Cigarettes and a stern wife: Manto on what it takes to be a writer

[caption id="attachment_539961" align="alignleft" width="380"] Representational image. AFP.[/caption]In his flat in Lahore, which was given to him as refugee property, Manto wrote his pieces trying to scratch out a living. In this one he answers a question many writers are asked: How do you write? The Paris Review magazine has a section in which it asks writers to explain the way in which they go about their work. Manto was never interviewed in such fashion so far as I know, but here he attempts to tell us anyway.The flat he writes about, I visited many years ago. His daughter Nighat still lives there.Main afsana kyon kar likhta hoon (How I write) by Saadat Hasan Manto, translated by Aakar PatelLadies and gentlemen, I've been asked to say how it is that I write. Now I don't really understand the question and what "how" means. My dictionary informs me it means "in what manner".What can I say about this?The best way of putting it is to say, well, I sit on a sofa in my living room, pile up a sheaf of paper, unscrew the cap of my fountain pen and begin to write.My three little daughters play in the same room and I chat with them ever so often. I settle their quarrels, while I toss a salad for myself.  Should someone drop in, I play host and chat with them too. But through all of this I continue to write.Now if I were to be asked WHY it is that I write, I have an answer for that too.The most important reason is that I'm addicted to writing, just as I am to whiskey. When I don't write, it feels like I'm unclothed, like I haven't had a bath. Like I haven't had my first drink.I don't actually write the stories, mind you, they write themselves. And that shouldn't be surprising. You see, I haven't had much education. I have, however, written 20 books and I'm astonished often at the thought of who their writer could possibly be. Clearly important enough a man to be taken to court so regularly for obscenity.When the fountain pen is not in my hand, I'm merely Saadat Hasan. A man who knows nothing. It is the pen that transforms me into Manto.The story is never in my mind or in my thoughts. It is always in my pocket, unnoticed. I keep exerting my mind so that it might squeeze out the opening paragraphs. But to no avail.I try to "be" a writer of stories, putting on the air of one and holding the right pose. I light one cigarette after another. But nothing comes out.In the end I tire and lie down like a spent woman, exhausted from the exertion of unwritten stories. Then I get up and do other things. I feed the sparrows, take the trash out and play with my little girls. Their shoes, those tiny shoes dispersed about the house, I collect and put in their place.The dammed story, lying unnoticed in my pocket, doesn't come to mind.When the pressure begins to mount I retire to the toilet and sit on the pot, but nothing comes out there either.It's said that every big man thinks in the loo. I say with some experience that I'm not a big man, for I've never had a productive thought in there.It's quite amazing that I'm considered one of Pakistan's and India's big writers. I can only say that it's possible that I've tricked them into believing this shit...Forgive me. I'm speaking the language of the toilet.Truth be told, I promise you I've no clue how it is that I write.When I'm at a loss for ideas, my wife, who manages our finances, says sternly: "Please stop thinking and begin writing."And so I pick up the pen and start scratching out a few lines. My mind is still empty -- but by now my pocket is full.Of its own, as if by magic, a ripe story pops out.In that sense, I don't consider myself a writer so much as a pickpocket.One who picks his own pocket and hands over its contents to you.Have you ever seen such a fool as me?