Why I Write: Essays

The Story of My Wedding

Manto lived the early Bombay dream. He spent a little time in the film industry and found some success as a writer and a cultural figure. He was acquainted with some of the great names in the industry, as this piece shows, though he drops names very lightly. Here he tells us the story of how he got married to the girl from Mahim. Manto moved to Bombay from Amritsar and found a job in a magazine, and in a film company. He had little money, lived in a chawl and was fond of drinking. When his mother was horrified by his state, he said to her nonchalantly that he wasn’t earning more only because he didn’t need to. If he were married, he would immediately make more money. His mother then suggested he should marry, and in a moment he would come to regret, he said yes. Watch out for the personalities who play a part in this drama. Most are now forgotten, but in their hey days were giants of Indian cinema.

I’ve written somewhere that there were three significant events in my life.

The first was my birth, of which I have little information. The second was my wedding, the third my becoming a writer of short stories.

Since the episode of my writing is still on, it’ll be getting ahead of myself to talk about it.

For those who want a glimpse into my life, I’m writing about the story of my wedding, which is also the story of my coming to Bombay. I’m not going to reveal every detail, mind you, some of the material will be elided over because it is not for public knowledge.

Let’s start our story a little before the event. Over a decade ago — I can’t remember the precise year — I was asked to leave Aligarh Muslim University. The reason was tuberculosis, which was thought to be incurable. Anyway, to recuperate, I took some money from my sister and went to Batot, a village on Jammu’s border with Kashmir.

After three months, when I returned home to Amritsar, I learned of the death of my sister’s little boy (she lived in Bombay and had returned there after a few days in Amritsar). I should say here that I had seen very little of my father before he died. When my simple and extremely kind mother had married my sister off, she gave her son-in-law all the money our family had.

My mother now realized this was a mistake and things had become so bad that we were utterly at the mercy of others. We were scraping along on forty rupees a month, that my two older brothers were sending. On top of that came the news of my nephew’s death. On coming home, I was therefore in a sort of depression. I felt like running away from it all. I even had thoughts of killing myself (had I stronger will than I do, I would have gone ahead with it).

Just then, I got a letter from Bombay. Mr Nazir, the owner of Musawwar, a weekly, wanted me to come over and edit the journal. I packed my stuff and set off immediately. I didn’t even give it a thought, I now realize, how my mother would get by alone in Amritsar. But I

was off.

When I reached Bombay, Mr Nazir hired me for a salary of forty rupees a month. After he discovered that I was sleeping in the office, he began cutting two rupees from my salary towards rent every month. When he got me another job alongside, as a munshi at the Imperial Studios, on a salary of forty rupees, Mr Nazir cut my salary from Musawwar by half, to twenty rupees.

And, of course, he continued to cut two rupees as rent.

Now this was the time when the once-great Imperial Studios was in terrible shape. Its owner, Seth Ardeshir Irani, was trying very hard to set the company right, but it was obvious that in such a place, salaries would not be paid on time — and they weren’t.

Seth Ardeshir’s ambition led him to produce India’s first colour film, and for this he imported expensive processing machines. The ambition was in keeping with his past. Seth Ardeshir had earlier made India’s first talkie, Alam Ara, in 1931. When the company was made to bear the burden of the colour film, things went from bad to terrible. But work continued.

We didn’t get our salaries, but were given a portion, called an “advance”. The rest of it was owed to us and showed in the company’s books.

The director of this colour film was, Moti B Gidwani. He was a man of literature and fond of me. He asked me to work on the film’s script. I wrote it and, surprisingly, he liked it. But he could not bring himself to tell Seth Ardeshir that the story of India’s first colour film had been written by a clerk.

It was decided to attribute the story to some famous person. At first no such man came to my mind. Then I remembered Prof Ziauddin, now dead, in Santiniketan. He taught Persian in Tagore’s university. I wrote to him explaining my problem. He was fond of me, and agreed to participate in our little fraud.

