Latest news with #SaadatHasanManto
New Indian Express
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- New Indian Express
A bit of Manto in Urdu theatre workshop at Daryaganj school
NEW DELHI: 'If you cannot bear these stories, it is because we live in unbearable times,' wrote Saadat Hasan Manto—words that lingered like a quiet pulse in the sunlit auditorium of Crescent School, Daryaganj. Just past 10 am, the room buzzed with the vibrant energy of over 40 students, their laughter and chatter filling the space. This was no ordinary summer programme—it was a celebration of Urdu's enduring spirit, brought to life through a theatre workshop hosted by the Urdu Academy under Delhi's Department of Art, Culture, and Languages. Here, young minds are not just learning lines but breathing life into Manto's timeless stories, rediscovering a language that connects, heals, and inspires. Open to students from classes IV to XII, the workshop runs daily from 10 am to 1 pm, transforming the auditorium into a stage of creativity and courage. Children sat in a loose circle on the polished floor, their faces lit by morning light. Leading the session was Naghma Parveen, whose warm smile and infectious enthusiasm set the tone. 'Aaj hum Manto ki kahani 'Toba Tek Singh' ko zinda karenge,' she declared, her voice brimming with excitement. Through mirror exercises, tongue twisters, and scene rehearsals, students found both voice and confidence. One girl's raw portrayal of Bishan Singh moved the room to silence. Younger participants lit up the stage with Ismat Chughtai's Chui Mui. 'Theatre teaches empathy,' Parveen said. 'Manto's stories demand raw honesty, and Urdu gives these children the words to express it.'
Time Business News
05-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time Business News
Think Before You Post — The Bitter Truth of Social Media Fame
Saadat Hasan Manto once said: 'If you see prostitution in my stories, it means the fault is not in me but in society.' This sentence is still like a slap on our society's face — especially in this age of social media, where our values are buried under likes, views, and followers. I have been using social media for a long time. Every day I see new faces, videos, and trends. But it hurts my heart when I see well-educated girls from good families dancing on social media just to get more views — and the sad thing is, they feel proud of it. Do you remember what a girl once said in her speech? 'One girl's viral dance steps can ruin your PhD and research.' And that is the truth we don't want to accept. Today, people don't care about education, hard work, or intelligence. They only care about trends. And today's trend is to show yourself like a shop item — that is now called 'success.' Maybe it is true: 'As you sow, so shall you reap.' These girls are daughters of the same rich families, whose grandfathers once forced poor girls to dance for them. But now, these girls are doing a kind of digital dance through 'reels' — not because anyone is forcing them, but just for fake fame and followers. But I want to ask: Who changed the meaning of respect? A mother works day and night to raise her daughter well — Did she do it so her daughter can dance on TikTok or Instagram just to go 'viral'? This race for likes and views is making us empty from the inside. Now nobody cares about talent, effort, or education — All they want is to make a reel, even if it means losing their respect. Being on social media is not wrong — But the question is: What are you doing there? You can make videos about knowledge, skills, cooking, books, education, motivation, and many more good topics. But sadly, most girls are just copying each other. Their thinking is: 'If she went viral, why not me?' 'If she got many followers, why can't I?' And in this race, they forget who they really are. Girls! You can do so much better. You are better than many people out there. But first — know yourself. These likes and views will go away — But your respect, character, and identity will stay with you forever. Have you ever thought: Your one video can make your father feel ashamed, Your mother lose her sleep, Your brother lower his eyes in front of others, Or your video can become a bad example for another girl? And those girls who really want to do something in life — Who want to bring change with their education, talent, and good values — They have to work twice as hard to prove themselves because of you. Remember, this cheap fame doesn't last long. The same people who are clapping for you today — Can insult you tomorrow. A woman's beauty is not just in her body — It is in her mind, knowledge, modesty, and character. Yes, your body is your choice — But social media is not some street corner where you can just sit and think no one will notice. People don't care about your intentions — they only see your actions. So, the choice is yours: Do you want to show yourself to the world like a digital prostitute — Or do you want to become a respectable, educated, talented girl who is a good example for others? I know many people — especially men — may get angry at what I said. There's a reason for that too, but I won't mention it here. But this message is not to criticize you — It is a mirror — That just wants to show you who you really are. TIME BUSINESS NEWS
Scroll.in
29-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Scroll.in
Saadat Hasan Manto
An excerpt from the essay 'My Marriage', from The Collected Stories of Saadat Hasan Manto: Volume I,' translated from the Urdu by Nasreen Rehman.
