary and Shelley met Byron in Switzerland in the summer of 1816, a new phase in Shelley’s work began.

In Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, beauty has left this “dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate” and “No voice from some sublimer world hath ever/ To sage or poet these responses given.” Only when “musing deeply on the lot/ Of life…/ Sudden, thy shadow fell on me.” No religion can bind beauty as a vision of a humane society to the “vale of tears”; only one’s own thinking can evoke it. Beauty is as anti-religious and deeply connected to a humane society for Shelley as it was for his contemporary and friend John Keats, also one of the revolutionary Romantics.

The theme of Shelley’s longest verse narrative, Laon and Cythyna (The Revolt of Islam), is the French Revolution. Building on visions from Queen Mab, it develops its great historical subject through the plot. Two lovers inspire a revolution against the Turkish Sultan. The course of the French Revolution is symbolically represented in the action of the lovers: Laon and Cythna are revolutionaries. Laon inspires resistance against the soldiers who capture Cythna. Sailors rescue her and she persuades the sailors to release their cargo of female slaves, which becomes an act of self-liberation. Cythna is celebrated as a folk heroine. Together with Laon, she plays a leading role in the revolution that overthrows Othman. The revolutionaries spare Othman, who then instigates a counter-revolution and massacres the people; famine and epidemics follow. The Christian priest, in league with Othman, persuades the people to sacrifice Laon and Cythna. Laon asks for Cythna to be spared, Othman breaks his word and Cythna is burnt at the stake along with Laon. Although Laon tells the story, Cythna makes the most impassioned speeches, arguing that the revolution will one day succeed. Shelley portrays the revolution as a little bloody, but the counter-revolution as brutal. In the preface, Shelley refers to the emancipatory aim of poetry. In his effort to combat the disappointment following the hopes of the French Revolution, and through his explanation of the historical as well as social causes of its bloody character, he reaffirms its ideals.

Love shall govern the world

Thus he also justifies the bloodshed of the insurgents as forced by their oppressors. Despite intensified repression, Shelley not only defends the French Revolution but also addresses issues regarding the role of the artist in the struggle. He highlights the sensual, concrete equality of women and men by emphasizing their common struggle, which is part of their love. In his preface, Shelley writes: “There is no quarter given to revenge, or envy, or prejudice. Love is celebrated everywhere as the sole law which should govern the moral world.”

In the poetry and prose written in Italy from 1819 onwards, Shelley reached the peak of his achievement. He produced his best-known poem, Ode to the West Wind, the lyric drama Prometheus Unbound, Song to the Men of England, and The Mask of Anarchy, one of the greatest political protest poems in the English language.

The Peterloo Massacre (August 1819) aroused in Shelley the hope of resistance, and he wrote with renewed vigor. With the Prometheus drama, he hoped to kindle revolutionary fire and continued to insist on his revolutionary core, the need for a humane society. In this drama, he shapes a complex reality, a condensation of everything written so far, and it takes familiarity with Shelley’s world and language to fully unlock the meaning of this work.

Shelley expanded the immediate classical-mythological reference from Greek mythology and its later interpretations through to Milton, as well as elements of his own. Added to this is the Christian world of ideas, whereby Shelley, through his radical humanization, undertakes an inversion of the biblical story. Thus there is a consistent reference to the present. Prometheus, representative and protector of humanity, is directly connected to nature as a child of Mother Earth; he is her consciousness taken shape. As the epitome of humanity, he has foresight. Prometheus is bound, powerless and suffering because he is separated from Asia, who represents Love; he needs her as she needs him. His revolutionary revolt against violent oppression is doomed to fail without love. Jupiter, through Mercury, a tool of the rulers, can expose Prometheus to the Furies. Prometheus knows when Jupiter’s hour has come; he can endure his sufferings until then. But Prometheus must become active himself, which only becomes possible after the union with Asia, which in turn releases a force immanent in nature and society in the figure of Demogorgon. This triggers Jupiter’s fall from hell and, in a reversal of the Christian legends, Prometheus, bound to the rock, is redeemed by Herculean power. Paradisiacal beauty can now blossom on earth . Prometheus and Asia wed and unite. Nevertheless, the force of nature, Demorgogon, warns at the end of humanity’s capacity for despotism: “Man, who wert once a despot and a slave,/ A dupe and a deceiver!” He then names love as the healing force:

This is the day which down the void abysm

At the Earth-born’s spell yawns for Heaven’s despotism,

And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep;

Love, from its awful throne of patient power

In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour

Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep,

And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs

And folds over the world its healing wings.