The film released with a credit to him, and was a colossal flop*. The company’s straits became even more dire. At this point, on Mr Nazir’s recommendation, I was given a job in Film City for a hundred rupees a month, and I moved there.

When A R Kardar came to Bombay from Calcutta, Film City signed a deal with him for a movie. Stories began to be written, including one by me which was liked by

Mr Kardar. Unfortunately, fate intervened.

Seth Ardeshir learnt that I was at Film City. Although he had lost some of his past influence, he could still command producers of his generation to do his bidding.

He gave such a dressing down to the owners of Film City for poaching me that I was taken by the ear and sent back to Imperial Studios, with my script.

My salary was now doubled to eighty rupees, and I was told I would be paid separately for my script. The film was being directed by Hafizji (of Ratanbai fame). When I had joined Film City, and was being paid regularly, I stopped sleeping at Musawwar’s office and took up a room in a chawl, which was frankly, disgusting. A chawl is a building with long corridors on each floor to which are attached single rooms. The toilets are common and on the ground floor, all in a row. I paid nine rupees as rent for this hovel. The place was so full of bed bugs that they fell from the roof like rain.

Soon after, my mother came to Bombay, and stayed in my sister’s flat in Mahim. When she came over to see me in my chawl, she wept. My relations with my brother-in-law were strained. I was banned from entering their house and he had forbidden my sister from meeting me. I found his behaviour appalling, though I hope god is merciful to him.

Anyway, I was speaking of my mother’s tears. She noticed my poverty, the lack of clothes, my working at night in the light of a kerosene lamp. My eating in a cheap hotel. She saw all this and cried, for I had seen better days before.

For me, remembrance of things past has always been a waste of time, and what’s the point of tears? I don’t know. I’ve always been focussed on today. Yesterday and tomorrow hold no interest for me. What had to happen, did, and what will happen, will.

After she had cried her fill, my mother asked me: ‘Saadat, why don’t you earn more money?’

I replied: ‘What will I do with more money, Bibi Jaan? What I earn is sufficient for me.’

She said sternly: ‘No. The reality is that you cannot earn more than you do. If you had been more educated, it would have been different.’

That was true. But I had never been inclined towards studying. I failed in class twelve three times* before being admitted to college where my mind wandered even farther. I failed twice again. When I went to Aligarh Muslim University, as I’ve told you before, I was booted out for having tuberculosis, and that was hardly my fault.

Despite all this, I tried to laugh off my mother’s concern. ‘Bibi Jaan, what I earn is enough for me. Now if I had a wife, you would see what I am capable of earning. It’s not very difficult to make money here, you know. A man can make a fortune even without a proper education.’

After hearing this, my mother asked suddenly: ‘Will you marry, then?’

I replied without a thought: ‘But of course.’

‘Then come to Mahim on Sunday,’ she said, ‘and wait on the footpath under the flat. I’ll come down on seeing you.’

She put her hand on my head. ‘We’ll arrange your marriage, Inshallah.’

As she left, she turned back: ‘But look! Make sure you cut your hair before you come.’

I didn’t get that haircut.

However for some reason, I did manage to put black polish on my canvas shoes. I had to pay twice the usual rate to get them cleaned and white again.

That Sunday I wore them with my white slacks and went to meet my mother. I reached Mahim and stood on the footpath in front of Evening Leto Mansions as she had asked me to. Mother was waiting in the balcony of my sister’s third floor flat. She came down and asked me to walk with her.

But only twenty-five feet down the road, and we stopped at a building, Jaffer House. We went to the third floor, where Mother knocked on a door. A maid opened and we went in. Mother went into the ladies’ quarter of the flat. I was welcomed by a middle-aged man who was fair and good-looking. He took me into the living room and sat me down with great affection. He was informal and put me at ease immediately. We began to chat and soon told each other what was important about ourselves.