Scroll.in
29-04-2025
- Politics
- Scroll.in
‘They're going to close our river': Manto's 1950s story about the India-Pakistan water dispute
The Indian Government's decision to suspend the Indus Waters Treaty in the wake of the terrorist attack in Pahalgam on April 22 brings to light, once again, the vexing issue of countries using water – always a scant natural resource – as a tool of war. However, in the context of India and Pakistan this is not new; during the India-Pakistan war of 1947-'48, the water rights on the river system were the focus of a dispute between the two countries. The Urdu writer Saadat Hasan Manto turned it into a short story with Nehru as the mind behind 'stopping' the waters to Punjab. In actual fact, it was the provincial government of Punjab on the Indian side that was behind the decision. Nehru was instrumental in the negotiations between the two countries that eventually led to the formalisation of a water treaty. The Indus Waters Treaty is a water-distribution treaty between India and Pakistan, signed on September 19, 1960. The treaty governs the use of the Indus River system's waters and aims to promote cooperation and the peaceful resolution of disputes. The treaty allocates the waters of the eastern rivers (Ravi, Beas, and Sutlej) to India, and the western rivers (Indus, Jhelum, and Chenab) to Pakistan. – Rakhshanda Jalil. 'Yizad', by Saadat Hasan Manto The riots of 1947 came and went. In much the same way as spells of bad weather come and go every season. It wasn't as though Karimdad accepted everything that came his way as God's will. No, he faced every vicissitude with manly fortitude. He had met hostile forces in a head-on collision – not necessarily to defeat them, but simply to meet them face to face. He knew that the enemy outnumbered him but he believed that it was an insult, not just to him but to all mankind, to give in when faced with trouble. To tell you the truth, this was the opinion others had of him – those who had seen him take on the most savage of men with the most amazing courage. But, if you were to ask Karimdad if he considered it an outrage for himself or all mankind to admit defeat in the face of opposition, he would no doubt fall into deep thought – as though you had asked him a complicated mathematical question. Karimdad knew nothing of addition-subtraction or multiplication-division. The riots of '47 came and went. People began to sit down and calculate the loss of lives and property. But Karimdad remained untouched by all this. All he knew was this: his father, Rahimdad, had been 'spent' in this war. He had picked his father's corpse, carried it on his own shoulders and buried it beside a well. The village had known several casualties. Thousands of young and old had been killed. Many girls had disappeared. Several had been raped in the most inhuman way possible. Those who had been afflicted sat and cried – they cried over their own misfortune and the heartless perpetrators of these crimes. But Karimdad did not shed a single tear. He was proud of his father's valiant fight to the finish. His father had single-handedly fought 25-30 rioters who were armed to the teeth with swords and axes. When Karimdad had heard that his father had fallen down dead, after bravely fighting off the attackers, he had only these words to say to his dead father's spirit: 'Yaar, this isn't done. I had told you to always keep at least one weapon handy with you.' And he had picked up Rahimdad's corpse, dug a hole beside the well and buried it. Then, he had stood beside the grave and by way of prayer said only this: 'God keeps count of vices and virtues. May you be granted Paradise!' The rioters had killed Rahimdad barbarically, Rahimdad, who was not just Karimdad's father but also his dear friend. Whoever heard of his brutal murder cursed the savages who had butchered him, but Karimdad never uttered a word. Karimdad had also lost several ready-to-harvest crops. Two houses belonging to him had been burnt earlier. Yet, he never added these losses to the loss of his father. He would simply say: 'Whatever has happened has happened due to our own fault.' And when someone would ask him what that fault was, he would remain quiet. While the rest of the village was still grieving after the recent riots, Karimdad decided to get married – to the dusky belle, Jeena, on whom he had been keeping an eye for a long time. Jeena was grief-stricken. Her brother, a strapping youth, had been killed in the riots. He had been her only support after the death of her parents. There was no doubt that Jeena loved Karimdad dearly but the tragic loss of her brother had turned even her love into heartache; her once ever-smiling eyes were now always