Month: Jul 2021

Bitter Fruit by Saadat Hasan Manto: A Review

On By Aqil GhaniIn Book Review4 Comments

Book #35 of 2021. This year I aim to read 60 books. This was one of them. Be sure to check out my Goodreads.

The first time I heard of Saadat Hasan Manto was during the start of year 12. We used to do something called Cultural Perspective classes (CPs for short). These were essentially extra-curricular classes where we learned new skills in addition to our main A-level subjects. Unfortunately, I could not get the CPs I wanted and was subsequently put into a creative writing CP.

Funnily enough, this is where I began to take storytelling seriously. Indeed, Allah works in mysterious ways. I began working on a novella called Home Is Where the Heart Is. Like many other projects of mine, it’s still unfinished, and I haven’t touched it in a long time. Perhaps I may post it on my blog someday. That is if my one singular reader would like to see it. Would you like to see it, reader?

Alas, I have digressed. As part of the CP, our teacher asked us to bring a short story from our respective cultural backgrounds (we were a very diverse cohort). I had never read a book by a Pakistani author, so I had no idea what story I’d bring in. I asked my dad, who suggested I take in a short story called Toba Tek Singh, by Saadat Hasan Manto.

This essentially kick-started my exploration into South Asian history and literature. Every book I’ve read since, from The Sole Spokesman, by Ayesha Jalal (fun fact: her mum was Manto’s sister-in-law), to Twilight In Delhi, by Ahmed Ali, started with Manto. In fact, seeing as I started this blog with research into Pakistani history, you could say that if it wasn’t for Manto, you wouldn’t be reading this right now.

Recently, I decided to revisit Manto and purchased Bitter Fruit: The Very Best of Saadat Hasan Manto, translated by Khalid Hasan. This book collects 51 short stories, 1 play, 32 literary sketches, 15 literary portraits, 9 letters to Uncle Sam, 4 pieces by Manto about himself, as well as 3 appendices by Manto’s friends and family about the author. And so, there is a lot to get through in this here book review. But first, a bit of background about this groundbreaking Urdu writer.

Saadat Hasan Manto was born on the 11th May 1912 in Punjab, British India, to a Kashmiri Muslim family. His father was a local judge, and after his retirement, the family moved back to Amritsar, where Manto grew up. He had what seems like a difficult relationship with his father, who discouraged Manto from writing at an early age after he announced he would be writing for his school’s newspaper.

Manto struggled in school, failing his final examinations twice. Ironically, one of the subjects he failed to pass was Urdu, yet he would go on to become one of the greatest – if not the greatest – Urdu writers of all time. Despite his academic shortfalls, Manto was able to get into an Amritsar college but dropped out after failing his first-year examinations twice. It seems to me that Manto didn’t believe in “third time’s the charm.”

The biggest turning point for Manto was in 1933 (aged 21) when he met Bari Alig, author, critic and historian, who encouraged Manto to read French and Russian literature. Bari Alig persuaded Manto to undertake an Urdu translation of Victor Hugo’s The Last Days of a Condemned Man, which he completed in two weeks and published in Lahore. He also translated Oscar Wilde’s play Vera; or, The Nihilists. During this time, he wrote his first short story Tamasha about the Jallianwala Bagh Massacre of 1919, which was published anonymously due to fear of British reprisal.

In 1934, Manto enrolled in the famous Aligarh Muslim University, where he wrote more short stories for magazines. Predictably, he did not do well as a student and left after nine months after being falsely diagnosed with tuberculosis. He subsequently moved to Lahore, where he got his first regular job at a magazine called Paras. He also got involved with the Indian Progressive Writer’s Movement, a group of anti-imperial writers that spoke out against British Rule.

In 1936, Manto moved to Bombay to write for a film weekly called Mussawar. Thus began his love affair with India’s movie capital. He fell in love with the city and spent the next decade living there, only briefly leaving in 1941 to work for All-India Radio. Manto would go on to form friendships with many of India’s leading film stars, including Ashok Kumar, Noor Jehan and Sunder Shyam Chadda. He joined Filmistan in 1943 and began writing screenplays for movies such as Aatth Din, Shikari, Chal Chal Re Naujawan and Mirza Ghalib.

Unfortunately, due to the Partition of India, Manto was forced to leave Bombay behind and move to Lahore in 1948. This move was one that deeply saddened him, causing him to fall into the jaws of depression and the grip of alcoholism. His life in Pakistan was one of financial difficulty, emotional devastation and physical ailment. However, it was in Pakistan that he wrote his most poignant pieces on the horrors of Partition, single-handedly creating a new genre of literature.

Manto eventually lost his battle with alcoholism on the 18th January 1955 and died due to cirrhosis of the liver at the age of forty-two. He was survived by his wife and three daughters. Manto wrote his own epitaph; but, it did not appear on his gravestone due to his family’s fears that it would enrage the orthodox Muslim Ulama:

Here lies Saadat Hasan Manto. With him lie buried all the arts and mysteries of short-story writing. Under tons of earth he lies, wondering who of the two is the greater short-story writer: God or he.

The 51 short stories collected in Bitter Fruit are considered by the translator to be Manto’s best works. Each and every one of them serves to bring to light the shadows of the world Manto lived in. It is for this reason that the subject matter is not for the faint-hearted. Almost all the stories tackle taboos in some way, whether it be prostitution, alcoholism or rape; however, despite the grim themes, Manto’s humanist approach shines through. The stories set during Partition are particularly gripping. The endings of which hit like the punchlines to an obituary.

While all the stories in Bitter Fruit are worthy of praise, I believe a few of them deserve special mention in this review. Here are five stories that stood out to me amongst the collection: By the Roadside, The Last Salute, The Great Divide, The Return, and The New Constitution.

The play In this Vortex is a short melodrama depicting the struggles of newlyweds Amjad and Saeeda. They had just gotten married and were on their way home when they got involved in a train accident in which Amjad was subsequently paralysed. The story follows on from there as Amjad struggles to come to terms with being an invalid, and Saeeda begins to look elsewhere for sexual gratification. While it may not be as good as his short stories, it is still a decent play nonetheless and serves as a testament to his range as a writer. I may even try to get a group of people together and perform/film it when I’m at university.

