Manto was the most famous unknown writer in the entire state right now. Everyone was talking about his stories – people with their chai in the corner teashops, disenchanted students in their dishevelled colleges, pedestrians huddled under motley bridges, even rapturous lovers sitting by the seaside. Shabby graffiti were being scrawled around the slums, immortalising the lines spoken by his characters.
There was the one about the policeman who kept trying to get posted to a remote district, where his daughter had been married off to but was never heard from again. That got a lot of social media buzz. Another one about sex workers who save up money to go watch a movie, only to have a police team raid them minutes before they leave. That had people drawing comparisons between him and the partition-era writer Saadat Manto, who was considered obsessed with the lives of ‘fallen women’. Then the period-piece about the lovers who decide to elope, and plan to meet up at Jallianwala Bagh on the day of the infamous massacre. That was the one that just exploded.
Nobody could ignore this anonymous writer who had thuggishly captured everyone’s imagination, and given new life to contemporary short stories. People actually began waiting for the Sunday edition of the little-known newspaper that carried his stories. Sales soon exceeded most nationals’.
The Editor desperately wanted to know who this veiled writer was. Was he (that seemed to be the only certainty, somehow) someone famous trying to be gimmicky? Why was he not giving his real name to his stories? After the third one he had begun signing as Manto. It was a tribute, or maybe an inheritance (Manto is dead. Long live Manto!). Either way, it wasn’t helping the Editor.
Worst of all, why was he not asking for any money for these stories? The Editor had held off printing the first story for weeks because there was no one to claim it and he didn’t want to risk publishing without purchasing it off anyone. But then another story arrived, obviously from the same person, and he knew this was the best green signal he was going to get.
Manto was hunched over his desk, covering his notebook. He looked like an umbrella trying to keep the rain away, or as in his case, to keep the downpour of words from getting away. He scribbled furiously before the manic effects wore off. Despite appearances, there was probably nothing more to it than a habit. He was both Pavlov and his dog, but it was working fine for him.
A knock on the door made him grunt in disgust. What kind of philistine would disturb him now in his precious minutes of creativity in the night?
Knock! Knock!
Again? Damn fool!
“Who is it?”
“Cigarettes.”
Oh, it was Dindin, the boy who worked at the cigarette shop and brought him a pack every morning, first thing, and every night, last thing.
He hopped up and nearly sprang the 3 steps from his desk to the door, and opened it before he was even down from his tip toes. “Dindin, you really are my guardian angel, did you know that? I had forgotten. I am down to my last …”, he opened the box he had and turned it upside down, “…actually, none.”
“Guardian angels don’t bring cigarettes in any books I’ve read, dada.”
“Well then, that’s a story waiting to be written, isn’t it? A fable where the guardian angel finds it beyond his powers to change anything in a godless world, and so he brings cigarettes to wounded and dissolute souls. Will you write it, or shall I?”
The boy didn’t understand all the man had just said, but he was unfazed. This wasn’t the first time dada spoke about things that seemed more like swirling babble than rational thoughts. “I think you should write it, dada. Like you told me the other day, the stories in our head are only in our head and nobody else’s. If we don’t write them then that’s a star that will never light up the sky.”
Manto stood there, scratching his belly, like a puzzled male of the species having just learned about a child he had fathered. “I said that? Can’t even remember. I should write that down.”
“You did, it’s there in the pad” the boy pointed.
Indeed, there was a writing pad on top of a pile of books and newspapers, resting on the table beside the window. There was a paperweight, under which the pages kept fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. They seemed determined to take flight.
“You’ve got a good eye! Has your uncle got something better than that kerosene light yet for your studying?”
“Not yet, it’s the same. When you pump it everything is bright and beautiful, but then the light settles down and everything starts to look sick again. And my textbooks aren’t that healthy to begin with.”
“Well, I suppose when you sell cigarettes and paan there’s no need to give anyone good lighting for their black lips and stained teeth!” said Manto, and laughed uproariously.