brimming with sorrow. Karimdad hated crying and sobbing. He felt frustrated whenever he saw Jeena looking unhappy. But he always refrained from admonishing her because she was a woman and he thought his rebukes might hurt her aching heart even more. One day, he caught hold of her when they were both out on their fields and said, 'It has been a whole year since we buried our dead. By now even they must be weary of this mourning. Let go of your sorrow, my dear. Who knows how many deaths we have to see in the years ahead? Save your tears for what lies ahead.' Jeena did not like his words. But because she loved him, she thought long and hard over what he had said. In solitude, she searched for the meaning behind his words and, at long last, came around to convincing herself that Karimdad was right. When the subject of Karimdad's marriage to Jeena was first broached, the village elders were against it. But their opposition was weak. They had grown so weary of the constant state of mourning that they no longer had the conviction for carrying on with any sort of sustained opposition. Therefore, Karimdad was duly married. Musicians and singers were called. Every ritual was performed. And Karimdad brought his beloved home as his legally wedded wife. The village had turned into a vast graveyard a year after the riots. When Karimdad's wedding procession wound through the village amidst shouts and cries, some villagers were initially scared. They thought it was a ghostly parade. When Karimdad's friends told him about it, he laughed loudly. But when Karimdad laughingly narrated the incident to his new bride, she shivered with fright. Karimdad took Jeena's red-bangled wrist in his hand and said, 'This ghost will haunt you for the rest of your life … even the village sorcerer will not be able to rid you of me with his witchcraft.' Jeena put the tip of her hennaed finger between her teeth and mumbled shyly, 'Keeme, you are scared of nothing!' Karimdad licked his brownish-black moustache with the tip of his tongue and smiled, 'Why should one be scared of anything?' The sharp edge of Jeena's grief was becoming dull. She was about to become a mother. Karimdad saw her blossoming womanhood and was pleased. 'By God, Jeena, you have never looked so ravishing! If you have become so beautiful only for the sake of my about-to-be-born baby, then he and I will never be friends.' Jeena shyly hid the bump in her middle under her shawl. Karimdad laughed and teased her even more, 'Why do you hide it? Do you think I don't know that you have taken all this trouble with your appearance because of that son of a sow?' Jeena grew suddenly serious and said, 'How can you call your own child by a bad name?' Karimdad's blackish-brown moustache began to quiver with a smile. 'Karimdad is the biggest pig of 'em all.' The first Eid came. Then the second one. Karimdad celebrated both festivals with fervour. The rioters had attacked his village twelve days before the last Eid when both Rahimdad and Jeena's brother, Fazal Ilahi, had been killed. Jeena had shed copious tears in memory of both. But in the company of one who resolutely refused to harbour any trace of sorrowful memories, she could not mourn them as much as she would have wanted to. Whenever Jeena paused to take stock of her life, she was amazed at how quickly she was forgetting the greatest tragedy of her life. She had no memory of her parents' deaths. Fazal Ilahi had been six years older than her. He had been her mother, father, and brother all rolled into one. Jeena knew well enough that her brother had not married for her sake. And the entire village knew that Fazal Ilahi had lost his life trying to save his sister's honour. Clearly, his death was the single most tragic accident of her life. A calamity had befallen her, quite without warning, exactly twelve days before the second Eid. Whenever she thought about it, she was struck with amazement at how far she had drifted away from the shock and sorrow of that fateful incident. By the time Muharrum came around, Jeena made her first request to Karimdad. She was dying to see the famous horse and taaziya during the procession. She had heard a great deal about the procession from her friends. And so she said to Karimdad, 'Will you take me to see the procession if I am well enough?' Karimdad smiled and said, 'I will take you even if you are not well …and this son of a sow as well.' Jeena hated the way he referred to her unborn baby. She would sulk whenever she heard it but Karimdad's tone was, as always, so loving that it transformed Jeena's anger into an indescribable joy and she would wonder how so much love could be suffused into that awful expression – 'son of a sow'. The rumours of