The power of poetry

In A Defense of Poetry, Shelley writes about the power of poetry, its social role, and the responsibility of poets. This power of poetry is expressed in the great Ode to the West Wind, Shelley’s metaphor for the advance of historical movement:

…Be thou, Spirit fierce,

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like wither’d leaves to quicken a new birth!

And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Poems such as The Mask of Anarchy and Song to the Men of England speak directly to the struggling workers and became an integral part of the culture of the labor movement. Although Shelley did not advocate armed struggle, he also knew that at times it was unavoidable:

V

The seed ye sow, another reaps;

The wealth ye find, another keeps;

The robes ye weave, another wears;

The arms ye forge, another bears.

VI

Sow seed—but let no tyrant reap:

Find wealth—let no imposter heap:

Weave robes—let not the idle wear:

Forge arms—in your defense to bear.

Next to Burns, Shelley had the greatest influence on 19th-century working-class literature in England. His vision applies undiminished today.

(Dr. Jenny Farrell was born in Berlin. She has lived in Ireland since 1985, working as a lecturer in Galway Mayo Institute of Technology. Her main fields of interest are Irish and English poetry and the work of William Shakespeare. She writes for Culture Matters and for Socialist Voice, the newspaper of the Communist party of Ireland. Courtesy: Peoples World. People’s World is a voice for progressive change and socialism in the United States. It provides news and analysis of, by, and for the labor and democratic movements.)

Shared by Syed Ehtisham

Salman Rushdie on Midnight’s Children at 40: ‘India is no longer the country of this novel’

Four decades after his Booker-winner was published, Rushdie reflects on the Bombay of his childhood – and his despair at the sectarianism he sees in India today

Salman Rushdie

Longevity is the real prize for which writers strive, and it isn’t awarded by any jury. For a book to stand the test of time, to pass successfully down the generations, is uncommon enough to be worth a small celebration. For a writer in his mid-70s, the continued health of a book published in his mid-30s is, quite simply, a delight. This is why we do what we do: to make works of art that, if we are very lucky, will endure.

As a reader, I have always been attracted to capacious, large hearted fictions, books that try to gather up large armfuls of the world. When I started to think about the work that would grow into Midnight’s Children, I looked again at the great Russian novels of the 19th century, Crime and Punishment, Anna Karenina, Dead Souls, books of the type that Henry James had called “loose, baggy monsters”, large-scale realist novels – though, in the case of Dead Souls, on the very edge of surrealism. And at the great English novels of the 18th and 19th centuries, Tristram Shandy (wildly innovative and by no means realist), Vanity Fair (bristling with sharp knives of satire), Little Dorrit (in which the Circumlocution Office, a government department whose purpose is to do nothing, comes close to magic realism), and Bleak House (in which the interminable court case Jarndyce v Jarndyce comes even closer). And at their great French precursor, Gargantua and Pantagruel, which is completely fabulist.

I also had in mind the modern counterparts of these masterpieces, The Tin Drum and One Hundred Years of Solitude, The Adventures of Augie March and Catch-22, and the rich, expansive worlds of Iris Murdoch and Doris Lessing (both too prolific to be defined by any single title, but Murdoch’s The Black Prince and Lessing’s The Making of the Representative from Planet 8 have stayed with me). But I was also thinking about another kind of capaciousness, the immense epics of India, the Mahabharata and Ramayana, and the fabulist traditions of the Panchatantra, the Thousand and One Nights and the Kashmiri Sanskrit compendium called Katha-sarit-sagar (Ocean of the Streams of Story). I was thinking of India’s oral narrative traditions, too, which were a form of storytelling in which digression was almost the basic principle; the storyteller could tell, in a sort of whirling cycle, a fictional tale, a mythological tale, a political story and an autobiographical story; he – because it was always a he – could intersperse his multiple narratives with songs and keep large audiences entranced.

To read the full article, please click at the hyperlink below:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2021/apr/03/salman-rushdie-on-midnights-children-at-40-india-is-no-longer-the-country-of-this-novel?CMP=share_btn_fb&fbclid=IwAR0jk7sisBWFlMKy_ch1nrCVce0dZD_L7HUn2AtGF7s64J0oLsT1YVzzcto