Dozakhnama pdf free download

They discuss their fantasies. Ghalib discusses his poems alongside the verses of Mir and Rumi. While Manto discusses the introduction of his stories, the contentions that they made and his association with Ismat Chugtai. The excellence of Dozakhnama is that the characters talk in stories. They generally have a story to haul out to make their point.

This custom of a story inside a story is something wonderfully done in Dozakhnama. Very few contemporary writers can weave an intertwined artwork with autonomous yet entrenched stories. Agar aap meri kahaniyo ko bardasht nahi kar sakte to iska Matlab ye hai ki ye zamana hi na-qabil-e-bardasht hai. Memories, my brothers, so many memories, they just drag me back to the past as I talk. I cannot resist them.

The most astonishing part of this book is the addition of melodious Urdu ghazals by Mir and Ghalib which forced me to read them again and again until I got the complete pleasure out of it.

While reading, I sometimes applauded the writer yes, mentally for the never-ending stream of stories. There were many similarities between them. Take it, see if you can have it published. How long can I bear this burden? My days are numbered. It will be utterly lost after I die. Farid mian clutched my hands. Everyone calls me mad now. They say stories have consumed me. Had it really been written by Manto, or by someone else? Did the question of authenticity even arise? I had to consider learning Urdu simply to read the novel.

My friend Ujjal arranged for a teacher. Her name was Tabassum Mirza. But within a few days of starting classes with her, I realized that I had lost both the patience and the application needed to learn a new language.

How will you know? After your wedding you will translate orally, I will take it down. On a rain-swept evening I went to Tabassum for the first time to learn Urdu. Whom do you want to meet? The silent two-storied house was soaking in the rain. Anwar began to knock on the door. Eventually the door was opened, but no one could be seen. Kaun hai?

Who is it, Anwar? I answered to the invisible face. The inner courtyard was open to the skies. She stood in the darkness and the shade of the rain, Tabassum, my teacher, head covered.

Tabassum went into the small adjoining balcony to make the tea. What a coincidence! I had not realized this earlier. Lost in such thoughts, I suddenly found myself diving into a mirror of demonic proportions. It had captured almost the entire room, with me inside, staring at myself, unable even to blink. The mirror seemed to draw me in. The spell was broken when Tabassum entered with the tea. I looked at the mirror again. Where was this wife of Wajid Ali Shah now?

In the mirror stood Tabassum Mirza, her head covered. Tabassum was astonished to hear of my reason for learning Urdu. Not for anything else? You could write ghazals. Looking at Tabassum in the mirror, I listened to her. The days of the ghazal will never be over; her words seemed to float overhead like a passing cloud.

Tabassum asked. Mir Taqi Mir. See what Mir sahib is saying. Will you still say the days of the ghazal are over? Tell me about your novel. Her head bowed, Tabassum listened to all I had to say about the manuscript I wanted to read, about its writer and its subject, and about how I had chanced upon it. She was not like the majority of the people in this city, who had forgotten how to listen, which was why the very idea of waiting had vanished from their lives.

I cannot do anything very quickly. If it were just a historical novel, I could have written it quite easily. But I … Tabassum did not speak. Nor did I. I kept gazing at her and at myself in the mirror. After this my Urdu training began. She would translate the novel as she read it and I would take it down.

When sufficient time had passed after her wedding, I began to visit her every evening. Tabassum and I might return now and then. Is it I, Saadat Hasan Manto, or my ghost?

All his life, Manto hankered for conversation with just one man. Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. Mirza was particularly fond of a ghazal of Abdur Kadir Bedil, which he often used to quote from. My story is echoed around the world, but I am only an emptiness. Bedil seemed to have written the lines specifically for Mirza. Did he have me in mind too? Within both the mirrors is an emptiness. Two voids staring at each other. Can voids have a dialogue between themselves?

Many a time have I held solitary conversations with Mirza. He has always been silent. How can he respond from the grave anyway? But now that I have waited so many years, I am sure that Mirza will talk to me. I am in my grave too. I realized soon after coming to Pakistan in that I would have to make arrangements for my own burial now, so that I could soon lie down in the deep darkness under the earth.

With him have been buried all the mysteries of writing stories. Under tons of earth he lies, wondering who among the two is the greater writer of stories—Allah or He. Manto never went seeking stories. Mirza will talk to me now, we will converse continuously. Has anyone ever been able to prevent the dead from talking to one another? What is autumn? And what do they call spring, for that matter?