a war between India and Pakistan had been floating for some time now. In fact, it had become a near-certainty shortly after the creation of Pakistan that there would be a war between the two countries. Although no one in the village knew exactly when the war might break out, whenever someone asked Karimdad about the imminent breakout of hostilities, he would answer briefly and succinctly: 'It'll happen when it'll happen. What's the point of thinking about it?' Jeena was terrified at the very thought of war. She was, by nature, a peace-loving girl. The smallest tiff between friends made her unhappy. In any case, she had seen enough looting and killing during the last riots that had also claimed the life of her dear brother. Terrified, she asked Karimdad one day, 'Keeme, what'll happen?' Karimdad smiled and said, 'How would I know whether it's going to be a girl or a boy?' This sort of rejoinder always made her mad but she would soon get caught up in Karimdad's banter and forget all about the war clouds gathering over her head. Karimdad was strong, fearless and completely in love with Jeena. He had bought a rifle and learnt to take perfect aim. All this combined to lend courage to Jeena but every time she heard idle gossip from an equally scared friend or loose talk among the villagers, her fears would return. One day, Bakhto, the midwife, who came to check on Jeena every day, brought the news that the Indians were going to 'close' the river. Jeena didn't know what that meant, so she asked Bakhto, 'What do you mean by closing the river?' Bakhto answered, 'The river that waters our crops.' Jeena thought for a minute then laughed and said, 'You talk like a mad woman … Who can close a river; it's a river, not a drain.' Bakhto gently massaged Jeena's distended belly and said, 'I don't know … I have told you what I've heard. They say the newspapers are full of it, too.' 'Full of what?' Jeena found it hard to believe. Bakhto felt Jeena's belly with her wrinkled hand and answered, 'That they are going to close the river.' Then she pulled down Jeena's shirt and got to her feet, speaking in the tone of one who knows, 'If all stays well, the child will be born ten days from now.' Jeena asked Karimdad about the river the moment he set foot inside the house. At first, Karimdad tried to fob off her insistent queries, but when Jeena kept repeating her question, he said, 'Yes, I have heard something of the sort too.' Jeena demanded, 'What have you heard?' 'The Indians are going to close our river.' 'But why?' 'So that our crops are ruined.' By now, Jeena was convinced that rivers could actually be closed. So all she could say, a bit helplessly, was this: 'How cruel those people are!' Upon hearing this, Karimdad smiled after a moment's pause. He said, 'Forget all this … Tell me, did Bakhto come?' Jeena answered listlessly, 'She did.' 'What did she say?' 'She said the baby will be born ten days from now.' Karimdad hurray-ed loudly, 'And may he live long!' Jeena showed her displeasure and muttered, 'Look at you, rejoicing at a time like this …when God knows what sort of Karbala will be visited upon us.' Karimdad went to the chaupal where almost all the men from the village had gathered. Everyone was clustered around the village headman, Chaudhry Nathu, and was asking him questions about the closing of the river. Someone was busy showering abuses upon Pandit Nehru, another wishing every manner of mishaps for him, and yet another was resolutely refusing to admit that the course of a river could be changed at will. And there were some who believed that whatever was about to happen was a punishment for our own misdeeds and the only way to avert the calamity that hovered overhead was to go to the mosque and pray. Karimdad sat in a corner and listened quietly to the talk that swirled about him. Chaudhry Nathu was the most vocal among those who were abusing the Indians. Karimdad turned restlessly from this side to the other as though acutely frustrated. Everyone agreed on one thing: closing the river was a dirty, low-down trick, that it was a petty, unscrupulous, and extremely cruel thing to do, that it was a sin that matched the one perpetrated by Yazid. Karimdad coughed a couple of times as though preparing to say something. But when yet another shower of the choicest profanities erupted from Chaudhry Nathu's mouth, Karimdad could no longer contain himself. He cried out, 'Don't abuse others, Chaudhry!' A terrible mother-related profanity got stuck midway in the Chaudhry's throat. He turned and looked strangely at Karimidad who was, at that moment, busy adjusting the turban on his head. 