Most of the 32 sketches depict the rioting and looting that followed Partition. Being literary sketches, there isn’t much to say about them other than the fact they represent brief flashes of Manto’s imagination. That being said, they were entertaining. Here’s one such sketch:

Ritualistic Difference

‘I placed my knife across his windpipe and, slowly, very slowly, I slaughtered him.”
‘And why did you do that?’
‘What do you mean why?’
‘Why did you kill him the halal way?’
‘Because I enjoy doing it that way.’
‘You idiot, you should have chopped his neck off with one single blow. Like this.’
And the halal killer was dispatched in accordance with the correct ritual.

The 15 literary portraits were most entertaining due to Manto’s signature wit yet, at the same time, still deeply insightful. The one he did on Muhammad Ali Jinnah focused more on the Quaid-e-Azam’s home life than his political one, thus presenting him in an entirely new light compared to anything I’d read before. Manto also dedicated a heartfelt portrait to his mentor, Bari Alig. However, most of the portraits were of famous figures within the Bombay movie industry, so now I consider myself an expert in 1940s Bollywood gossip. Ashok Kumar, V.H. Desai and Kuldip Kaur were quite the characters.

The 9 letters to Uncle Sam are satirical letters to the US government. It is via these letters that Manto’s wit and political knowledge is brought to the forefront. Manto talks of all manner of subjects from the cold war to the differences between American and Pakistani women. He also expresses concern over the US’s military involvement in South Asia, which would plague the Subcontinent for years to come. Thereby illustrating that Manto was way ahead of his time. All in all, they make for very entertaining reads due to their absurdly wacky nature.

The 4 pieces by Manto about himself gives the reader an insider’s view into the writer’s life, much like a journal does its author. To My Readers is a heartbreaking account of Manto’s emotional turmoil about having to leave Bombay and the struggles he faced while in Pakistan. Meanwhile, in Manto on Manto, he becomes victim to the same sharp wit he so generously heaped on others.

The 3 appendices are the reflections of those that knew Manto best: his friends and family. They allow the reader to understand the kind of person Manto was behind the page. Uncle Manto, by Hamid Jalal, is the tale of Manto’s struggle with alcoholism and the strain it put on his family. It ends with a detailed account of the writer’s final moments before he died, a most tragic end to the greatest short-story writer that ever lived.

In a literary career spanning over twenty years, Manto wrote over 250 short stories alongside a large body of plays and essays. His legacy is one rife with controversy. He was tried six times for obscenity; thrice in British India and thrice in Pakistan. Yet, he is still acknowledged as one of the greatest writers of the 20th Century in both India and Pakistan.

In an age of political turmoil, Manto wasn’t afraid to write about the darkest depths of human depravity, and his contribution to literature continues to inspire generations of writers (including yours truly).

Midnights In London, Part 8

On By Aqil GhaniIn Midnights In LondonLeave a comment

The Second Midnight

It had only been a week since the events at Murdstone & Co, but despite his better senses, duty forced Captain Robertson to stare into the crimson eyes of trepidation yet again. For the past week, he had been in covert conversation with the Eighth Duke of Argyll about the upcoming meeting with Spring-Heeled Jack, unbeknownst to his companion Mr Daim.
Part of him felt guilty about going behind his charge’s back, but the truth was that any loyalty Captain Robertson felt towards Mr Daim was overshadowed by that which he had towards queen and country. After all, the jinni was but a means to an end. If everything went to plan in the coming hour, then Captain Robertson would finally be able to put all this madness about ghuls and jinn behind him. He even considered requesting a leave of absence to visit his parents in Scotland before being shipped off to another far-flung colony.
For Mr Daim, the past week was spent in secluded contemplation on the possible implications of Spring-Heeled Jack’s assertion of innocence. He had assumed that this would be yet another routine hunt, but then again, there was nothing routine about it.
For starters, he had been approached by Europeans. It’s not that Mr Daim didn’t like Europeans; it’s just that they were usually blind to the possibility of the unseen, opting to explain away the existence of jinn with flawful human rationality. So, when that letter arrived from the Viceroy requesting his services, Mr Daim was caught by surprise, his untamed curiosity driving him to comply with the Viceroy’s wishes.
The second red flag was the insistence of a bodyguard. Mr Daim was used to working alone, and governments would usually give him free rein to go about his work unhindered. The Ottomans were so hands-off to the point that Mr Daim felt as though he had impunity. The British, meanwhile, were crippled by bureaucracy. Whenever he requested more information on Spring-Heeled Jack, it was classified. Whenever he wished to leave the hotel alone, it was unsafe. Even when he finally got down to work, there was always the threat of Commissioner Henderson’s interference. The British were indeed a well-oiled machine. They ran an enterprise of such proportions even the jinn were put to shame. But at the same time, one always got the feeling they were being watched.
Then there was his conversation with Spring-Heeled Jack himself. Experience had taught Mr Daim that ghul’s weren’t usually so hospitable. The average ghul would attack you and rip you to pieces the first chance they got. The fact Spring-Heeled Jack was willing to converse instead gave credence to the possibility that he was telling the truth. Guilty people don’t talk; they run. Then again, there was always the chance that perhaps Spring-Heeled Jack was just a particularly cunning ghul. If so, what game was he playing? Regardless, something larger was afoot, and Mr Daim was going to get to the bottom of it.

“Of all places to meet, why here?” Captain Robertson gesticulated towards the large glasshouse bathed in the faint glow of the crescent moon.
“I’m guessing he must be a plant enthusiast,” hypothesised Mr Daim.
The pair found themselves standing amongst the foliage of Kew Gardens. The building that stood before them was made of clear crystal glass roofs pitched by wrought-iron ribs, the penetrating moonlight halted by the thick vegetation that lay within. Just as the Koh-i-Noor was the centrepiece of her majesty’s crown jewels, the building that stood before them was the centrepiece of her majesty’s botanical gardens: the Temperate House.
“How can you be so sure he’s going to show up?” asked Captain Robertson.
“The word of a jinni, ghul or not, far outweighs that of a human,” answered Mr Daim.
This wasn’t true. Jinn were just as cutthroat as humans; he just didn’t want to be made a fool of. Mr Daim was gambling the entire investigation on the word of a ghul. A ghul who was either extremely cunning or extremely honest. He prayed it was the latter.
“If he said he will show, he will show,” insisted Mr Daim, more so for himself than his companion.
A few moments later, Captain Robertson consulted his pocket watch, “it’s midnight.”
“Very well. Let us see what Jack has to say for himself. And, please, try not to shoot him this time.”
“I’ll try.”
Mr Daim took the lead. Captain Robertson followed.