We survive in our cages round the year, still we sing our laments, we could fly once upon a time. Mirza had written all this in a ghazal. Mirza had never succeeded in flying; nor did I. Let the conversation begin from the graves.

Saadat Hasan Manto January 18, It reared its head like a conundrum. A long still silence, and I was turned to stone. Was winter here? Tabassum seemed to be speaking from a cavern. Tabassum laughed. Maybe someone just claimed they were written by Manto. You, I, Mirza Ghalib—one day none of us will be here, not even our names, but the stories will still be floating about.

Now come on, start writing. Now and then you sit up and rock back and forth, muttering to yourself; at other times I watch you pacing up and down, your head bowed. But as for me, I prefer lying down most of the time, here in the darkness.

You must have felt the same way in the beginning. You expressed your hurt and your unhappy existence in a letter to Yusuf Mirza. Eventually who you were became irrelevant to you. And yet this was the key question of your life; but towards the end everything seemed meaningless, you only spoke of death and of Allah over and over again. You never read the namaz or kept rozas, you laughingly called yourself a half- Muslim, and you were forced to drift away from Umrao Begum because of this; and yet the same person focused his eyes only on God in the final years.

In letter after letter you wondered why Khuda did not do you the kindness of taking you away from this earth. Whom can a man turn to in such a situation but Allah? When I think of your last days I am reminded of this ghazal:. Why does time erase me thus, O Lord? But was it your destiny to be obliterated this way, practically starving, ailing, blind? When I think of your life, I picture a dust storm.

The whirling blades in their hand glint in the sunlight. They have covered such vast expanses, traversed so many Karbalas of bloodshed and slaughter, on their way to India.

These ancestors of yours, their days go by just riding, riding. A fire has been lit, the meat is being roasted, the rabab or the dilruba is being played. Some of them are sitting at a distance, singing the songs of desert nomads to the infinite sky. In some of the tents, festivals of flesh are underway with plundered women.

You were quite proud of your martial forefathers, Mirza sahib, even if you never picked up a sword yourself. Interspersed by the company of women, wine, and the arrogance of power. I know that the lives of these fighting forbears of yours were like a dream to you. But with the sun about to set on the Mughal Empire, where were you to find that Ghalib of yours? And there was destiny too, your personal destiny, which had sowed the seeds of poetry in your life.

Such a person can only die like a mangy dog. Your grandfather Kukan Beg Khan arrived in this land with this storm of riders. Have I got it right, Mirza sahib? I know very well you enjoy hearing these tales. The one who used to associate with kings. I am not mocking you, nor am I joking. I was no less proud of being Kashmiri. That I even dared to write to Jawaharlal was out of that same Kashmiri pride. If Khuda had not been as magnanimous to me as he was to you, do you think I could have been lying here in my grave so soon?

Like you, I rejected him too, but to him all his sons are equal. I shall remind you of everything afresh, Mirza sahib. In , I saw how the curtain of death wipes out everything. By the grace of God you did not have to see this. You saw But if you had seen , Mirza sahib, you would have killed yourself. The world has never seen so much killing, so many rapes, such treachery, all of which began in on the pretext of there being two nations; today, you lie in a grave in one of those countries, and I, in a grave in the other.

I cannot speak in an orderly fashion, Mirza sahib, I stray from one subject to another. Even in this cold grave a fire seems to smoulder somewhere within. When I moved to Pakistan I had no choice but to get used to country liquor. Oh my, I can see you stirring again.

Do you feel the drumbeats of galloping horses in your blood? And what was it that people called Ghalib? The lover of adversity. Muhmal-go, some people used to say. The poet raves. Do you remember this ghazal? This is the madness that talking begets. Do you know why? I would wonder whether people understood what I was saying. When I read your letters, I understood how addicted you were to words. In letter after letter you kept talking. It was by reading your letters, Mirza sahib, that I started hearing your voice one day.

Do you remember what you said? That was the first time I saw a convicted, defeated man. Who is Manto without them? Nothing but a gust of wind. But now I simply must talk about Kukan Beg Khan. Just as the earth in the grave covers and erases everything, stories such as these have also probably been spent now. Kukan Beg Khan, your grandfather, arrived here in this country to take a job in the army of the nawab of Lahore.

What was a mercenary like Kukan Beg Khan to do, then? He would have to seek out another nawab or badshah or, at the very least, a maharaja. Mercenaries survive this way, after all, just like whores, no matter how their swords glint.

