So those boys, intent on rioting, quietly took their pole and carried it over to the other side. It was said that after this, no “kafir” dared to come into “Pakistan”.
Bhendi Bazaar is Bombay’s Muslim heart. There was no rioting here this time. Its Muslims — who earlier took the lead in violence against Hindus — now sat in hotels sipping cups of tea and sighing.
I heard a Muslim tell my friend: ‘We’re only waiting for Jinnah saheb’s order.’
Listen to another story from this same riot.
An Englishman was passing in his car. A mob stopped him. He was terrified, unsure of what terrible fate awaited him. He was surprised when one of the young men said to him: ‘Let your chauffeur sit in the back now and you drive him. You be the servant and him your master.’
The Englishman immediately took the wheel and the driver sheepishly sat in the back. The Englishman felt relief at being let off so easily. The rioters were absolutely delighted at their triumph.
In another place, the editor of one of Bombay’s Urdu film magazines was walking down the road. He was out on work to collect advertising dues and so had worn his suit.
He had knotted a tie and also had a hat on. The rioters stopped him.
‘Hand over the hat and tie,’ they demanded. Frightened out of his wits, the editor handed them over. The mob tossed the offending articles into a fire.
Then a young man said: ‘What about the suit? Even that’s a sign of a colonialist.’ The editor now threw himself at their mercy.
‘I only have this one suit. It’s what I have to wear to the offices of film companies and recover advertising dues from their owners,’ he said, ‘if you burn it, I’ll be ruined and lose my earnings.’
When the rioters saw his tears, they let him off with his suit intact.
The place where I live has mainly Christian homes. Christians of every shade — dark, wheatish and white. They consider themselves a part of the colonial race, the English. That’s why these riots affected the Christians badly. Their legs, dressed in trousers and skirts, trembled.
When news came of the violence getting closer, the men stopped wearing their hats. The women stopped wearing skirts and dresses and now wore saris instead.
In earlier riots, when we left home we would carry two caps. A Hindu topi and a Rumi topi. When passing through a Muslim mohalla, we would put on the Rumi topi and when walking through a Hindu mohalla, the Hindu topi. In this riot, we also bought Gandhi topis. These we kept in our pockets to be pulled out wherever needed. Religion used to be felt in the heart, but now, in the new Bombay, it must be worn on the head.
— (Originally published as Batein, in
Manto Ke Mazameen, 1954)
Bombay During Partition
We are fortunate that Manto brought his skills as a writer and observer to the days of Partition in Bombay. So little is known about the atmosphere and the happenings during those crucial days, obscured by the jubilation of Independence from the British. There is some material in the autobiography of the judge, M C Chagla and in the writings of Rafiq Zakaria. However, Manto brings an immediacy which makes those days come alive. Indians cannot imagine how divided their cities were during that period, and this essay will take them by surprise. Manto then tells us, through his experiences in Pakistan, how silly the whole enterprise was.
When India was partitioned, I was in Bombay. On the radio I heard speeches made by Quaid-e-Azam Jinnah and Pandit Nehru. And I saw the chaos that came to the city.
Before this, I had read news about Hindu-Muslim violence in the papers daily. Some days five Hindus would be cut down, other days five Muslims. In any case, it seemed to me that equal blood was drawn and shed by both sides.
But now, at Partition, it was different.
Let me tell you how, through this story.
The newspaper man would throw the Times of India through the kitchen window every morning. One day, it was just after a riot, the newspaper man knocked on the door.
I was alarmed. I walked out and saw a stranger holding out the paper.
I asked him: ‘Where’s that man who delivers the paper daily?’
‘He’s dead, sir,’ the stranger replied, ‘he was stabbed in Kamathipura yesterday. Before he died, he gave me a list of people to deliver the paper to and collect the money from them.’
I can’t express what I felt on hearing this, so I won’t try to.
The next day I was at Claire Road, near my house, when I saw a body near the petrol pump. It was the corpse of an ice-seller, a Hindu, whose cart was next to him. The ice was melting. The drops mingled with the blood that had coagulated around him. It looked like jelly.
Those were strange days. There was chaos, mayhem, panic everywhere and from the womb of this anarchy were born two nations. Independent India and independent Pakistan.
Many wealthy Muslims in Bombay took a flight out to Karachi, hoping to see the celebrations of the founding of an Islamic republic.
The rest cowered in fear, only hoping that nothing terrible would happen to them. The 14th of August arrived.
Bombay, always beautiful, now looked as gorgeous as a bride. It was glittering with lights, so many that I think the city had never spent so much on power as it did that night.
The Bombay Electric Supply and Tramway Company, called BEST, had decorated one of their tram cars for the festivities, covering it entirely in lights so that it resembled the Tricolour of the Congress. It roamed the city roads the whole night.
Many buildings were also lit-up, especially the shops owned by the British, like Whiteways and Ewan Frieze’s.
Now listen to what was going on in Bhendi Bazaar. This is a famous market area dominated by what are called in Bombay’s language, Miya Bhais — Muslims.
It has countless hotels and restaurants, some called “Bismillah” and others called “Subhanallah”. The entire Quran is to be found in the names of this place. Bhendi Bazaar is Bombay’s Pakistan. Here, Hindus were celebrating the freedom of their Hindustan and Muslims of their Pakistan.
I of course had no idea what to make of any of this.
The few Hindu shops in Bhendi Bazaar displayed the Tricolour. Everywhere else, Islamic flags of the Muslim League were visible. When I went there in the morning, I noticed something bizarre. The bazaar was covered in green flags. There was a painting of Jinnah (made by an amateur) which was put up in a restaurant. I cannot get these sights out of my mind.
The Muslims were ecstatic that they had got their Pakistan. But where was this Pakistan? Not in Bhendi Bazaar. And what was this Pakistan, if not India? This they did not know.
They were happy, perhaps for no reason other than they finally had a reason to be happy about.
At the Rampur Dada restaurant, many cups of tea and Passing Soap cigarettes were consumed amid delight at the creation of Pakistan.
As I said, I had no idea what to make of it, but the strange thing is that on 14 August, nobody was killed in Bombay. People were busy celebrating their freedom.
What this freedom was, how it had been achieved and what it would mean to their lives — not much thought was spent on it. There was only shouting. “Pakistan zindabad!” on one side, “Hindustan zindabad!” on the other.
And now listen to something about our new Islamic republic.
On last year’s independence day, a man was cutting down a tree in front of our house. I said to him: ‘What are you doing? You’ve no right to cut this tree.’