The Temperate House

The Temperate House was packed with flora retrieved from around the furthest extremities of the globe, which together transpired to create its humid atmosphere. There were enough exotic specimens in that greenhouse to rival the grandeur of Babylon’s Hanging Gardens, from the brightest azaleas to the rarest lilium, all of which were towered over by the jubaea tree, primed to burst through the ceiling. Mr Daim was impressed.
Captain Robertson, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. To him, the greenhouse was just a greenhouse. Albeit a large greenhouse – most certainly the largest he’d ever seen – but a greenhouse nonetheless. The variety of flora it exhibited were not rare specimens to be goggled at but rather potential hiding spots from which a ravenous ghul could pounce on you with the ferocity of a panther. Captain Robertson kept his wits about him.
After a few minutes of aimlessly wandering about in the darkness, Captain Robertson decided to snarkily puncture the jittery silence of the night, “it seems as though the word of Spring-Heeled Jack isn’t worth much after all.”
“YOU WOULD DO WELL NOT TO DISHONOUR ME,” bellowed a guttural rasp that reverberated throughout the Temperate House.
Captain Robertson froze to the spot, an unsettling chill running down his spine as he remembered what it was like to be petrified. On the contrary, Mr Daim was unphased, exhibiting the epitome of politeness.
“Jack, it’s good to see you! I’m glad you could join us. How have you been?”
The jinni was staring into the rafters. Captain Robertson tracked his eye line to find Spring-Heeled Jack, donning his mangled tailcoat and contorted top hat, leaning against the balcony of an iron walkway in the moonlight’s bluish tinge. Just like before, his attire failed to obscure the fear-inducing countenance of his crimson fire eyes, resulting in a hauntingly peculiar appearance that made a mockery of the ideal Victorian gentleman.
“I see you brought the human,” averred Spring-Heeled Jack.
“He insisted he come,” explained Mr Daim, “he owes you an apology after what happened last week and wished to express his regret in person.”
“Is that so…”
Within the flutter of an eyelid, Spring-Heeled Jack dived off the walkway, gliding across the ground before coming to a halt, looming his slender frame over the terrified Captain Robertson with the agility of a formless shadow. Captain Robertson could feel the monster’s putrid breath against his forehead as he eyed its menacing claws, his fingers grasping for the clasp of his revolver’s holster.
“I’m waiting, Beni Adam. I believe there’s something you wish to say,” sneered Spring-Heeled Jack, licking his chapped lips.
“S-s-sorry.” Captain Robertson gulped down the urge to scream, “I’m sorry for shooting you. Please don’t eat me.”
Spring-Heeled Jack let out a grisly guffaw, “Oh, aren’t these humans just delightful? For the record, young one, I was never going to eat you.”
Captain Robertson breathed a sigh of long-overdue relief.
“I’m not particularly fond of the taste of Scotsmen.”
The Captain was now confused as to whether he should be relieved or offended after that last remark.
“Okay, great. Now that we got that out of the way, shall we get down to business and discuss what we came to discuss?” offered Mr Daim, attempting to steer the conversation away from Spring-Heeled Jack’s discriminatory diet.
“We shall,” accepted Spring-Heeled Jack as he leaned against the wrinkled trunk of the jubaea tree.
“Very well. Why don’t you begin by telling us how it is you came to be living in Albion?”
“I have always lived in Albion. This island has been my home for millennia, long before the arrival of the Beni Adam.”
“If your claim is true, then explain why we’ve never heard your name until now?” interjected Captain Robertson, immediately regretting his pronouncement.
Mr Daim shot his companion a glare that said: Stop agitating the ghul and let me handle this. The ghul, on the other hand, wasn’t agitated but simply amused by the Captain’s boldness. Especially considering that it was only a moment ago that he was terrified beyond measure.
“Oh, but what you fail to realise, young one, is that I have been given many names throughout the ages. It wasn’t long ago that the people of Albion revered me as a great wizard by the name of Merlin. Of course, this was many centuries before I came to be affected by my current affliction.” Spring-Heeled Jack, formally known as Merlin, stared into the abyss of darkness in abject woe as though he suddenly remembered a life that had been snatched away from him. “I wasn’t always a ghul, Mr Daim. I was once a jinni just like you. But then I was betrayed.”
“Betrayed by whom?” inquired Mr Daim.
“The Company.”

