Partho Roy

On first looking into ‘Nadita’s Manto I had an intense urge to research Manto before writing this. And I refrained as the kaleidoscope of images conjured by Nandita’s stellar storytelling was sufficient to peek into my own bits of understanding about the enigma named Manto. It is a mess. The cauldron simmers with conflicting times from a period. A period of turmoil admixed with the cultural extravaganza of Bombay and incompatible societal norms fostering egoistical and narcissistic human characters refusing to budge an inch. Add to it, the spice of the birth of two nations, the pains of partition, concepts of obscenity and deranged mentation accompanied by alcoholism and you have a problem at hand. Manto, a virtual prisoner of a time warp where sensibilities and the concepts of right or wrong are completely at variance with his own ideas and ideals. He appears to be a perfect example of a man in the throes of wrongs; the time, the country, the society, the attitude, all wrong! Funnily, if Manto had to exist today, he may have been a no one. His literary outlook was intricately woven into the ante. Angry, distressed and misunderstood, his mindset was firmly against the majority view. Even those who were enamoured by his exquisite literary talents were dismayed at his penetrating portrayal of the gory in all its suddenness. Why did he move to Lahore? Beats me and reinforces my belief that he simply was too impulsive who bound himself with no avenues for even a seemingly benign retreat. The Bombay milieu would have been much less provocative or even conducive to his line of thought as compared to the regressive and restrictive environment that pervaded him and his family at Lahore. But then, he often loathed suggestions other than his own. A man sufficiently sardonic to anyone who differed and that included his wife and friends. His problems were augmented by his addiction to alcohol. At times, I am intrigued whether his dependence on alcohol was the reason for his dark thoughts or vice versa. Undoubtedly, his world of fantasy was dominated by unfortunate human events that he was somehow privy to and expressed them in a way that scared the hell out of routine readers. I am surprised that he was less sensitive to the difficulties and tribulations that his own family and friends had to endure simply because they cared and loved him. Did he? He frequently shut his mind, well ensconced in a world where he felt comfortable, safe, and away from his tormentors. At other times, his inner voice shook him to take cognizance of his own conflicts and the sorry state of his family but invariably, he took refuge in his bottle to escape. Beyond all his failures, incapacities and arrogance, he was the epitome of a creator that went by the name of excellence, something that far exceeded any other considerations. He would not change and thus we are privileged to read his works. Unfortunately, he was piggybacking on the watershed that destroyed the finest of the fine. Reminds me of ‘Van Gogh.’ He was more wounded by the fact that ‘Faiz’ derided his literary capabilities. The hurt on his face was so tragic. A masterpiece by Nandita.