There are numerous books with the suffix “nama”: Baburnama, Akbarnama, Padshanama and many more, but Dozakhnama is by far the most intriguing title I have ever come across. The book starts with the narrator visiting Lucknow to collect stories on tawaifs, who were sophisticated courtesans of the late eighteenth century and early nineteenth century in India and entertained the so-called aristocrats with performances of ancient traditional art, music, and poetry.
The narrator, having failed to meet any tawaif in the ancient town, was greeted by a Farid Mia, who gave him a torn and tattered manuscript of Saadat Hasan Manto.
Legend has it that Manto didn’t seek any stories; rather the stories sought him out. The very Saadat Hasan Manto who wanted his epitaph to say, “Here is buried Saadat Hasan Manto. With him lie buried all secrets of the art of fiction writing. Under mounds of soil, he is still wondering who the greater short-story writer is: him or God?”
The narrator was surprised, since Manto was only known to have composed short stories. No one had ever heard about his novel. But the poet who kept the manuscript for years claimed that it was indeed written by Manto. However, the manuscript was written in Urdu, which the narrator didn’t know. He began learning the language, but failed to master it. Finally, Tabsum Mirza, his tutor read out the book for him and he wrote it down.
Manto was fascinated with Mirza Ghalib, an eighteenth century poet who lived in Delhi. He had even written a script on Ghalib for a movie which won the national award. Manto had memorized all of Mirza Ghalib’s shers and would recite them at every opportune moment.
Dozakhnama is divided into 42 sections, each of which could be read as a book by itself. It is filled with historical accounts of eye witnesses, fairytales told by the narrator, anecdotes, fables, and much more. Even though Mirza and Manto lived during different eras, Manto was almost haunted by Ghalib’s works.
Like Manto, Ghalib, too, was in love with words: he tossed and turned them, played with them, created beautiful poems with them. But alas! He had no time for his wife and children. All his children died at infancy and hence his relationship with his wife was very cold. He took pride in the fact that he was second only to Ameer Khusro in Persian poetry. Ghalib was very much a bon vivant, who enjoyed his life to the fullest. He once wrote in a condolence letter that “one can only mourn the death of someone when he knows that death will not come to him.” He compared his heart to a small vial of perfume. “That is where my god lives!’ he would say.
The book, which spans from the mutiny of 1857 to the division of India and Pakistan in 1947, is in fact a comparison of both the time periods. What Ghalib had witnessed then was no less than what Saadat Hasan Manto experienced in 1947.
Hundreds of thousands of Muslims were killed by the Hindus and vice versa. Manto was deeply hurt and disillusioned by that fact. He was out of work, as he had left Bombay for Lahore. It was almost like a curse to him. He was charged with obscenity in his writing and had to face the court on six different occasions, three of which were before he moved to Pakistan. He once declared, “If anyone accuses me of obscenity then one must understand it’s the society that is portrayed in my writing.”
The last days of Ghalib and Manto were similar. Both were in dire need of money and lived by themselves in their own houses. Manto worked for the film industry in Lahore. He seldom got paid for his work since the industry itself was not yet fully formed. He didn’t like doing the work because it destroyed his creativity. He would rather spend time writing poetry. His drinking habits took a toll on his health and family life.
Manto was also very sad when he left Delhi, as he lost touch with his very close companion Ismat Chugtai. Ismat was famous in her days and wrote about same sex relationship back when it was impossible to think of such things.
Both Mirza Ghalib and Saadat Hasan Manto loved life yet suffered enormously as they had to earn their living by writing alone. Ghalib lost hope. With Shahjanabad demolished, he slowly succumbed to death. He only lived for twelve years after that. But he would go on to live forever in the hearts and minds of the people who love poetry.
Altogether Dozakhnama is a fascinating book that talks about two very important writers of India and Pakistan.
Jackie Kabir is a fiction writer and translator.