The boy laughed too. He liked Manto like this. He was fun, more than any adult he knew, making stupid jokes. Even the name Dindin was his idea. The boy’s real name was Ramdin but when Manto had first heard that he had recoiled with mock outrage. “Ramdin? Why, this boy doesn’t look a day over 7 and yet his name is that of a 70-year old. That’s no name for you. I shall come up with something better.” The next day he was back and threw the name at him, like money to settle a debt, “Here you are – Dindin.”
The boy’s had no idea what Manto was on about. “Like Tintin, my favourite comic book hero”, responded Manto. Of course, that didn’t make things any clearer to the boy, so minutes later Manto was back with a tattered, but still precious book. Since it was in English, he had to spend a good thirty minutes explaining and flipping through it with Dindin. By the end of it, the gleeful lad had fallen in love with his new name.
There hadn’t been a good day in the office for the last 15 years. That’s how long he had been the editor of a distressed newspaper (distressed since before he joined), having taken over from his father, who had taken it from his father, and he from his father. They had been in business before the country’s independence, covering the birth of a new nation, the death of idealism, and the rise of we-are-like-this-only-ism. Although he was not responsible for the decline, and he knew it, he was certain he would be the one downing the shutters. Which meant he would neither pass on the baton, nor was the baton worth a damn thing to him. He was just left there, holding it limply in his hands soiled with ink.
Then came the day when he found a parcel on his desk. It was wrapped in stationery from the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting. It was probably some reminder to renew the paper’s licence, somehow coming from the ministry directly. For a brief instant, he almost hoped it was some notice declaring the paper was to be closed, and the land seized to make way for a tourist information centre, or something equally daft. He could forgive himself for going along with something that he couldn’t possibly fight.
Instead, what he got was a story, neatly handwritten, with just a note stapled on top saying “Sorry, but I needed to get your attention.”
After he had read the story he shook the envelope out, scattered the pages, checked under his desk, but he just could not find the author’s name anywhere. What a calamitous loon! The best story that had ever been submitted to him and the writer forgot to send his bloody name! He wanted to throw a glass at someone but all he could find was a paper cup.
He kept waiting for the writer to realise his mistake and send him the details so he could pay and print the story, but he had to stick with the homely recipes and rambling travel stories for now. Then, one day, another story arrived, again in a government envelope, with a note that said “Hey, look here!” and no name again.
The note had said:
Hey, come here. Soon.
He was as impatient to find a way to go to the city while she was still completing her diploma. Their plan had every detail of a life together, except the beginning. That was never going to be easy. Getting away to the city meant everything to them, but keeping them at home meant as much to their families.
She would send him examination preparation books from there, with notes hidden among the pages, which would drop like fruit from a tree when shaken. It had been only 4 months, not even enough for her first term to get over, but it still felt like time was running out.
Of course, time did run out before he could get a job in the city. She was introduced to a friend’s brother and suddenly a lot changed for her. She realised now that her childhood love had not ‘felt like enough’, and that fairy tales wore off easily. So she bought a book, and put a note in it that said:
Sorry, but don’t come.
Ther
She seemed to have felt that any further explanation would not help. The struck-out letters screamed volumes into his brain.
And, later, another that said:
Be happy always
You’re the best.
Well, second best anyway.
He held on to these notes, and pasted them onto a few hard sheets like a ransom note. He never actually had to look at them, because for years they would float before his eyes, uninvited. However, the reason for keeping them was not what one might expect. It wasn’t because of his heartbreak or yearning. He had actually gotten over the incident without much injury. In fact, he thanked her in his mind for taking the step he realised he had always been afraid of taking.
No, he held onto them because he loved how such small notes, with such few words, meant so much to him at a time in his life. More poignant, more pregnant than haiku, and with the power to completely annihilate.
He kept them, full of admiration, long after he had forgotten the hands that wrote them.
By the time the fifth story rolled off the presses the number of letters, emails, social media mentions, asking for the identity of the writer, was almost equalled in number by the people dismissing this as a cheap publicity stunt. The excitement of the story was beginning to reek of scandal (although these were, after all, short stories we were talking about, so the scandal was short-form).
