My country is extremely poor. It has no art paper, nor any good printing presses. In fact, I am the biggest proof of its poverty. You will, no doubt, find this hard to believe. Uncle Sam, I have written twenty-two books yet I do not have my own house to live in! And you will be astounded to know that I do not own either a Packard or a Dodge to move around in — not even a second-hand one!
I take a cycle on rent when I need to go out. And, sometimes — when I get twenty or twenty-five rupees for a newspaper article at the rate of Rs seven per column — I take a tonga and drink some locally-brewed liquor. If this liquor was brewed in your country, you would no doubt drop an atom bomb on the distillery where it is made because it can destroy a man in a year.
Look how far I have digressed. Actually, I meant to send my regards to Erskine Caldwell through you. No doubt you would know him. You have prosecuted him for his novel, God’s Little Acre for the same charge that is levelled against me here: obscenity.
Believe me, dear Uncle, I was amazed when I heard that the country that waged seven wars of independence had filed a lawsuit against him on a charge of obscenity. After all, in your country everything is naked. In your country, everything is peeled off its outer covering and showcased in display cabinets. Whether it is fruit or women, machines or animals, books or calendars — you are the King of Nudity. I used to think that in your country sanctity would be called obscenity. But what is this incredible thing you have done, dear Uncle? You have filed a case of obscenity against Caldwell!
Shocked by this news, I would have died of an overdose of my locally brewed liquor had I not, almost immediately thereafter, read about the outcome of this lawsuit. It is indeed a great misfortune for my country that it couldn’t get rid of me. But then, how would I have written this letter to you, if I had indeed been dead! Usually I am very obedient. I love my country. I shall, God willing, die in a short while. If I don’t die of natural causes, I shall do so automatically. Because where wheat flour is sold for two and three-quarters of a seer for a rupee, it would take a very shameless man to last out the usual lifespan.
So, as I was saying, I read about the outcome of the lawsuit and decided to abandon the idea of committing suicide by drinking too much bad liquor. After all, dear Uncle, you can say what you want, while everything in your country is silver coated, the judge who acquitted Brother Caldwell of the charge of obscenity is free from the influence of silver plating. If this judge (unfortunately, I don’t know his name) is alive, please do convey my warmest regards to him.
His judgment is an indication of the breadth of his vision: ‘I am personally of the view that confiscating or burying such books causes an unnecessary curiosity and amazement in people which pushes them towards seeking cheap thrills. While this book may not have been written with the intention of garnering cheap publicity and its author seems to have been actually inspired by certain sections of American life and society, I am of the opinion that truth must always be a part of literature.’
I too had said the same thing before the trial court, yet it sentenced me to three months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine of Rs 300. It was of the opinion that truth must always be kept separate from literature. Well, everyone is entitled to an opinion, I suppose.
I am willing to undergo three months of rigorous imprisonment but I cannot pay the Rs 300 fine. Dear Uncle, you have no idea how poor I am!
I am used to the rigours of hard labour but I am not used to having money. I am thirty-nine years old and I have spent most of these years doing hard physical labour. After all, do consider that despite being such a great writer I do not have a Packard!
I am poor because my country is poor. I somehow manage to find two square meals a day but some of my countrymen have to even go without that!
Why is my county poor? Why is it illiterate? You know the answer well enough. It is, as you know, the direct outcome of a conspiracy hatched between you and your brother, John Bull, but I don’t want to get into that now. For I know its very mention will besmirch your greatness. I write this letter as your humble servant and I want to remain a servant from beginning to end.
No doubt you will ask and ask with a great deal of surprise: how is your country poor when so many Packards and Buicks and such vast quantities of Max Factor cosmetics are exported from my country? This is all very well, dear Uncle, but I shall not answer your question because I know you can get the answers from your own heart (that is, if you haven’t asked your able surgeons to take it out of your breast!)
The number of people in my country who ride in Packards and Buicks do not constitute the population of my country. My country is populated by people like me and others even poorer than me.
These are bitter facts. My country does not have enough sugar, or I would have coated them before presenting them before you. Anyhow, forget that. The real issue is that I recently read a book by a writer from your friendly nation, The Loved Ones by Evelyn Waugh. I was so impressed by this book that I immediately sat down to write this letter to you.
I have long been an admirer of the individuality practiced in your country but after reading this book, I cried out uncontrollably, ‘By God, how marvellous! Bravo!’