'What did you say?' Karimdad answered in a low but firm voice, 'I said: Don't abuse others.' Chaudhry Nathu spat out the profanity stuck in his throat and turned aggressively towards Karimdad, 'Abuse who? How are they related to you?' And then he looked around and addressed all those who had gathered at the chaupal. 'Did you hear, people? He says don't abuse others … Ask him: How are they related to him?' Karimdad answered patiently, 'Why would they be related to me? They are my enemies, what else?' A loud, strained sort of laughter tore out of the Chaudhry's throat with such force that it shook the hairs of his moustache. 'Did you hear that? They are his enemies. And should one love one's enemies, son?' Karimdad answered in the tone of a dutiful son answering an elder, 'No, Chaudhry, I didn't say that. All I said was: Don't abuse others.' Karimdad's childhood friend, Miranbakhsh, who sat next to him, asked: 'But why?' Karimdad spoke directly to Miranbakhsh, 'What's the point, yaar? They are trying to close the river and ruin your crops and you think you can abuse them and even the score? Does it make sense? One abuses when there is no other answer.' Miranbakhsh asked, 'Do you have an answer?' Karimdad paused for a minute, then said, 'The question is not mine alone; it involves thousands upon thousands of people. My answer cannot be everyone's answer. In such situations, one can come up with a satisfactory answer only after careful consideration. They can't turn the course of the river in one day. It'll take them years whereas here, you are taking just one second to vent your pent-up venom against them in the form of expletives.' He put one hand on Miranbakhsh's shoulder and spoke with affection. 'All I know is this, yaar: that it is wrong to call India unscrupulous, petty and cruel.' Instead of Miranbakhsh, Chaudhry Nathu shouted, 'Now hear this!' Karimdad continued to address Miranbakhsh, 'It is stupid, my dear friend, to expect mercy or favour from the enemy. When war breaks out and we begin to cry that they are using a bigger bore rifle, or that we are dropping smaller bombs while they are dropping bigger bombs, I ask you in all honesty, are such complaints right? A small knife can kill just as effectively as a big knife. Am I not telling the truth?' Instead of Miranbakhsh, Chaudhry Nathu began to think, but soon showed his irritation. 'But the issue here is that they are going to close our water … they want to kill us of hunger and thirst.' Karimdad removed his hand from Miranbakhsh's shoulder and addressed the Chaudhry, 'When you have already declared someone your enemy, why complain that he wants to kill you of hunger and thirst? If he doesn't drive you to your death from hunger and thirst, if he doesn't turn your green fields into arid wastelands, do you think he will instead send you pans full of pilau and pots full of sweet sherbat and plant gardens and groves for your leisure?' This only aggravated the Chaudhry further. 'What is this nonsense?' he asked furiously. Even Miranbakhsh asked his friend softly, 'Yes, yaar, what is this nonsense?' 'It isn't nonsense, Miranbakhsh!' Karimdad spoke as though trying to explain things to his friend. 'Just think, in a war the two parties try their hardest to defeat the other side. Just as the wrestler who girds his loins, as it were, and enters the ring, and tries every trick in the book to bring his opponent to the ground.' Miranbakhsh nodded his tonsured head and said, 'Yes, that's true.' Karimdad smiled, 'Then it is all right to even close the river. It may seem like cruelty to us; but for them it is perfectly acceptable.' 'When your tongue begins to loll and hang to the ground with thirst, then I will ask you if it is acceptable. When your children cry for every morsel of food, will you still say it is okay to close the river?' Karimdad licked his dry lips with his tongue and answered, 'I will still say the same thing, Chaudhry. Why do you forget that it isn't as if only they are our enemies; we too are their enemies. If we could, we too would have shut off their food and water. But now when they can and are going to close our river, we will have to think of a way out. But what's the point of useless abuses? The enemy will not produce rivers of milk for you, Chaudhry Nathu. If he can, he will mix poison in every drop of your water. You might call it cruelty, even barbarism, because you don't like this form of taking life. Isn't that strange? Before the commencement of war, should the two warring parties lay down a set of conditions and clauses, a bit like a nikah? Should we tell them not to kill us of hunger or thirst but that they are welcome to do so with a gun and that, too, a gun of a certain bore? This is the real nonsense … Think about it, carefully and coolly.' By now, Chaudhry Nathu had reached the far limit of his frustration. He shouted, 'Someone get a slab of ice and place it on my breast.' 