Manto in these turbulent times

As human beings need air, water, and food to survive, a writer’s essential sustenance is writing and the freedom to express ideas that challenge the norm. It would not be untrue to say that writing is the real oxygen that keeps a writer intellectually alive and kicking. Yet, to our dismay, the prevailing environment in India today feels increasingly unconducive to free thinkers. In recent years, a disturbing pattern of silencing intrepid authors has disappointed citizens who once believed strongly in the idea of India as a democratic and secular nation. The country seems less welcoming to iconoclasts, mavericks, renegades, and rebels like Saadat Hasan Manto. One cannot help but feel that if Manto were alive today, writing with his characteristic acerbic candour, he might well have been lynched for exposing uncomfortable truths and questioning the establishment.

The last decade stands witness to the brutal killings of free-spirited intellectuals such as M. M. Kalburgi, Narendra Dabholkar, and Gauri Lankesh—voices punished for their radical, humanistic ideas. Manto, too, was revolution personified. Born with a fiery spirit, he never missed a chance to expose the sordid underbelly of the socio-political landscape of his time. Few would disagree that he remains one of the most powerful, eloquent voices of the socio-literary feminist movement in the subcontinent.

A valid question arises: Can men be fierce feminist writers and crusaders? Toril Moi, the celebrated feminist theorist, answers this succinctly: “Yes, men can be feminists, but they cannot be women—just as whites can be anti-racists but they cannot be black.” She further clarifies that experiences unique to women, such as menstruation and childbirth, have nothing to do with feminism. By that argument, Manto comfortably holds his ground as a feminist icon through gut-wrenching stories like Thanda Gosht and Kali Salwar. His portrayal of the savagery inflicted by men with monstrous psyches sends chills down the spine of any sensitive reader.

Many of Manto’s stories revolve around women in the flesh trade. Unlike moralists blinded by prudish hypocrisy, Manto does not view prostitution as a cardinal sin. To him, it is a social reality—deeply uncomfortable, yet indispensable in understanding human behaviour. Throughout history, the prostitute has been labelled the most shameful of beings, but Manto forces us to confront an inconvenient truth: if society condemns her, why do the same men seek her out in the shadows? Quoting Rashid Jahan, he once wrote:

Jo jismfaroshi ko gunah kehte hain

Raat andhi galiyon mein panaah lete hain

(Those who condemn flesh-trading as a sin / Are the same who sneak into those alleys at night.)

Manto’s voice was impossible to muzzle. Society developed a two-fold relationship with him: adoration from countless fans and deep resentment from those who feared his unrelenting truth-telling. His presence unsettled the hypocrites who lived under the constant shadow of “Manto mania.”

Now, as we stand at the crossroads of confusion, fear, and uncertainty, Manto’s craftsmanship becomes even more relevant. Like all great writers, his works possess an enduring, universal appeal. Maxwell Trance once said, “A writer should always be judged through the overlapping ages.” By that measure, Manto’s writings remain timeless, resonating with readers across generations. Stories like Tamasha and Toba Tek Singh hold a crystal-clear mirror to society—its ills, contradictions, and absurdities.

Manto was a nominal Muslim; some contemporaries like Ali Sardar Jafri even believed he was an atheist. Perhaps he was. He certainly rejected rigid religious identities and referred to himself in a letter to Sahir Ludhianvi as “a humanist—ek aisa insaan jiska dil mara nahin (a person whose heart is still alive).” This humanism, this unbroken sensitivity, shaped stories that feel palpably real and speak directly to readers in familiar, everyday language. It is this “creative literal familiarity” that sets him apart from his peers.

Fearless to the core, he declared:

Main jhooth ke mahaul mein sach bol raha hoon /

Duniya se kahin sar mera neze pe uchhale

(I’m speaking the truth in a world full of lies / Let the world place my head on a spear if it must.)

His protagonists often confronted a Janus-faced society and its self-styled custodians. Yet nothing could unnerve Manto. He remained unflappable. What he needed—perhaps more than anything—were translators who could carry the pain, angst, and rhythm of his Urdu into English without dilution. It often feels that he has not yet been fully or truthfully translated.

Today, as the world stands on the precipice—politically, socially, and morally—Manto becomes not just relevant, but essential. His stories remind us that truth is rarely comfortable, justice rarely straightforward, and human hypocrisy rarely absent. In these turbulent times, Manto does not merely echo from the past; he speaks to the very heart of our present.