The Betrayal

“I was approached by The Company in the early spring of seventeen fifty-five. To my surprise, their board of directors were well acquainted with the existence of jinn. I have no doubt that their agents abroad had their fair share of run-ins with the unseen. My job was simple: use my knowledge and power to expand the territories of The Company.
“I set sail for India alongside Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Clive. By this point in his career, the Lieutenant-Colonel had already achieved great feats of warfare over the previous decade, but these would pale in comparison to those he achieved when I was in his service. We arrived in Madras to find The Company’s holdings to the north in a sorry state. Fort William had been captured by the tyrannical Nawab of Bengal, who subjected his British prisoners of war to conditions that violated every modicum of moral decency. With a righteous fury, we made our way to Calcutta and, from the jaws of defeat, liberated the city from the tyrant’s grasp.
“By this point in our expedition, the Seven Years’ War was well underway against our arch-rivals: the French. I remember the time King Richard and I spent fighting Philip Augustus with great fondness and jumped at the chance to wage war against our perpetual nemesis. Together we travelled up the Hooghly and laid siege to their colony of Chandernagore.
“With the French out of the picture, we turned our attention back towards the tyrannical Nawab and dealt him a whopping defeat at Plassey. In time, the entirety of Bengal was liberated from his despotism, and we placed our own puppet on the throne. Clive soon found himself made Commander-in-Chief of Fort William while I returned home with the satisfaction that I had brought honour and glory to king and country.
“You may think my motivation was purely economic, but the truth is that I did it out of sheer love for my people. I have lived amongst this island nation from its very inception. In that time, I had grown to love the British like a father does his children. I was prepared to do anything to help them become the greatest nation amongst the Beni Adam. You can imagine my heartbreak then when I was betrayed by those I had dedicated my life to nurturing.
“As time went on, our rule in Bengal was cemented, and I returned to Calcutta in seventeen seventy. To my dismay, the state of the country was far worse than it had ever been under the rule of the tyrannical Nawab. The streets were filled with starvation, entire towns were deserted, mothers sold their children into slavery, and the land was wrought with vile bandits looking for an easy score. I was appalled by the turmoil I helped create.
“Yes, it was true I wanted Britannia to rule the waves, and I was even willing to do it at the expense of other nations, but the scenes I witnessed during that great famine etched themselves into the deep rifts of my conscience. We were meant to bring peace to that region that had so far been ravaged by ceaseless war. Yet, we depredated that land for our own senseless greed.
“Upon my return to Albion, I left The Company, but of course, they were not willing to let their most valuable asset leave so easily. The directors begged me to stay. After all, I was the real determinant behind Clive’s success and had turned The Company from a group of mercantile holdings into a fully-fledged sovereign state. However, the horrors of famine were a burden too cumbersome for my spirit.
“A month after I left their employ, The Company, on the brink of financial ruin, began sending envoys to my door, each of whom I turned away. Then one day, Clive, now a Major-General, paid me a visit. He had with him a wooden box that I assumed contained some sort of farewell gift. Owing to the fact we had served together on the battlefield, I welcomed him into my residence and poured him a glass of ale. He begged me one last time to return to The Company’s employ. I refused.
“With great remorse, he opened the box to reveal a golden oil lamp carved upon with emerald runes written in the old tongue. Many centuries ago, I had heard tales of such vessels built by the Beni Adam to imprison jinn. How he came to possess one such vessel, I do not know. What I do know is that it is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy, for it is a fate I was subjected to for over sixty years.
“For decades, I was bound to the will of the directors, forced to do their bidding. I was compelled to commit acts of great evil for the pursuit of wealth, the most wicked of human vices. The only respite I had was the confines of that abhorrent prison. My torture continued until one day a Governor-General, in service of The Company, required my usage in the summer of eighteen thirty-six. He was concerned about recent complications in neighbouring Afghanistan and compelled me to intrude upon the heavens to ascertain the trajectory of future events.
“There is a reason this act is forbidden amongst the jinn. To intrude upon the heavens is no small feat, and it almost cost me my life. I had made it as far the gates before I was struck down by a blazing comet, reducing me to my current ruin. As painful as it was, it did free me from my servitude. I’ve spent the last forty years wandering the streets of London attempting to bring an end to The Company. I even travelled back to India for a short time and instigated the Sepoy Mutiny. As it stands, The Company is still operating, albeit in a vastly vestigial state, but I fear the directors are in the process of attempting one last grab at power, right here in London.”
“Well, that was most certainly a lively tale,” jested Mr Daim, the only laugh being those of the crickets nestled amongst the Temperate House’s collection of flora.
“This is no laughing matter, Mr Daim. If their scheme succeeds, it could spell the end of the jinn,” warned Spring-Heeled Jack.
“You still haven’t explained what happened with that poor lad in the East End,” chimed in Captain Robertson with a renewed interest in the conversation that was slowly dispensing with his fear of the ghastly ghul.
“That’s a good point,” seconded Mr Daim, “I was just about to ask you the same thing. What happened in White Chappal?”
“Whitechapel,” corrected Captain Robertson.
“What happened in Whitechapel?”
“That poor man worked as a clerk at the India House and had some information regarding The Company’s nefarious plans that reached all the way to the top. It was supposed to be an easy, straightforward exchange, but we were intercepted. Just when he was about to give me names, someone attacked him.”
“Did you manage to catch a glimpse of the attacker?” probed Mr Daim.
“No, but he was most certainly a Beni Adam, dressed in all black.”
Mr Daim wasn’t sure what to make of the ghul’s claims. For one thing, they didn’t explain how the body came to be so mutilated. Spring-Heeled Jack seemed the most obvious suspect, given his menacing claws. However, that conclusion seemed to fit a little too easily for Mr Daim’s taste. After all, who’s to say a Beni Adam didn’t take a knife to the body to make it look like the work of a ghul?
“What were you doing at the bottling factory?”
“I was following up on a tip I received from an insider about a new contract The Company had signed. They had ordered a batch of golden lamps studded with emerald inscriptions written in the same old tongue that confined me to my prison. Murdstone was tasked with acquiring those lamps. Mr Daim, I am convinced The Company may be planning to do what they did to me, but on an industrial scale. And I have good reason to believe you have been lured to Albion as their first victim.”
This revelation was met with scepticism from Mr Daim. There was no way The Company had the means to embark on such a venture. In that same moment, Captain Robertson came to a guilt-ridden realisation.
“Gentlemen, I fear I’ve made an egregious error.”
All at once, the western wall of the Temperate House burst into a thousand shards of angry glass that nicked at the Captain’s skin. Chaos filled the empty air as policemen stormed through the thick jungle, firing sporadically towards the jinn. Captain Robertson was caught in the erratic barrage as a stray bullet collided with his clavicle. He instantly buckled over in agony, his consciousness receding.
He spotted Commissioner Henderson, through the smoke of gun barrels, giving orders to secure Mr Daim, who lay on the ground in a befuddled heap. Upon seeing Captain Robertson’s predicament, the Commissioner ordered a medic to be brought forth to tend to his wounds. Once he was turned on his back, the last thing Captain Robertson saw was Spring-Heeled Jack perched atop the jubaea tree. Within an instant, the ghul was gone. And within the next, so was the Captain.