'You expect me to get that too?' Karimdad said and laughed. Then he patted Miranbakhsh on the shoulder, got to his feet and left the chaupal. As he was about to cross his threshold, he saw Bakhto coming out of the house. She saw Karimdad and a toothless smile appeared on her face. 'Congratulations, Keeme! You have been blessed with a healthy baby boy. Think of a suitable name for him now.' 'Name?' Karimdad thought for no more than a second and said, 'Yazid… Yazid.' Bakhto's mouth fell open with surprise. Whooping with joy, Karimdad entered his house. Jeena was lying on a string bed. She looked paler than she had ever before. A bonny baby lay besides her, busy sucking his thumb. Karimdad looked at him with a glance full of love and pride. Touching his cheek lightly with a forefinger, he said softly, 'My little Yazid!' A faint shriek escaped Jeena as she squealed with surprise, 'Yazid?' Karimdad looked closely at his son's face, inspecting each feature carefully, 'Yes, Yazid. That's his name.' Jeena's voice sounded faint, 'What are you saying, Keeme? Yazid…' Karimdad smiled, 'What's in it? It's only a name!' All Jeena could manage was a whisper, 'But whose name?' Karimdad answered with all seriousness, 'It needn't be the same Yazid. He had closed the river; our son will open it.'
Express Tribune
25-02-2025
- Entertainment
- Express Tribune
'Toba Tek Singh' remains a chilling reminder of the tragedy of 1947
In 'Toba Tek Singh', Manto exposes the lingering scars of 1947 on collective memory and national identity. Out beyond the shifting boundaries of sanity, madness and one's search for identity, Saadat Hasan Manto's words truly hold a mirror to the troubled fate of two countries, which have yet to achieve true liberation in thought and conscience. What remains daunting about Manto's stories is the uncanny resemblance between the past and the present, revealing how little things have actually changed. The craft of revealing the truth—a genre crafted and skillfully mastered by the resilient voice of Manto: "Hindustan had become free. Pakistan had become independent soon after its inception but man was still slave in both these countries — slave of prejudice — slave of religious fanaticism — slave of barbarity and inhumanity." Manto, in his notable short story Toba Tek Singh, delves into the interplay of memory, trauma and displacement across the timeline of 1947 Partition. The motif of madness plays as a guiding metaphor in Manto's narrative to deconstruct the absurd narrative of Partition, hinting towards the signs of madness projected by the two countries, and in turn, set the tragedy in the lives of the people, residing on both sides of the border. Amidst years of collective grief and generational trauma, the 1947 Partition becomes, perhaps, an unsettling memory. Along similar lines, Ritika Singh notes,'Trauma lies not in the shock of the occurrence of the event but in its reception.' Manto's works explore the nature of trauma within the people of 1947. The unresolved nature of trauma and denied grief persist in the years-long endurance to seek meaning and redemption in their lives. Caught in a recurring cycle, it is the constant shift between the past and the present that aggravates the tragedy of man in Manto's Toba Tek Singh. In Toba Tek Singh, Manto pens the dilemma of the protagonist Bishan Singh, an inmate of this asylum, whose internal conflict centers around his search for home following the Partition. Manto satirically comments on the aftermath of Partition through the narrative of mental asylums, followed by an exchange of psychiatric patients between Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims across the two countries, India and Pakistan. Such was the gravity of the situation that even individuals in mental asylums were being relocated or one could say, partitioned between the two nations, reflecting the absurdity of it all. Manto, in the satirical piece, constantly touches upon the paradigm of sanity and insanity for today's readers. Manto reimagines the perspective of borders as a weakening factor which divided the people of India and tore the two countries apart. He redefines 'borders' as not arbitrary lines drawn to solidify the national identity of the countries. If truth be told, these borders unveil the grave intentions behind the British divide-and-rule policy, one of the pivotal instruments of colonial rule, which thrived on partitioning the subcontinent into two separate countries. Manto goes on to question the 'mad' and the 'partially mad' and signifies the inability of both to comprehend the partitioned