Advertisers had started pitching to claim space in any forthcoming story, or even an interview. There was a chance that if they knew how a conscientious shyness was beginning to disturb the commercial glow of these stories, they may become shy about putting their money down. The Editor, who didn’t know who the goose laying golden eggs was, slowly started becoming chicken about putting all their coins in one basket.
That’s how it came to be that the next time Manto picked up the Sunday paper, he found his story neatly spread round a stranger’s picture. He had thicker hair and a friendlier smile than Manto, not to mention an aura of refined market value. Under the picture was the pen-name: Manto.
Somebody was impersonating him.
Another letter went off. No need for the official envelope any longer.
My Friend,
I hope it is a mistake, because otherwise you have been conned. And if so then I’m glad, because otherwise I have been conned.
Who is this person you pass off as me? Given the way he is smiling, he has clearly never written a good story in his life.
I never put a real name to my stories because I believe in certain things higher than ownership or fame. I accepted the name people offered to me because I was happy to bring a reflection of the past back to our times. But, I am not happy to put a face to these stories, mine or another’s, because that is sure to alter the truth of what I write.
When I’m giving you timeless stories, why do you still want to be answerable to a few temporal constables?
Looking at her getting dressed, he knew that he had asked a few too many times now. She had told him, patiently at first, and then brusquely, that she wasn’t interested in talking about her past.
“But, I’m not a cop. Why are you so defensive with me then?” he said cosily as he tugged at her petticoat.
“In your own words – defence. If I let you into my life, you will think I have become yours.”
“Aren’t you mine in this room, and free outside?”
“I am yours, but my story remains in the outlines I have drawn. The moment you, or anyone else, dictates my story, gives it a different path, a different conclusion, it’s over for me.”
“A story doesn’t hide under the bed, never stepping out. Imagination sets fr…”
“Do you think that for your money you have bought all the time that I have lived? No, you have just bought this teeny-tiny little bit. A stupid little shaving off a giant tree. Only what happens in this time depends on you. Do you think I have nothing to defend?”
He had certainly not meant to offend or disturb her. In fact, to his mind he was better than the others, for whom she was just physical therapy. Why, he respected her and wanted to bring an oasis to her day. How was that suddenly something he was apologising for?
“Okay, forget it. There’s something else I’ve been wanting to ask you. I want to take you for a movie. You can pick any that you like.”
“A movie? Why do you want to take me for a movie?”
“Why does anyone go for a movie? To have a good time. To watch something fun. I haven’t been to one in months because there’s no one in this city I know who’d go with me.”
She didn’t reply. Between the bed where he sat, and the dresser where she was brushing her hair, a shaft of light cut through the room, almost concealing her.
“I would have said yes…”
Before she could complete, someone downstairs shouted in alarm. A team of cops was making a surprise check, and everybody was running helter-skelter.
Dindin was waiting outside his door when Manto suddenly surprised him from behind. “Sorry, boy, I had gone to the roof to fetch my washed clothes.”
Dindin saw only white kurta-pyjamas in his hands, no clothes of any other kind. When he had arrived in the city, and Dindin had first seen him, he used to dress like a normal person of his age. A little shabby, but conventional. In the last few months, however, he had noticed dada had started wearing nothing else but these plain clothes. Same outfit, every day.
“Dada, why do you only wear these white clothes, all the time, like a uniform?”
Manto laughed while he put his clothes away. “Trust the child to be sharper than all the adults in the world.” He brought the money for the cigarettes, “All these months, you’re the first person to ask me. Well, let me tell you a secret. Come close.”
He leaned over to Dindin’s ears, and in a conspiratorial whisper he said, “I’m in disguise, and no one has noticed that except you.”
The shock was evident on Dindin’s face, as his eyes grew bigger, wondering if this man had suddenly gone mad, or become dangerous.
