A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

He was in the room, at the writing table,
without my permission. He had rendered
his teeth dark and fingers yellow by constant
smoking. His hair was in a mess. He
had not considered it necessary to brush
it. I had been seeing him for the last three
days. I had got frightened on the first day.
An unknown male person in my room;
frightened, I had asked him in confusion:
‘Who are you? ’
‘Oh; a mistake’, he replied in a very low
voice.
‘What are you writing? ’
He turned his eyes towards me,
‘ Want to write something, but...I,ve lost
the words. Can you recall, there was a time
when I would write one story everyday,
and comfortably too?
‘Don’t pose. A story every day! This
happend only once. You didn’t have money
to buy your cigarettes and wine. you would
write a story, give it to the editor of the
magazine and buy a bottle of liquor when
you got the money. You didn’t care for your
dear wife even...’
But it seemed as if he did not hear
me. He was looking into space.
‘I had words and words, even at the
moment when TobaTek Singh was about to
close his eyes on the no-man’s-land.... and...
all that comes to my recollection... that
disastrous afternoon... when hearing the
voice of the doctor the girl had begun to
unfasten her shalwar. No I had words even
at that time.’
‘And now?’
As I was still looking at him he disappeared.
He, that is Manto. Saadat Hasan Manto.
I had got badly startled by the dream.
Well! let me tell you even my name.
Kausar Bee... or... why don’t you
choose a name for me that might please
you?
The times were disturbed even when I
was born. Now and then fierce disturbances
erupted even when I had grown up to be
a girl. The tiny bells tied round the ankles
of barbarity and terror produced the noise
so very grating to my ears that I befriended
books at a very tender age. And, unawares,
reading the books gained friendship of this
Manto who wore glasses on his large but
deceptive eyes. To me it was almost inconceivable
that this lean and thin person, sick
looking man of letters, could intervene
between me and my dreams.
No. It is necessary to give you a reference
of that day.
Once again the city was overcast by the
vultures of terror. Police vans visited the
area populated by the minority caste much
more frequently than they otherwise would.
Not a long time elapsed since the unfortunate
happening had taken place two or
three years ago. The disaster was alive once
again, in a different guise though.
I am not a journalist. And you can see
130 :: January-March 2012