To be continued…

This is part of a larger series called Midnights In London

The Fourth Battle of Panipat

On By Aqil GhaniIn Creative WritingLeave a comment
The First Battle of Panipat,  21st April 1526

Jayadeep and Arbaaz were sitting beneath the shade of a mango tree in deep discussion. They had just completed their first academic year at the English college and were due to embark homeward the following week. Jayadeep, the son of a Marathi moneylender, would be travelling southward to the beaches of Bombay. Meanwhile, Arbaaz, the son of a Pashtun subedar, would be travelling northward to the mountains of Peshawar.
The topic of discussion was of utmost importance, controversial in nature, but in need of urgent conclusion, for the honour of two great religions was at stake: Who had really achieved victory at the Third Battle of Panipat?
Being a proud Muslim, Arbaaz contended that it had been a great victory for Islam because Ahmad Shah Abdali had only one lakh soldiers against the Marathas’ six. This was the general consensus among the practitioners of history. Even the firangi British, who counted the Pashtuns as a martial race, agreed that Islam had triumphed over Hinduism that day. As far as Arbaaz was concerned, the strength of a Muslim Pashtun was worth ten times that of a Hindu Marathi, so there was no doubt the superiority of Islam had prevailed. Of course, you couldn’t expect a Hindu to accept the truth for what it is the same way a Sayyid, like Arbaaz, can.
Being a proud Hindu, Jayadeep countered that the real victory belonged to Hinduism because even though they may have lost the battle, the blow dealt to the Muslim invaders was enough to halt their advance further south. In other words, a victory to the vanquished. No more than a decade later, the Marathas had reconquered what they’d lost and installed their own puppet emperor. Thereby symbolising the inevitable triumph of Hinduism over Islam and the relegation of Muslims to their natural state beneath the heels of superior Hindus. Of course, you couldn’t expect a Muslim to see the bigger picture the same way a Brahmin, like Jayadeep, can.
“Bhaijaan, what happens after battle is of no importance,” asserted Arbaaz as he ripped into the sweet flesh of a ripened mango with his bare hands, “the fact remains that we Muslims defeated your people on the plains of Panipat that fateful day.”
“Arbaaz Ji, my dear friend, what you fail to realise is that what happens after battle is of the most importance,” rebutted Jayadeep as he carefully peeled away the skin of his mango with a pocket knife, “after all, as the great General Sunzi said ‘sometimes one must lose a battle to win a war.’ We Hindus did not set out to win the battle, but to simply halt your people’s advance so that we would claim the ultimate victory.”
“I do not know of this Sunzi you speak of, but if he really said such a thing, then he is not of sound mind. How can one claim to win the war if they fail to win the battle? It is a delusional fallacy,” argued Arbaaz with a mouth full of mango.
“You would do well not to speak ill of General Sunzi. He is the most respected figure amongst the Chinese,” warned Jayadeep.
“Then the Chinese are a delusional bunch, and if you really believe what he says to be true, then you’re Chinese too,” quipped Arbaaz with a mango-stained grin stretching across his face.
Jayadeep politely smiled, but deep down, he was disgusted. This man lacked all forms of etiquette. Just look at the way mango was dripping from his unkempt beard. And while yes, it was true they had been classmates for the past year, he was just another unclean Muslim at the end of the day. It amazed Jayadeep that the man had even managed to pass his exams, given his obscene insolence towards men of far greater wisdom.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand anyway. Let us discuss another subject,” offered Jayadeep.
“Don’t be like that, bhaijaan. I meant no offence with my last remark. I was just playing with you as brothers do,” apologised Arbaaz, “Why don’t you explain to me how your people were the real victors of Panipat then, Pandit Ji.”
Jayadeep ignored the twang of sarcasm in his companion’s voice and went about enlightening him to the truth of what happened on the plains of Panipat more than a century and a half ago. But not before he sliced off a chunk of mango and plopped it into his mouth with satisfaction.
“As I mentioned before, our aim wasn’t to win the battle. It was to halt your people’s advance into our heartland. You may recall that the Muslim army of Ahmad Shah Abdali had sustained such heavy losses from the battle that he was obligated to send an envoy to the esteemed Balaji Baji Rao, begging for forgiveness after killing both his son and brother. Tell me, Bahadur Ji, which man asks for forgiveness after waging war except one who cowers before the prospect of retribution? In fact, he was so terrified of the courageous willingness with which the brave Hindu warriors gave their lives to martyrdom that he fled back to the mountains of Kabulistan and never dared step foot in Hindustan ever again. No more than a decade later, we Hindus reclaimed Delhi for ourselves and installed a puppet emperor so that your people would be none the wiser. It is for this reason that the Battle of Panipat was a great victory for Hinduism. Such is the ingenuity of the Hindu mind.”
After concluding his lecture – for Jayadeep considered himself an enlightened individual whom others would do well to listen to – he returned to slicing and consuming his mango in neat little chunks.
Arbaaz was rankled though he did not show it, instead opting to return a polite nod of recognition to his companion’s words. This man thought himself to be God’s gift to the world. Just look at the way he ate his mango, too afraid of getting his hands a little dirty. And while yes, it was true he considered him a dear friend, he was just another pompous Hindu at the end of the day. It amazed Arbaaz that the man had even managed to pass his exams, given his foolish delusions about clear-cut historical events.
“Do you finally understand why it is you are wrong, Arbaaz Ji? Or would you care for greater elaboration to widen your limited scope of view?” taunted Jayadeep, the corner of his mouth curved into a sly smile.
“Bhaijaan, it seems to me that you have been carried away by your own delusions,” retorted Arbaaz, “the truth of the matter is that one lakh Muslims had defeated six lakh Hindus upon the plains of Panipat that fateful day. Let us not forget that the real reason the illustrious Ahmad Shah Abdali marched into Hindustan was to deal with the troublesome Sikhs. He was not concerned with the Hindu Marathas. After all, what threat could your people possibly pose? He had just defeated them six to one! Upon concluding his business with the Sikhs, he returned to Kabulistan but not before extracting an annual tribute of four million rupees from the Mughal Emperor. And so, you see, we Muslims were never subject to a Hindu Peshwa but a fellow Muslim Padshah just like ourselves. It is for this reason that the Third Battle of Panipat, just like those that preceded it, was a great victory for Islam. Such is the dignity of the Muslim Ummah.”
After putting an end to the matter – for nobody could deny that Arbaaz was right – he consumed the last of his mango before nonchalantly tossing away its empty husk.
“You Muslims are too busy thinking like the mindless empty-headed ants that Jains take care to avoid soiling their feet with to ever see the bigger picture,” scoffed Jayadeep.
“And you Hindus are too busy stuck up your own arse sniffing the psychedelic fumes of your own excrement to ever tell reality from delusion,” retaliated Arbaaz.
A heated moment of quiet hostility passed between the two students. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of mango juices from Arbaaz’s unkempt beard onto the sun-dried grass.
“Bhaijaan, it seems there is only one way to settle this,” ventured Arbaaz after enough time had passed for the two young men to cool down. “We must conduct a Fourth Battle of Panipat to determine the true victor once and for all.”
“Very well, Arbaaz Ji. What are your conditions?” inquired Jayadeep.
“The conditions will be as follows: on the first Saturday upon our return from term break, we will meet on the outskirts of Panipat. I will bring with me seven hundred Muslims as there are seven crores of Muslims living in Hindustan, and you will bring with you twenty-two hundred Hindus to represent the twenty-two crores of Hindus. The proper thing would be to disallow the use of guns, tanks or bombs. Only the use of swords, javelins, spears, daggers, and bows will be permitted. Seeing as the inclusion of Pashtun Muslims would be an unfair advantage, I will only recruit Hindustani Muslims of good repute. Rest assured I will be the only Pashtun you’ll have to face on the battlefield. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
The pair shook hands, Jayadeep wincing at the sticky mango residue left on Arbaaz’s fingers.
“So, it is settled then. We shall meet again after the term break,” concluded Arbaaz. “May Brahman bestow his ever-glorious favour upon you. And may your travels be both smooth and free of hindrance. Be sure to pass on my best wishes to your parents. Khuda hafiz, bhaijaan.”
“Likewise, Arbaaz Ji,” seconded Jaydeep. “Pass my salaams onto your family. May the all-merciful Allah bless you all with a thousand blessings. As-salamu Alaykum, my friend. Until next time.”
And so, the two students bid their farewell before going their separate ways. Arbaaz northward to the mountains of Peshawar and Jayadeep southward to the beaches of Bombay.