His name was Malik Hasan. He worked for the government, and had an interesting job. He was a fingerprint specialist with the police. His salary, and this is the level of detail he was comfortable revealing, was reasonably good. He had fathered many children. He liked, and this was interesting also, to bet on horses and gamble. He filled out the crossword every morning but hadn’t won any prize doing this. This was what I learnt about him.

I told him everything about myself, holding back nothing. That I worked in the movies, for a company that didn’t pay salaries, except an advance intermittently so that employees would not be reduced to begging.

I was amazed that when I revealed to him I drank, even in such straightened circumstances, a bottle of beer every evening, he did not react negatively. He heard all that I had to say intently and with great interest.

When I rose to leave, Mr Hasan knew every page from my book of life. As we walked back, Mother said the family had come to Bombay from Africa. ‘They know your brothers well,’ she said. Mr Hasan had been a barrister for ten years in East Africa, she added, and that was why I had been summoned to Mahim on this Sunday. They were in the process of finding a groom for a girl in the family.

Many proposals had come and had been rejected as unsuitable. What they wanted was someone from a Kashmiri family, like ours. ‘I’ve told them about you and kept nothing hidden,’ she said. Well, that was it then. Whatever I had omitted to reveal in my own candid session, Mother had fulfilled in hers.

What could this lead to, I asked myself. That they would agree to me as the man for this girl, I could not imagine. There was, I’m being honest here rather than modest, nothing about me that would make me fit for her or any other respectable girl.

I had put all these thoughts behind me by the time Mr Malik invited me home the next Sunday. He was once again very warm and gracious as a host. Lunch was soon served.There was chicken, meat koftas, vegetable curry and a delicious chutney of dhaniya-pudina (coriander-mint) and pomegranate. Actually all of it was delicious — but so hot that sweat broke on my brow. Soon, however, I became used to the spice and enjoyed the meal.

After a couple of more Sunday invitations, I met the family and became familiar with them. After this, one day Mother said to me without warning: ‘They’ve agreed to give her to you.’

Now, as I told you, I had laughed off this business of getting married. But when I heard her words, I was staggered. That someone would give me their daughter — especially after knowing me! — I had not imagined possible.

What exactly did I have on offer as a suitable candidate? I had had no proper education after passing my twelfth standard (in the third division). I was employed in a place that paid bits of salaries, not salaries. And my line of work was films and journalism. Such men are not welcome in the company of the gentry. My house was in a slum (and even that I had to pull strings to get after the landlord found out I was involved in films). I wasn’t ready to do this, not prepared at all. And when my mother added that she had agreed to the proposal on my behalf, I began to panic. I didn’t show or say anything that indicated my feelings, but my thoughts turned immediately to how I could be rid of this disaster that, truth be told, I had invited upon myself.

After much thought and consideration, I came to the conclusion that both were useless. I surrendered to my fate: I would just go ahead and not resist, I decided. Although I had made up my mind, the truth was I was still broke. How would I pay for the ceremony? This was troubling, especially because by now, the company had stopped paying even the “advance” that it infrequently did earlier.

Meanwhile news came from Mother that she had set a date. I thought of running away from Bombay, but some strange power held my feet.

Only one unpleasant solution came to mind — that I confront my employer, Seth Ardeshir Irani, with the news of my wedding and get some money out of him.

The company owed me one and a half thousand rupees. Now if I got this money, I’d be free of worry. Heck, I would be rolling in it.

And so I walked up to Mr Irani. He didn’t have the time to hear me at length. Whatever I could say to him as he walked from one place to another, he heard on sufferance.

Then he said to me: ‘Look Manto, you’re aware of the company’s state. If it were healthy, I’d have married you off myself.’ This was true. He was a large-hearted man and many employees in the past had seen the measure of his generosity.

But now he had little to offer and I could see the despair on his face at not being able to give me my dues.