“Ha Ha Ha!” Manto laughed heartily as he saw the boy, and shook his hand to assure him that nothing was wrong. “It’s nothing, Dindin. In fact, it’s quite simple. In a way, yes, I am in disguise. But not because I’m some escaped convict. Or, a superhero. I am dressed as someone I admire, and like whom I am trying to become. But this outfit is such that no one notices me. It makes me invisible, as I want to be. Even these glasses I am wearing, why, these are older than you! I took them from some grandpa I met at the barbershop, and gave him mine in exchange.
“You see Dindin, I am dressed as my hero, someone who tore apart every beautiful facade that society had wrapped around itself, until no one was left with any power anymore. He’s been gone since ages now, and those facades, those thick coats of paint and makeup, are back, and I can’t stand them. I can’t stand them so I dress like that man, and write like that man, to be merciless like that man.”
Dindin wasn’t sure who this man was, that dada just spoke about, or what “facades of paint” meant. He would only learn many years later, at college, that the man he was speaking about, died an absurd death in an absurd world. But, after thinking for a few seconds he had something to add, “In my school, on the birthday of Mahatma Gandhi, some of us were asked to come dressed as him and present a few famous sayings from his life. I asked the teacher why she wanted us to do that, she said it’s because this is a way to remember someone great, and also their teachings that can guide our behaviour. What you are doing is also something like that, right? You are dressing up as some famous and important man, and then trying to spread his teachings.”
Manto couldn’t have explained it better even if he tried. He stared at Dindin, with a mix of amusement and perplexity, unsure of what to make of his own facade laid bare just now. “What lines did you present as Gandhi; do you remember?”
“Well, I don’t remember the exact words, but it had to be something about peace and also that we must change ourselves before we change the world.”
Manto took some time savouring that line. “That’s a nice one. One of my favourite lines by my hero is “Under tons of earth he lies, still wondering who among the two is the greater short-story writer: God or He.””
“Who was this man?”
“He was a writer, like me.”
“Is that from one of his books?”
“Actually, this is what he wrote for his own gravestone.”
“Hello. Yes, this is the Editor. Who’s this?
“Ma- … Manto? Manto!
“At last, we meet. Well, in a way. I have never seen someone so determined to stay unreachable in these times. Tell me, how soon can we meet?
“You don’t want to meet? But, I thought you are finally ready to accept your place in the spotlight. You are finally coming out as the Manto, whose stories have shaken up more readers than when onion prices shot up.
“Yes, that picture. let me explain. You see, I wanted you there, I don’t have any mala fide intent. But you are a ghost.
“Why? It’s simple, Manto. The novelty of your anonymity has worn off. I get too many letters asking about Manto, and I have to piss people off by foolishly defending a secret that I, myself, am not in on. The readership is dropping, Manto, and I need to run a paper that sells enough to keep printing stories like yours. You know there is no one else who bothers with stories anymore, it’s just sex and Shah Rukh. People started demanding Manto, the Man, more than his stories. And that’s a level of public interest this press hasn’t seen in years. Maybe, ever. It’s our chance to go on for another five, or six years, on a high note.
“You need to come and claim yourself, Manto. Let people know about you, read your interviews and your stories. You can write a book. Make good money. Don’t you want to enjoy what you’ve earned? Have your picture next to your story? Have fans who want to know how you became such a huge success?
“Manto? Manto? Hello?”
Dindin hadn’t expected to see him at the shop in the morning. And, even more uncharacteristically, he was wearing a shirt and trousers. Everything ironed, and hair combed. His eyes were fixed on the ground.
Dindin saw him ask his uncle for something, cigarettes obviously. Oh, but no, his uncle gave him a pack of mints.
The boy went over to Manto. “Dada, going somewhere special?”
“Oh, Dindin, I didn’t see you. Yes, I am going for an interview.”
“Interview? Like on TV?”
“No, my friend, not at all like on TV. It’s for a job.”
Dindin wondered why someone would be interviewed for a job, but he didn’t want to appear stupid. “Should I still bring your cigarettes at the same time tonight?”
Manto put his hand on Dindin’s shoulder, a sudden wistfulness in his voice, “No, Dindin, I won’t be needing those cigarettes at night for some time.”
Dindin stared at his friend as he walked away, wondering why he didn’t need cigarettes all of a sudden.