I enjoy smoking at times like these. I put my hand into my pocket and took out my pack of cigarettes, but I couldn’t find any matches — who knew where I had lost them? I was just about to put the pack back into my pocket when someone nearby said, ‘Please, here’s a match.’
I turned around. A young man was standing behind the bench. People in Bombay usually have fair complexions, but his face was pale to a frightening degree. ‘You’re very kind,’ I thanked him.
He gave me the matches, and I thanked him again and invited him to sit down. ‘Please light your cigarette. I have to go,’ he said.
Suddenly I realized he was lying. I could tell from his tone that he was in no hurry and had nowhere to go. You may wonder how I could detect this from his tone alone, but that was exactly how it seemed. I said again, ‘What’s the hurry? Please sit down.’ I extended my cigarette pack towards him. ‘Help yourself.’
He looked at the brand. ‘Thanks, but I smoke only my brand.’
Believe me or not, but again I could have sworn he was lying. His tone betrayed him as before, so I took an interest in him. I resolved to get him to sit down and light a cigarette. I thought it wouldn’t be difficult at all because from his two sentences I could tell that he was fooling himself. He wanted to sit down and have a smoke, but at the same time something made him hesitate. I clearly sensed this conflict in his voice, and believe me when I say that his very hold on life seemed uncertain as well.
His face was incredibly skinny. His nose, eyes, and mouth were so fine that it seemed as though someone had drawn them in and then washed them out with water. At times his lips seemed to fill out, but then this clarity would fade like an ember disappearing in ashes. His other features also behaved this way: his eyes were like big drops of muddy water over which his thin eyelashes drooped, and his hair was the black of burnt paper. You could make out the contour of his nose if you were nearby, but from a distance it flattened out. He slouched a little and this made him seem of average height, but when he would suddenly straighten his posture, he proved to be much taller. His clothes were ratty but not dirty. His coat’s cuffs were worn and threadbare in places. The stitching of his collar was coming undone, and his shirt seemed as though it would not last one more washing. But even in these clothes, he was trying to carry himself with dignity. I say ‘trying’ because when I looked at him again, a wave of wretchedness swept over him, and it seemed he wanted to disappear from view.
I stood up, lit a cigarette, and once again extended my pack toward him. ‘Please help yourself.’
I rolled it so that he couldn’t refuse. He took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it. He started smoking but suddenly realized his mistake. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, and pretending to cough said, ‘Cavenders don’t suit me, their tobacco is so strong. They’re too harsh for my throat.’
‘Which cigarettes do you like?’ I asked him.
‘I … I …’ he stuttered. ‘Actually I don’t smoke that much. Dr Arolkar forbade it. But if I smoke, I smoke 555s because their tobacco isn’t that strong.’
Dr Arolkar was known all over Bombay because he charged ten rupees for a consultation, and the cigarette brand he mentioned was also very expensive. In one breath he had uttered two lies, neither of which I believed, but I didn’t say anything. I’m telling you the truth when I say that I wanted to expose his deceit and make him feel ashamed so that he would beg for my forgiveness. But when I looked at him, I realized lying had become a part of his personality. Most people blush after they lie, but he didn’t. He believed everything he said and lied with such sincerity that he didn’t suffer even the smallest pinprick of conscience. Anyway, enough of this. If I go into such detail, I’ll fill page after page and the story will get boring.
After a little polite banter, I brought the conversation around to what I wanted to talk about. I offered him another cigarette and started to praise the charming ocean scene. As I am a short story writer, I managed to describe the ocean, Apollo Bunder, and the crowds in such an interesting way that he didn’t complain about his throat even after smoking six cigarettes. Suddenly, he asked me what my name was. When I told him, he shot up from the bench and said, ‘You’re Manto? I’ve read some of your stories. I didn’t know you were Manto. I’m very happy to meet you. By God, very happy, indeed!’
I wanted to thank him, but he began again, ‘Yes, I remember very well. Recently, I read a story of yours — what was it called? Anyway, it was about a girl who loves some guy, but this guy takes advantage of her and then disappears. Then there’s another guy who loves this girl too, the guy telling the story. When he finds out about the girl’s predicament, he goes to see her. He says, “Don’t think about what’s past. Build upon the memory of love and forge ahead. Put to use the joy you were able to find.” But actually I don’t remember that much about the story. Tell me, is it possible — no, it’s not about what’s possible — tell me, wasn’t that you? I’m sorry, I have no right to ask you that. But in your story, aren’t you the guy who meets the girl at the brothel but leaves when she falls asleep exhausted in the dull moonlight?’ He suddenly stopped. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you that. No one wants to talk about personal matters.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ I answered. ‘But I feel awkward telling you everything when we’ve just met. What do you think?’
His excitement, which had grown as he talked to me about my story, suddenly died.
‘You’re exactly right,’ he whispered. ‘And yet how do you know this isn’t our last meeting?’
‘Well, it’s true that Bombay is a huge city, but I have the feeling that we’ll meet many times. Anyway, I’m unemployed — I mean I’m a story writer — and so you can find me right here at this time every night, unless of course, I’m sick. A lot of girls come here, and so I come here to fall in love. Love isn’t a bad thing!’
‘Love … love …’ He wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to begin. He fell quiet like a burning rope losing its last coil.
I had brought up love only as a joke, but in fact, the setting was so charming that it wouldn’t have been half bad to fall in love. At dusk, when the streetlights flicker on and a cool breeze picks up, a romantic quality hangs in the air and instinctive you want a woman close to you.
Anyway, God only knows what story he was talking about. I don’t remember all my stories, especially the romances. In real life I haven’t been close to that many women, and if I write about them, it’s either to earn quick money or to indulge in some fantasy. I never think much about these stories since they aren’t serious. But I have met a special kind of woman about whom I have written some stories aside from the romances. In any event, the story he mentioned must have been a cheap romance I wrote to fulfill some desire. But now I’ve started talking about my stories!
When he repeated the word ‘love,’ I suddenly wanted to say something more about the subject. ‘Yes, our ancestors divided love into many types. But love, whether in Multan or on Siberia’s icy tundra, whether in the winter or the summer, whether among the rich or the poor, whether among the beautiful or the ugly, whether among the crude or the refined, love is always just love. There’s no difference. Just as babies are always born in one and only one way, love too, comes about in only one way. There’s no difference if you say that Mrs Sayyidah went to the hospital to have her baby or Rajkumari went into the jungle, if you say that a bhangan stirs love in Ghulam Muhammad or a queen inspires love in Natwar Lal. Many babies are born prematurely and so are weak, and love, too, remains weak if it is rushed. Sometimes childbirth is very painful, and sometimes falling in love causes great pain. Just as a woman may miscarry, love can die before it has had a chance to grow. Sometimes women are infertile, and from time to time you’ll also find men incapable of loving. That isn’t to say they don’t want to love. No, not at all. They want to, but they don’t know how to. Some women can’t have babies, and some men can’t inspire love because they lack something emotional. You can have miscarriages of love too.’