You can imagine how disappointed I was. I had in fact begun to walk away when he called out to me. ‘I can only do this — buy you things necessary for the wedding,’ he said, ‘go call Hafiz.’

I ran to get Mr Hafiz and Mr Irani gave us the names of a few shops. He wrote something on a chit and said: ‘Take Munshi Manto with you and get him whatever he needs.’

We set off in a car and came to a market. Here I picked out a couple of saris. These were debited to Mr Irani’s personal account. Next stop was the jeweller’s. Here an assistant was sent with me, because I had wanted the girl to choose her wedding ornaments herself. We reached Jaffer House. The girl’s mother, whom I called Aunty, was shown the ornaments by the jeweller’s man. She picked out a diamond ring, a pair of pearl earrings, a pendant and some bangles. I pleaded with her to take more, but she didn’t want it to be an expensive deal for me.

I wish I had said to her: ‘Aunty, such an opportunity will not come again. They owe me one and a half thousand rupees.’

Unfortunately, I didn’t and all of this came to only four or five hundred rupees. I never got the rest, and a few days later, the company folded up. Now Mr Nazir, in whose magazine Musawwar I worked, doubled my salary back to forty rupees. This was a relief, and I could continue downing that bottle of beer every evening (which was important).

I began to suspect that this wedding was ill-omened. I had no support in getting it organized. I neither had friends in Bombay nor loved ones. I had a sister here, true, but I was forbidden from even entering her house. I had to do all the work for the event myself. People had to be invited, stuff had to be bought — not to forget that I needed a haircut.

But I was at it. One day, as I was returning after giving the wedding invitation to Syed Fazal Shah, owner of Shah Jahan Mahal Hotel, I slipped and fell on some stones. I fell so hard and hurt myself so badly that I fainted. Now I’ve fainted only three times in my life. This was the first time. The second time was on hearing the news of my mother’s death. The third when my son died.

This falling and fainting was certainly not a good sign and I was convinced now that the wedding was going to be a disaster.

Anyway, I bought what was needed from the market, and reached Jaffer House for the nikah. My body sang out in pain as I climbed up the stairs to their flat and entered a totally different atmosphere, a festive place.

There were fifteen to twenty people at Jaffer House when I reached there for the ceremony. I sat down with the support of a cushion. I couldn’t bend my injured leg and so sat with it extended, and I accept it was very bad manners.

When Qazi Markhe (yes, I thought it was a weird name too) asked me to sit in the formal fashion, I swallowed my pain and knelt as prescribed for Muslims. When the ritual was over, I was relieved and straightened my leg immediately, with waves of pain shooting through it. I accepted the congratulations and limped my way back home.

I lit a kerosene lamp in my chawl and, lying on the bug-infested bed, began to marvel at the fact that I was married now. It’s true that my wife was still absent from this nine-rupee-a-month dump that I called home. But legally, I could ask her to move in with me and there was something to be said for that.

I dared not ask her, of course. What would I feed her — the stuff I got from the Irani nearby (and that too, on credit)? Where would I keep her? This place had neither furniture nor any space to keep it. And where would she bathe? There was no bathroom here. It was a two-storeyed building with forty rooms. For everyone there were only two shared toilets, whose doors had vanished somewhere.

Sooner or later, she would move in with me. Then? How would I play the role of a husband? The thought tormented me.

I had slept with three women before, but they were all maids. We had had sex almost accidentally, two adults with needs, and then moved on, as strangers who brush against one another in a crowded street and soon forget.

I had no experience of treating a lady in the right manner. I was convinced I couldn’t be a husband, a homely man. It wasn’t the same thing as an essayist or a short story writer.

Time went by. I got a job for a hundred rupees a month at Saroj Movietone. I’m convinced the bloody place was waiting for me. I had not been there two months when it folded up.

Then the owner, Seth Nanubhai Desai snared a Marwari and got him to invest in the firm, which was now renamed Hindustan Cinetone. I wrote my second script for this “new” firm, which I called Keechad. This was changed to Apni Nagariya — an awful name, but the movie went on to do well.