Truly, dear Uncle, I am amazed and delighted! I must say what wonderfully alive people live in your country! Evelyn Waugh tells us that in your state of California the dead or ‘dear lost ones’ can be embalmed, and there are centres of excellence devoted to this art. If the dear departed had an ugly face, you can send him to one of these centres, fill out a form, mention your specifications and the job will be done. You can have the dead person as ‘beautified’ as you want — at a cost, of course! The best experts are available who can operate upon the corpse’s jaws and paste the sweetest smile upon its face. A twinkle can be brought in the eye, and an effulgent glow created upon the face, strictly according to requirement. And all this is done with such expertise that even the angels who come to the grave to take stock of your earthly account might think they have come to the wrong place!
Well, really Uncle Sam, by God, no one can equal your country!
We have heard of surgical operations performed upon the living. We have even heard of living people resorting to plastic surgery to improve their looks. But we had never heard that in your country even the dead can have their looks improved!
A traveller from your country had come here. Some friends of mine introduced him to me. By then I had read Brother Evelyn Waugh’s book. So I praised his country by reciting the following couplet:
Ek hum hain ke liya apni hi soorat ko bigadh
Ek woh hain ke jinhe tasveer banana aata hai
(On the one hand, there is me who has ruined my own face
On the other hand, there is he who knows how to make a painting.)
The traveller did not understand my meaning but the fact is, dear Uncle, that we have ruined our own faces. We have made ourselves so ugly that our faces can barely be recognized, not even by ourselves. And look at you — you can even transform your ugly-faced corpses into better- looking ones. The fact is that only your people have earned the right to live in this world. By god, all the others are merely swatting flies and wasting their time!
There was once a poet called Ghalib who wrote in our language — Urdu. Nearly a century ago, he had written:
Huwe mar ke hum jo ruswa huwe kyon na gharq-e-darya
Na kahin janaza uthta na kahin mazaar hota
The poor man had no fear of disrepute while he was alive because, from beginning to end, his life remained the subject of scandals. His fear was of the disrepute that would hound him after death; he was an honourable man, you see! It wasn’t really a fear; it was his belief that here would be dishonour in death and that is why he wished to be put into a flowing river so that there would neither be a funeral nor a grave! If only he had been born in your country! You would have ensured that he got a grand funeral and had his tomb built in the form of a skyscraper. Or, if you had respected his last wishes, you would have had a glass tank constructed in which his dead body would have floated and people would have flocked to see it as they do in a zoo.
Brother Evelyn Waugh tells us that in your country there are parlours where not just dead people can have their looks improved, even dead animals can have their beaks and lashes fixed. If a dog loses his tail in an accident, he can have another one fitted in. If a man had some flaws and imperfections in his face when alive, after his death they can be miraculously removed by trained hands and he is buried with great pomp and ceremony, so much so that even ‘hands’ can be hired to shower his coffin with flowers. And when someone loses a pet, a card is sent by the parlour which carries a message along the following lines: ‘Your Tammy — or Jeffy — is shaking his tail — or ear — in Heaven remembering you.’
In your country, even the dogs are better off than us. Here, we die one day and it is business as usual the next. If someone loses a dear one here, that poor man curses his luck. He says, ‘Why did the wretch have to die! I wish I had died instead!” The truth is, dear Uncle, we know neither the art of living, nor dying!
I saw the latest issue of Life (5 November, 1951, International Edition). I must say that yet another revealing vision of life in your country unfolded before my eyes. The entire story — with pictures — of the funeral of your country’s famous gangster was splashed across two whole pages. I saw the pictures of Willie Moretti — may God grant him a place in paradise! I saw the grand home that he had recently bought for 55,000 dollars as well his five-acre estate where he wanted to go away to escape from the worries of the world and live in peace. And I also saw the dead man’s photo where he is lying in bed with his eyes closed for ever and his coffin worth 5000 dollars as well as his funeral procession that comprised 11 large vans weighed down with flowers and 55 cars. As God is the only witness, tears welled up in my eyes.
God forbid, if you die, may you get a bigger and grander funeral than Willie Moretti’s. This is the heart-felt wish of a poor writer from Pakistan who, at the same time, requests you to organize your own funeral procession in your own lifetime — since you belong to a land of far-seeing people. To err is human, after all, and someone might make some mistake later and forget to remove some flaw from your face. Think of the torment it would cause your soul! But, at the same time, it is entirely possible that you might have the flawed feature corrected according to our instructions and arrange for your funeral according to the pomp and circumstance you deem fit. After all, you are far more intelligent than me! And you are also my uncle!
Give my regards to Erskine Cadwell and to the judge who acquitted him of the charge of obscenity. Forgive me for any indiscretion that I might have committed.
Your poor nephew,
Saadat Hasan Manto
Resident of Pakistan
(This letter could not be posted since there was no money to buy the postage stamp.)