You knew what the life of the mercenary was like, Mirza sahib, which was why you put the sword aside. Am I right? You cannot fool a son of a bitch like Manto. And so your grandfather reached Dilli. But when, ya Allah?

Just as Dilli was on the brink of bankruptcy. Aurangzeb had destroyed everything, and then came one invasion after another. The Mughal court was panting like a rheumatic horse. After that he even joined the army of the Maharaja of Jaipur.

I believe he died in Agra. As is inevitable with mercenaries, he had to move from one state to another. Their battle raged through the night. Their stories were in search of me for years altogether, and in my journey through these stories I came to believe in Allah one day; only he was their lifelong companion—Rahim, Bismillah. No one was willing to believe those stories; they accused me of making them up.

But how could I remain silent, Mirza sahib? Did so many, so many thousands of women line the pavements of Hira Mandi and Foras Road out of choice? Forgive me, Mirza sahib, Shafia Begum, my wife, also used to say, why do you digress so much, Saadat sahib? Gustakhi maaf, huzoor, I beg your pardon, let me rush through the history. When storytelling gets the better of me, I do not know myself what paths I will wander off on.

I quite enjoy tiring people out by leading them through labyrinths. Once upon a time I floated a rumour that America was going to buy the Taj Mahal.

What did I mean? And even if it did, how could it take the Taj away? I said that the Americans are capable of anything, they have built a new machine with which they will take the Taj Mahal away. Many people believed me, Mirza sahib. Everyone believes America can do anything it likes, it is a magician. Do people realize that you cannot do anything you like just because you have a machine for it? But something went wrong—not everything is written down in history, Mirza sahib, and what if it is, anyway—Abdullah Beg moved to Alwar, to the army of Rao Raja Bakhtawar Singh.

History has not recorded how and in which battle your father died. History never writes about mercenaries, after all; but it is mercenaries who are used to create the wondrous episodes of history. As you must remember, you were five years old. You became an orphan, a yateem, at five. He who is without a walid is necessarily a yateem. Not just you, but also your brother Yusuf and your sister Chhoti Khanum.

Your father did not have a house of his own. I would love to know how you spent your days in Kale Mahal. Why do you lie down again, Mirza sahib? Then you had better say something, Mirza sahib. Forget my nonsense, my bakwas. In this kingdom of puppets whom can I ask about the mystery of the universe? There are no men here, although there certainly are many with the appearance of men. Your obstinacy has forced me to speak again after all these years.

It is true that I lived another twelve years after , but I did not care to talk to anyone. But still I had to speak, for selling words was my livelihood. But other than what was absolutely necessary to earn a living, speech had become haraam to me, it was profane.

I would only lie back, supine, in the ramshackle hall, the diwankhana. Kallu would arrive to deliver two meals a day, a little paratha and kebab or bhuna gosht, and my liquor.

Just sleep, and more sleep. Not a single ghazal came to me. How could it, tell me, how could it? I was rotting away at the time, my body pervaded by an infernal odour, I could smell it even if no one else could, the stench of putrefaction. One evening, unable to bear this smell anymore, I visited the mahalsarai. Usually, wild horses could not drag me there. Umrao Begum busied herself all day with the namaz and the prayer beads—whether I was alive or dead made no difference to her.

Just imagine, Manto bhai, two people living alongside each other for over fifty years, never conversing, never even getting to know one another. This is nikah, this is marriage, who needs mohabbat, who needs love? Like Mir sahib said in his sher, I did not know how to bring her closer; she never came to me, but that was not her fault. I paused outside, trying to eavesdrop. But Nabi did not neglect any of them. He used to take turns with each.

Only Suda had given up her share to Ayesha. How many people are as impartial as Hazrat? I asked her with a smile. You could have sent your orders through Kallu. Have I ever ordered you Begum? What are you saying, Mirza sahib? Umrao Begum remained standing for a long time, her head bowed. Then I heard a voice like a coil of smoke. Of rotten flesh. With a shriek she put her arms around me. Have you had too much to drink? Did you have a bad dream? I am a nightmare myself. Never in his life has Allah had as bad a dream as me.

I am desirous, and she, disgusted. What sort of mess is this? Who is disgusted with you? We gazed at each other for aeons. I sensed that we would not be able to bridge the gap between ourselves.

Almost certainly, so could Begum. Her cheeks were wet. Who could take all this at our age, Manto bhai? What use are tears? Whenever I hear weeping I can see Karbala.