While this was going on, one day Mother said that she had announced the date when the bride would be brought home. It had been a year since the wedding, but I had made no preparation for this. My in-laws were impatient and who could blame them? Left to myself, I would have never wanted the day to come.

It wasn’t that I was lazy, I didn’t want the girl to ruin her life and I knew I would be terrible at this married life business. But the day of apocalypse was now at hand.

Meanwhile the paper I was also working part-time, Musawwar had begun to turn in a handsome profit for its owner, Mr Nazir. We moved to a nicer building, to an office with a telephone. Mr Nazir bought himself a little car in which he drove around all day, selling advertising for the paper.

My schedule every Sunday was to go to my in-laws’ in Mahim for a meal, sometimes catching a half-glimpse of my wife, with whom I had never been alone. Later, I hated myself for putting her — and myself — through this, but it was too late to whine.

Ten days before her arrival, I rented a flat in the same building as the Musawwar office. The rent was thirty-five rupees, and my salary from the paper, forty. I told

Mr Nazir to settle the rent directly each month, and that left me with five rupees with which I had to feed myself and my wife. Terrific!

I cleaned up the flat nicely. The floor and the doors were filthy and I gave them a good scrubbing with caustic soda. With hope in my heart and a new-found confidence, I presented myself before Nanubhai Desai. I catalogued to him how much was owed to me for the script and as salary arrears. When in response Nanubhai made it clear that he couldn’t pay me a paisa given his circumstances, I lost it.

I said a few words in anger (and a couple of words of abuse may have slipped out as well). This resulted in my being thrown out physically.

I immediately telephoned Baburao Patel, the editor of Film India. I told him that if Nanubhai did not settle my dues, I would go on a hunger strike.

Now Baburao was aware of my predicament and was disturbed. He called Nanubhai and said: ‘Look, if Manto goes on this hunger strike, the press will unite against you. It’s better to find a solution and resolve this.’

Nothing was solved over the phone, but then Baburao went to meet Nanubhai at his office and I was called in. Nanubhai apologized to me, and I to him. Then it was offered that we settle this with my being paid half of what was owed and letting the other half go, since the company was in dire straits.

I agreed and got a post-dated cheque for nine hundred rupees. When I called Nanubhai a few days later and said I was going to encash it, he told me to come see him before I did so. He told me with a sad face that there was nothing in the bank. Could I not agree to five hundred rupees in cash instead?

I agreed immediately, even though of my hard-earned eighteen hundred rupees, half had already been let go and another four hundred sliced off through this compromise. I was desperate, with only four days left for my bride to come home.

With the cash in my pocket, I took the company car, which had no petrol in it, filled up its tank and went to the market where I bought some saris. I returned home, with my pockets again empty of money. And the flat, of course, was just as empty of furniture. Not even a busted chair in sight.

In the office was a kindly old man and I confided in him, saying that I was about to bring my bride into a shell of a flat. He came to my aid and took me to a place that made and sold furniture, whose owner was a friend of his. I got some stuff on easy installments: two metal cots with springs, a cabinet for kitchen equipment and vessels, a dressing table (this was second-hand), a writing table and a chair.

When I installed all of this, I was disappointed. The rooms were as capacious as ships. They swallowed up the furniture. I bought two stools which I set up in the corners, but these too were lost. I got some more things from here and there and began to place them around the flat trying to convince myself (unsuccessfully) that it was now filled up.

And then the day arrived.

I was sitting that morning in the Musawwar office, and my mother was in the flat. I’d told her I was off to make arrangements for the function. Mr Nazir had sent off invites to people, many of whom were from the entertainment business. My baraat would be a filmi one. How appropriate.

There would be Mian Kardar, Director Gunjali, famous actors, A Billimoria and D Billimoria, Noor Mohammed “Charlie”, comedian Mirza Musharraf, Baburao Patel and the first colour film’s heroine, Padma Devi.