On the first Saturday, upon their return from term break, Arbaaz and Jayadeep met on the outskirts of Panipat in a large clearing just south of the town. Jayadeep had with him twenty-two hundred Hindus recruited from the surrounding villages. Arbaaz, too, kept to his promise and was accompanied by seven hundred Hindustani Muslims of good repute recruited from the nearby city of Delhi. Neither army possessed guns, tanks, or bombs and only employed the use of the agreed-upon weaponry.
The Hindu army approached the clearing from the east while the Muslim army approached the clearing from the west. Once they were a suitable distance apart, both armies closed ranks and made preparations for the upcoming battle, but not before their two generals had a chance to negotiate.
“Arbaaz Ji, your army is outnumbered. You would do well to surrender and spare your mens’ widows a lifetime of mourning. Simply relinquish your claim to victory at the Third Battle of Panipat, and we can be done with this mess. Why must we waste precious lives when Muslims and Hindus are already slaughtering each other across the country?” entreated Jayadeep, his hand fiddling with the bejewelled dagger strapped across his chest.
“Bhaijaan, you are well aware that I cannot relinquish the honour of the Muslim Ummah. I am too moved by the atrocities that have enveloped the country. That is why I beg you to withdraw your delusional claims and spare the lives of your good, honest men. Remember that Panipat is the battlefield upon which Islam always achieves victory,” adjured Arbaaz, his hand resting upon the hilt of his steel sabre.
Neither man could bring themselves to surrender and forfeit the honour of their respective religions. Having reached an impasse, there was only one course of action: war. Both men rejoined the ranks of their troops and steadied themselves for battle. Adrenaline seeped into Arbaaz’s bloodstream as he tightened his grip on his sabre while sweat dripped down the brow of Jayadeep as he slowly unbuckled his dagger.
Cries of Allahu Akbar and Har Har Mahadev erupted into the still, humid air as both armies charged towards each other in a blind frenzy. Steel clashed against steel, quaking the earth as those who were once brothers slaughtered each other with a bloodcurdling rage that rivalled the hatred of Iblis and the depravity of Ravana.
The music of battle was suddenly cut off by the thunderous roar of gunfire from the south. Plumes of red vapour erupted into the sky as warrior after warrior collapsed to the ground in a petrified heap of death. The ensuing cacophony of screams signified the release of souls from their mortal chambers, echoed by the wailing of widows in the near future. The bullets did not discriminate as they tore into the flesh of those seven hundred Muslims and twenty-two hundred Hindus.
As it turns out, a local cantonment of British troops had witnessed the gathering mass of natives armed with swords, javelins, spears, daggers, and bows. Fearing another potential cross-communal rebellion, they rode out with machine guns in tow to swiftly put an end to the uprising. And so, it was the firangi British who were crowned the victors of the Fourth Battle of Panipat.
When all was said and done, and each cartridge had been emptied, there remained a clearing of lifeless corpses. At the centre of which lay the bodies of an unclean Muslim and pompous Hindu.

The inspiration for this short story came from multiple places, so I thought it’d be interesting to share with you the thought process that led to this piece. If anything, the following will illustrate to you just how strange my brain is.

If you haven’t worked it out already, I’m a huge sucker for South Asian history. And any student of South Asian history will be able to tell you about the three Battles of Panipat, each of which led to dramatic political shifts in the Subcontinent.

The First Battle of Panipat (21st April 1526) saw Babur, descendent of Timur and Genghis Khan, defeat and kill Ibrahim Lodi, leading to the end of the 320-year-old Delhi Sultanate (1206-1526) and the establishment of the illustrious Mughal Empire (1526-1857). It also served to introduce the use of gunpowder arms and field artillery into the Indian Subcontinent.

The Second Battle of Panipat (5th November 1556) saw the 13-year-old Akbar defeat the Hindu King Hemu, who had previously served as a general and chief minister of the short-lived Sur Empire (1540-1556). Emperor Akbar would go on to become the greatest Mughal ruler, beloved by both Hindus and Muslims.