identity of Pakistan and India. He frames the consciousness of the characters in such a poignant manner; their stories mirror the personal dilemma of Manto who could never come to terms with the occurrence of Partition. Manto employs the character of Bishan Singh to voice the stories of those who almost died, without losing their lives during the turmoil. "As to where Pakistan was located, the inmates knew nothing. That was why both the mad and the partially mad were unable to decide whether they were now in India or in Pakistan. If they were in India, where on earth was Pakistan? And if they were in Pakistan, then how come that until only the other day it was India?" Manto projects the identity crisis of Bishan Singh's character whose sense of self shatters completely; he loses himself in an unsettling state of chaos and utter confusion when he begins to think of home, where he truly belongs. The protagonist's home is located in Toba Tek Singh, which now resides in Pakistan. Tracing his character arc, Manto's reader resonates with the underlying feelings of displacement, carefully examining the relationship between an individual's home and his identity. It is not merely Bishan Singh's home that seems to be displaced, but his identity too, the fragments of which lie in the heart of India and Pakistan. Bishan Singh's life story, much like those of countless others, stands as a moving testament to collective memory, trauma, and identity crisis buried within the overarching narrative of Partition. Manto builds on the nuanced relationship between a person's home and personal identity, by a conscious attempt to confuse his reader between the identity of Bishan Singh and the identity of the place, Toba Tek Singh. Throughout the narrative, the writer decides to use the two names interchangeably to draw upon a familial connection between a person's home and their identity. The internal rhyme embedded within the two names 'Toba Tek Singh' and 'Bishan Singh' mirrors the protagonist's disoriented state of mind which alters his reality. Through the absurd landscape of the asylum, Manto exemplifies his deep resentment towards the incompetency of national politics and the political nature of Partition. He recounts the madness, the uncertainty, the mass migrations, and his people reluctantly abandoning their homes, their loved ones and hurriedly boarding trains for survival. Leaving a life, they lived and loved, Manto knows nothing but the tragedy of his people. Reaching the final lines of Toba Tek Singh, Manto reveals the wretched fate of his loved character, Bishan Singh and his beloved home 'Toba Tek Singh': "There behind barbed wire, one side lay India and behind more barbed wire lay Pakistan. In between, on a bit of earth which had no name, lay Toba Tek Singh." The recurring motif of the barbed wire symbolically conveys the dilemma of a 'no man's land' grounded in the physical and ideological division between the separated countries. Manto's search for a no man's land manifests the tragedy of Bishan Singh who ultimately takes his last breath on the border, one that unites and divides India and Pakistan. Carrying the conversation on Partition Literature forward, Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Manto employ the poetics of resistance to demonstrate how unresolved grief and intergenerational trauma collectively stem from the absence of closure attached to people of the past; many of whom continue to grapple with sentiments of loss, dislocation and fragmented identity, still strongly felt among us today. Remembering Faiz, his poetry reverberates with anguish for the unfulfilled promises of freedom that birthed with the 1947 Partition of India. His widely celebrated poem 'Subh-e-Azadi' – Dawn of Independence draws parallels to Manto's Toba Tek Singh, weaving the intricate themes of nostalgia, hopelessness and disillusionment together. The living memory of Partition seems to be almost rooted in the words of both writers, a tragedy which disintegrated all hope in people for a land that is their own to a no man's land. Yeh daagh daagh ujaala yeh shab-gazida seher Woh intezaar tha jiska, yeh woh seher to nahin Yeh woh seher to nahin, jis ki aarzoo le kar Chale the yaar ki mil jaayegi kahin na kahin In the writings of Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Saadat Hasan Manto, the common man of 1947 seems almost broken, stranded within the confines of a no man's land, searching for the Dawn of Independence once promised. The tragedy of Partition lies in knowing that the sense of longing is here to stay and this Dawn of Independence was never meant to set, in the eyes of the people who lived and almost survived Partition in its entirety.