When Baburao learnt that only my mother would receive the guests at home, he sent Padma Devi to help out.

I had rented some chairs and from the Irani nearby came bottles of Vimto. I could easily cover the expense for these. What was bothering me, as I sat in the office of Musawwar, was how would I run the house from tomorrow?

Just then, the phone rang. It was my sister, who had been forbidden by her husband from meeting me and who couldn’t therefore be there when I would bring my bride home. ‘How are you, Saadat?’ she asked. I told her I was well and had four-and-a-half annas in my pocket. Four annas would buy me a tin of cigarettes and two paise would go for a box of matches. After that, who knew? She then said: ‘Please stop opposite my flat when you come to pick her up. I want to see you.’

I didn’t chat with her further, because she was becoming overly emotional. I hung up, rose and went to the saloon next door to get a haircut (on credit) and took a shower. By evening I had smoked my way through the tin of cigarettes. All I had in my pockets now — and remember I was just about to pick up my bride — was half a box of matches. Anyway, I changed into the suit gifted to me by my in-laws. I wore a tie too. When I looked into the mirror, a cartoonish character stared back. I laughed heartily.

Before the street lights were turned on, the baraatis were all present and ready. Padma Devi and Mother served them Vimto and were off. Our caravan of ten-fifteen cars wound its way to Mahim. I was in Nanubhai’s car and told the driver when we reached Jaffer House to drive on a little further up the road. My sister was waiting on the footpath. Tears were swimming in her eyes and she ran her hand over me with love and blessed me. I fled back into the car before it got too much and told the driver to back it up to Jaffer House.

There, my mother-in-law had done a superb job of setting up refreshments on the terrace. It was a raucous evening, as might be expected of film people, and Rafiq Ghaznavi, Director Nanda and Agha Khalish Kashmiri were at each other the entire evening. Everyone overate because the spread was absolutely delicious, as might be expected of us, Kashmiris.

Agha Saheb read out some verses from a poem he had written and then I was called downstairs and handed charge of the girl. It now felt like a dream.

Many thoughts, some long suppressed, were coursing through me. I held her hand and said, my voice trembling, ‘Let’s go, then.’

We came down. Billimoria gave us his car. My mother was with me and sat the bride down first. She sat next and then asked me to get in. Mother sat between my bride and me. On her lap, wrapped in muslin, was the Quran. Our necks were laden with garlands. As the car started, Mother began to mutter some verses. Till now I was to some extent, in control of my passions. I thought of playing some mischief with my wife, but mother was between us. And on top of that reciting from the holy book. My desire to torment my wife remained unfulfilled. I can’t remember how long it took for us to get home — or how we got there. Suddenly, we were there.

It was a building made more with stick than stone, but elegant in its time. Apparently it was once a grand hotel that His Highness, Sir Aga Khan had won from a friend as a bet.

Mother took my bride up to the flat. I stood there, thanking my friends for coming. Just then, Mirza Musharraf arrived with a truck which was carrying the bride’s dowry. A dining table and chairs came out, then a bed with springs, a sofa set, some trunks and so on.

After this was unloaded, Mirza Musharraf got into a squabble with the trucker over the fare. This went on for a long time. I waited.

Mirza Musharraf gave a display of why he played the buffoon with such ease on screen. After it ended and the stuff was placed here and there, wherever space could be found in the flat, Mirza Musharraf came to me and whispered: ‘Look boy, make sure you don’t embarrass us with your performance in bed.’

I was utterly spent by this time and gave no reply to the clown.

The next morning I rose to find that one quarter of me had magically turned husband. I was relieved to feel this way.

Out in the balcony, I saw a piece of string with stuff hanging from it, drying, fluttering in the wind.

And so it had begun.

— (Originally published as Meri Shadi)

* the film was Kisan Kanya, released in 1937

* Manto actually failed in Urdu