Begum took me back to the diwankhana that day. Helping me into bed, she sat for a long time by my side with her hand on my forehead. What use would it have been? With my eyes closed I muttered an old ghazal …. Where is the sorrow of parting, the joy of love. Where are the nights, the days, the months and years? Eventually Begum put out the lamp and left. I lay in the darkness, like I did every night, within my prison cell, and I felt very cold.

Sometimes it feels as though there is no season in my life besides winter. As I was sinking into slumber I heard Kallu. He kept the key to the chest himself, and always gave me the right dose. He would never give me even a drop extra. As I drank, I listened to the stories that Kallu told. He liked nothing better than to tell stories. Kallu looked at me with widened eyes.

One in which Allah lives with Gibrail and the angels. And the other is ours, this earth, this world of land and water. The master himself. Who else but he could have answered anyway? Who can talk to him, after all? Allah is very lonely, Kallu. Kallu wailed. Listen to my story first. Do you know what Allah does to them? He sends them to this world as punishment. After thirteen years in prison, Kallu, I was given a life sentence. Do you know when? The day I was married to Begum.

And then sent to Dilli. This is a frightening prison, Kallu. Who will ever unchain me? Who … who will? Kallu was an excellent storyteller, Manto bhai. He would run off to the Jama Masjid whenever he could, listening to the stories of the dastangos. These dastangos are strange people. They spent the entire day in the courtyard of the mosque, telling their stories—that was how they made their living. Bagfuls of stories that never ended, as though they had combed the world for these tales.

They would sink into their own dreams as they told their tales. Our era was nothing but a fabric woven with the thread of stories, Manto bhai. The British, the goras, took over Dilli after the sepoys rose in mutiny, those were terrible times, Manto bhai, all of Dilli seemed to have become a Karbala, and the dastangos were lost forever too. The emperor had ordered me to write a history—how tiresome it was.

I have heard of the history of the British from one or two people; it seemed to me like suffocating inside a black hole. Since you wrote stories, you will understand. How many people can really tell stories? How many have the actual ability to write? Anyone can write history. All it needs is memory. But to write a story you must have the power to dream. If you have never dreamt, how will you accept the tale of Yusuf and Zuleikha?

Stories like these have survived for centuries. And Sikandar? People only know his name, where is his kingdom today? History turns to dust, Manto bhai, stories live on. After Dilli had turned to Karbala, I would often see Kallu weeping in a corner of the diwankhana. What is it, Kallu? His sobs would quicken, he would look like a hunted beast, at the mercy of death.

Kallu would scream like a man dying. How will they return? Something strange happened one day. I was sitting in the veranda outside the house in the morning. Suddenly a man in a tattered robe, with bloodshot eyes and matted hair, appeared from nowhere.

He came directly up to me and squatted at my feet. I snarled like a street dog. I will tell you a dastan. Kallu arrived suddenly. Kallu ran off into the house, and emerged a few minutes later with some kebab and scraps of paratha. Who knew where he had got hold of them? Wolfing down the food, the man smiled at us. Kallu prodded him. Kallu stared open-mouthed at me and then at the man. I asked him. We tell stories about Mirza in Agra. Lots of people gather around to listen.

I smiled at Kallu, a mischievous smile played on his face too. The man started with a masnavi on flying kites. I had written it when I was nine, Manto bhai. That was the time my pseudonym was Asad. Just wait and watch all that happens now. Mir sahib was made to lose his mind because of love, he was passed off as a lunatic.

He was tormented continuously for this, getting no respite even after fleeing Agra for Dilli. Eventually he did go insane, and as locked up in a tiny cell. His food used to be thrown to him. What agony Mir sahib was made to bear under the guise of medical treatment! He used to fall unconscious, bleeding through his nose and mouth.

But even after all this Mir sahib bounced back. Unable to live in Dilli any longer, he went to Lucknow. I was thirteen. Kallu shook the dastango by his shoulders. Kale Mahal. A huge gate, a vast terrace for birds within, packed with cages.

Find out more about OverDrive accounts. Rabisankar Bal. Random House Publishers India Pvt. Dozakhnama: Conversations in Hell is an extraordinary novel, a biography of Manto and Ghalib and a history of Indian culture rolled into one.

Exhumed from dust, Manto's unpublished novel surfaces in Lucknow. Is it real or is it a fake? In this dastan, Manto and Ghalib converse, entwining their lives in shared dreams.