The Third Battle of Panipat (14th January 1761) saw Ahmad Shah Abdali of the Durrani Empire (1747-1823 and 1839-1842), alongside a coalition of Mughal, Oudh State, and Rohilla forces, defeat an army of the Maratha Confederacy (1674-1818). It was one of the largest battles of the 18th century, involving over 125,000 troops (lower than the exaggerated 7 lakhs of my story but still significant nonetheless) and lasting over several days. It was also the last major battle between South Asian-headed military powers until the Indo-Pakistani war of 1947.

I had only decided to write a short story centred around this topic because I am currently reading the works of Saadat Hasan Manto. For those who don’t know, Manto is regarded as one of the greatest writers of the Urdu language. Perhaps one of the greatest writers of all time. He is most famous for his short stories about Partition that capture the brutality and savagery of the times without obscuring the humanity of those lost to the violence. Manto had also written extensively about life in British India as well as post-independence Pakistan. I intend to dedicate an individual post to Manto in the future, but for now, his work inspired the setting, theme, and style of this short story.

The actual plot was inspired by something I read about in B.R. Ambedkar’s Thoughts On Pakistan. Again, for those who don’t know, Ambedkar is one of the giants of the Indian Independence Movement and one of the leading voices who campaigned for Dalit (untouchable) rights. In his book, Thoughts On Pakistan, published in 1945, Ambedkar explains both the case for and against the creation of Pakistan without being partial to either side. In chapter 12, Ambedkar referenced an absurd event that stuck with me.

It turns out that, in 1925, the controversy surrounding who really won the Third Battle of Panipat caused a certain Maulana Akabar Shah Khan to challenge Pandit Madan Mohan Malviya to a Fourth Battle of Panipat in order to settle the score. The challenge was issued in all seriousness with conditions laid down as to the types of weapons and number of men allowed. They never went through with it, but the absurdity of the event laid the basis for my short story. What if some people were really mad enough to go through with the proposal?

The names Jayadeep and Arbaaz were taken from the video games Assassin’s Creed Syndicate and Assassin’s Creed Chronicles: India, respectively. According to Assassin’s Creed lore, Arbaaz Mir was a Kashmiri Master Assassin of the Indian Brotherhood of Assassins at Amritsar. He ended up marrying Princess Pyara Kaur, with whom he had a son, Jayadeep. Jayadeep Mir, a.k.a “the Ghost” or more commonly Sir Henry Green, was a member of the British Brotherhood of Assassins, based in London, during the 1860s. He assisted the twins Jacob and Evie Frye in thwarting a Templar scheme to assassinate Queen Victoria. He later married Evie Frye, and the two moved back to India.

I was in conversation with my friend Isaac, who is from Tamil Nadu, about a new character coming to League of Legends, another video game we play obsessively. The character goes by the name Akshan and is most definitely coded as a South Asian. This led to a general discussion about South Asian representation in video games which allowed me to recall Arbaaz and Jayadeep from Assassin’s Creed. When I came to writing this story and needed character names, these two were already floating about inside my head, inevitably making it onto the page.

The consumption of mangoes was inspired by the chopped mango my lovely mother prepared for me while I was writing this story. It goes without saying that my mum is most definitely better than yours ;P

Midnights In London, Part 7

On By Aqil GhaniIn Midnights In LondonLeave a comment

The Truth

One moment, they were there, in the confines of that little office in Murdstone & Co. The next, they were somewhere else entirely. Within the blink of an eye, the moonlit interior was exchanged for a starlit sky, the hard oak floorboards were exchanged for damp blades of glass, and the scream that got stuck in Captain Robertson’s throat was exchanged for vomit that generously slopped to the ground.
“It’s okay. Let it all out,” Mr Daim comforted his companion with a gentle slap to the back, “everybody vomits after their first place-jump.”
“Stay the hell away from me, you devil spawn!” roared Captain Robertson, stricken with fear. The force that sealed his lips was no more.
“You’re in shock, Captain. Take a few deep br—”
“NO! Stay back!” The pistol now had its eye on Mr Daim, “You were about to sell me out to that thing.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. I saw you speaking to that monster in the devil’s tongue.”
“First of all, that was Cymric. And, no, I was not about to sell you out. You’re my friend.”
Captain Robertson wasn’t going to fall for Mr Daim’s sentimentalism, “if I was really your friend, why didn’t you tell me you were a genie?”
“I did!”
Captain Robertson raised a sceptical eyebrow as if to say: Are you sure about that?
“I did tell you. At the tea house,” the more Mr Daim thought about it, the more confidence he lost in his own assertion, “at least I’m fairly certain I did,” until eventually, he lost it all, “Okay, maybe you’re right, I may have forgotten to mention it,” the Captain was pulling back the hammer of his revolver now, “but in my defence, it was fairly obvious from the start.”
“Really? How so?”
“I mean,” Mr Daim chuckled nervously, “my name is Mr Daim.”
Captain Robertson returned a blank stare. He wasn’t amused. Or maybe he just didn’t know.
“Um… Daim means immortal in Urdu. Jinn are… well we’re not immortal… but compared to your human lifespan, we may as well be.”
Mr Daim gifted his companion one of his award-winning smiles along with a thumbs up for good measure. Unfortunately, that was the very end of the Captain’s tether.
“I’ve had enough of your games, Mr Daim. Tell me the truth right now, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
“Very well,” the jinni had his hands up now, “what do you wish to know?”
“First, you can begin by telling me where we are and how we got here.”
“After you ruffled Jack’s feathers, I thought it prudent that I get you out of there before you ended up missing a face.”
Images of that poor sod lying in the soot-smothered East End crossed Captain Robertson’s mind yet again as bile crept up his oesophagus. Part of him was surprised he contained so much vomit, given the number of times he’d puked these past forty-eight hours.
“So, I transported us to this hill,” continued Mr Daim, “I believe it’s called Green Witch Park.”
“Greenwich,” corrected Captain Robertson, gulping down the creeping bile as he surveyed his surroundings. The observatory behind them confirmed that the jinni wasn’t lying.
Mr Daim nodded in recognition before eyeing the gun still levelled at his chest, “I see that my efforts in preserving your life do not warrant your trust.”
“You see correctly. Now, tell me, Mr Daim. Who are you?”

The Jinni

Long before the advent of humankind, the Earth was ruled by jinn, beings made of smokeless flame. Like their younger siblings, the jinn were a divided people, separated into many nations from the Titanian Empire to the Republic of Atlantis. However, none could surpass the might of Mount Qaf, the city of shining emerald, the conduit between the terrestrial and celestial.
It was here, at Mount Qaf, that a jinni, whose birth name has been long forgotten even to himself, was born. Unfortunately for the jinni, he came into existence during turbulent times. The Creator had conferred stewardship of the Earth to a new people: the Beni Adam. As you can imagine, this sent shockwaves across the world. If the Beni Adam were to rule, then what would become of the jinn?
Many jinn saw this as a new beginning and decided to live amongst their counterparts of flesh and blood. Others were fearful of the Beni Adam’s bestial nature and retreated into their own realm. Some jinn, those of the more disobedient kind, saw it as an opportunity and began to take on the Beni Adam as worshippers, building large monuments to false gods. However, the most pre-eminent amongst the jinn, one who had come closest to the Throne of the Creator, refused to accept the sovereignty of the Beni Adam and was subsequently cast out of Heaven. As revenge, he vowed to spend eternity tempting the Beni Adam to do evil.
And so, the jinni, born at Mount Qaf during turbulent times, watched humanity emerge from caves to build cities of magnificence. He watched humanity commit deeds of great malevolence with one hand and deeds of great benevolence with the other. He watched them build machines that could transport people over great distances and others that could transport messages even further. He watched them build weapons that could take a life with the single flick of a finger and others that could tear through entire battalions as they screamed in terror. Every day, he was inspirited by their ingenuity, their tenacity and their nobility. Every day, he was appalled by their cruelty, their brutality and their barbarity. Through better times and worse, he watched them grow from lighting their first spark of flame to generating their first spark of electricity.
As time marched on and millennia after millennia passed by, the jinni grew restless. For all the places he’d visited, all the loved ones he’d lost, all the poetry he’d read, he was still missing something crucial: purpose. It is in search for a purpose that the jinni began wandering aimlessly from one end of the Earth to the other. He was looking for a sign. Any sign that could point to a greater meaning to his existence. What was his place in the world?
One day, while passing through the labyrinth of a busy city, the jinni overheard the most beautiful of recitations. Day after day, he would return to that exact same spot to hear its message. It spoke of a gracious and merciful God who would reward those that did good deeds and exhibited the qualities of the righteous. It was then that the jinni finally found his purpose. From that day on, he vowed to break the shackles he had placed upon himself and dedicate the remainder of his life in service of his God.
In the proceeding years, as the empires of yesterday were replaced by those of tomorrow, the nations of the Beni Adam grew in strength while those of the jinn fell into decline. Without safe havens to offer protection, the jinn became victim to the greed of the Beni Adam. Thus, began the Great Upheaval. In the proceeding centuries, countless jinn were captured and enslaved by the Beni Adam within the confines of enchanted ornaments, forcing those that remained to go into hiding. In retaliation, some jinn began to torment their counterparts of flesh and blood, fuelling the fear that drove humanity’s enterprise.
Amidst the chaos, the jinni, as old as humankind, took on a new role. He would hunt down those that spread corruption in the world, whether they be amongst the jinn or Beni Adam. He would free the enslaved and relieve the tormented. He would take on many names. The most recent of which was Mr Daim. An arbiter between those of sounding clay and smokeless flame.

“… and that more or less sums up my life story.”
Captain Robertson was astonished by what he’d just heard. The being that stood before him was as old as humankind itself. There was no telling the wealth of knowledge the jinni had stored away. The things he’d witnessed. The people he’d met. The life he’d lived.
“Is that all?” asked Mr Daim, hoping his companion was satisfied enough to lower his weapon.
Captain Robertson shook his head, partly to answer the question, partly to joggle his blown mind. “No, tell me exactly what you discussed with Spring-Heeled Jack.”
“Okay,” Mr Daim took in a deep breath before barraging Captain Robertson with a complete transcript of what was said, “I introduced myself by saying, ‘pleasure to meet you. My name is Mr Daim, and you must be the infamous Spring-Heeled Jack everyone is talking about.’ He didn’t reply, so to break the ice, I said, ‘Depressing weather this week, wouldn’t you say?’ To which he responded, ‘Why are you here?’ If you ask me, I found that rather rude so to display my dissatisfaction I replied, ‘Sorry?’ To which he res—”
“Daim!” Captain Robertson halted the jinni’s word-for-word transcript, “I’m not in the mood for this tomfoolery. You know what I mean. Tell me what it is you said in Cymric.”
“Oh, I see,” but he didn’t see, “I said, ‘Daethpwyd â mi i’r wlad hon i’ch olrhain i lawr.’ Then Ja—”
“IN ENGLISH!” Captain Robertson was turning red with frustration, “Tell me what you discussed in Cymric, but in English.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Mr Daim finally understood what his companion was asking for, “why didn’t you just say so?”
Captain Robertson held back the urge to scream. The respect he had just accumulated for Mr Daim was quickly dwindling.
“I explained to Jack that I have only been in Albion for a week and that I was brought here to bring him to justice. However, it appears that things are not as straightforward as they seem,” Mr Daim’s mischievous demeanour was replaced by one of grave seriousness as he pondered how to break the news, “Jack claims that he was set up.”
“But that makes no sense. Didn’t you find evidence to prove Spring-Heeled Jack was at the scene of the crime?”
“Yes, I found his residual aura at the scene of the crime, but that’s not sufficient enough evidence to prove he committed the crime. Without witnesses, there’s no way to prove what happened. For all we know, Jack may have been acting in self-defence.”
“You’re seriously taking the side of the ghoul here?” Scoffed Captain Robertson, “that thing tried to eat me!”
“Only after you shot him. Besides, I’m not taking anyone’s side; I still need more information. If what he says is true, there may be greater forces at play here than I initially thought, which is why I agreed to an audience with our friend Jack a week from now.”
“You can’t be serious,” sighed Captain Robertson as he lowered his revolver.
“I most certainly am.”

To be continued…

  This is part of a larger series called Midnights In London