Agha Hashar by Saadat Hasan Manto
(Translated from Urdu by Navdeep Kaur)
I cannot remember dates and years. That is the why, writing this sketch, I feel very confused. God knows which year it was and what my age, but the only thing I remember is I had hardly passed my entrance exam. After failing twice in F.A. I had completely lost interest in studies, and my interest in gambling was increasing day by day. In Kattra Jaimal Singh, there was a room above the shop of Dinu or Fazlu potter where gambling went on day and night. Flash was played. In the beginning, I could not understand the game, but once I learnt it, I became its slave. I dreamt of trails and rounds even in sleep.
When a year had passed like this, I felt bored with gambling. I craved a new amusement. What would it be? It was not clear to me. One day, Ibrahim, the inspector of tongas in Amritsar Municipality, mentioned the name of Agha Hashar. He said Agha Hashar was in Amritsar. When I heard this, my mind wandered back to school days. I had formed, along with a few other loafers, a dramatic club in those days. We planned to enact Agha Hashar’s drama. But this club lasted for less than a month because, one day, my father pounced on us unexpectedly. He smashed our harmonium and tabla etc. and told us, in no uncertain terms, that he would not tolerate such nonsense.
The only reminiscence of this club is a dialogue from that drama. Those words are still stuck in my mind, “This means it is his karma.” I think when Inspector Ibrahim mentioned about Agha Hashar, I could then recall a complete stanza from that drama. The news of Agha Hashar’s presence in Amritsar aroused my interest. I never had a chance to watch any of his dramas as I was not allowed to stay out at night. I had not even read his dramas. I used to read Mysteries of the Court of London and English detective novels translated by Tirathram Ferozepuri. In spite of all this, the news of Agha Hashar’s arrival had affected me a lot.
There were numerous stories famous about Agha Hashar. That he used to live in Kucha Vakilan, which was our street, in which our house was situated. That he was a very big man, a Kashmiri, my compatriot. And that he had spent his childhood in our street. You can very well under- stand the effect of these anecdotes on me.
When I enquired about Agha Sahib, Inspector Ibrahim related same stories that I had heard from others. That he was a prodigal. That he was under the influence of alcohol day and night. That he invented such abuses which did not have a parallel in the entire Mughal history. Once a Seth, an owner of some company, asked him about a play, he hurled such abuses at him as were enough to arouse a lifelong hatred for Agha Hashar in the Seth’s mind. The strange thing was that the Seth did not complain, and rather he said with folded hands, “Agha Sahib, we are your servants.” One day a rehearsal was going on, an actress kept wiping sweat from her forehead with her fingers. Agha Sahib got irritated, and composed a couplet.
A rehearsal was in progress. An actress failed to pronounce the word “fund” after repeated attempts. Agha Sahib rolled down another word resembling “fund” and the actress immediately pronounced the word.
Agha Sahib heard from somewhere that Mr. Hasid was spreading a word that his Hindi plays had not been written by Agha Sahib himself as he did not know Hindi. Agha Sahib came to the stage before the opening of one of the plays and addressed the audience, “A few persons are spreading rumours that I hire pandits to write my Hindi plays. Now I will deliver a speech in pure Hindi.” Agha Sahib delivered a speech for two hours and there was not even a single word of Persian or Urdu in the entire speech.
Agha Sahib would look at an actress, and she would be ready to walk down the unknown lanes of solitude with him.
Agha Sahib would order his munshis, “Be ready” – and during a walk after a drink he would dictate a comedy or a tragedy. Agha Sahib had never fallen in love with any woman. But Inspector Ibrahim told me this was untrue, because he was in love with Mukhtar, the famous courtesan of Amritsar, the same Mukhtar who had played the part of heroine in Aurat ka Pyar.
I had seen Mukhtar. While sitting in the shop of painter Anwar in Hall Bazar, we used to see Mukhtar every Friday, dressed in latest fashion, walking along other courtesans, going to the Dargah of Zahira pir of courtesans.
I did not know what Agha Sahib looked like. I had seen a few printed pictures of him but the print was of such poor quality that one could not make out his features. Regarding his age, I knew he was advanced in years. All of us were astonished at his love for Mukhtar at the last stage of his life. I still remember what Dinu or Fazlu had said in a very philosophical manner, “Love in old age is fatal.”
Inspector Ibrahim was the only one among us who personally knew Agha Sahib. One day he said, “Yesterday night we were at Mukhtar’s place. Agha Sahib lay back against a pillow. All of us requested him to tell us about his new film drama “Rustam-o-Sohrab”, but he declined. We were disappointed. One of us pointed towards Mukhtar. She came and sat by Agha Sahib’s side and said, ‘Agha Sahib it is my order that you tell us about Rustum-o-Sohrab’. Agha Sahib smiled and started narrating the story. By God, what a thundering voice it was. It felt as if a stream of water was gushing down the mountains, rolling down rocks along with it.”
One day, Ibrahim told us that Agha Sahib had suddenly abstained from drinking because of his love for Mukhtar. We failed to understand this strange thing about love. But Dinu or Fazlu once again, “God save us from love in old age… it is very cruel”.
I was fed up with gambling and had stopped going to that place. During this time I met Bari Sahib and Hazi Laklak who were appointed the editors of a daily newspaper Masavat and were in Amritsar. Both used to come to Jije’s hotel Shiraz to have tea and discuss literature and politics. I met them. I liked Bari Sahib very much. I felt interested in literature. The time that I had earlier spent playing flash was now spent in the office of Masavat. Sometimes Bari Sahib would give me a news item to translate, which I did in broken Urdu. Gradually, I took over a column of film news items. Some of my friends that it was useless but Bari Sahib said, “They talk nonsense. Now you should write original articles.”
I could not write article. But The Last Days of a Condemned Man, a novel by the French novelist Victor Hugo was lying in my cupboard, which Bari Sahib took along with him. When I entered the office of Masavat the next day, I learnt from the employees that Bari Sahib had gone out of his mind. He had been reading a book in a loud voice in his room since morning. He would come out of the room after regular intervals, would pour some water over his head and would go back to his room to resume his reading. When I went to his room, the doors were closed and he was loudly reading something in English. I knocked. He came out, half dressed, holding Victor Hugo’s book in his hands. He said in English, “It is a very hot book.” He suggested I should translate the book. I read the book. The style of writing was didactic and contemporary. I consumed alcohol and tried to translate the book, but the lines blurred in front of my eyes. Then I got a bed stead placed in the lobby, with the pipe of a hubble-bubble in my mouth, I tried to dictate the translation to my sister but it did not work. At last, with a dictionary in front of me, I sat alone and completed the translation within ten to fifteen days. Bari Sahib liked it a lot. He arranged to sell it to Yakub Hasan, the owner of Urdu Book Stall for thirty rupees. Mr. Hasan got the book printed and published in a very short time. Now I was a published author. Musavat was closed down after some time. Bari Sahib went to work for some newspaper in Lahore. Jije’s Hotel became empty. Nothing was left for me. I wanted to continue writing but due to the lack of recognition and applause from friends, I did not pay much attention to it. I went back to Dinu or Fazlu potter’s place to gamble but it did not provide me the same kind of pleasure.
One day, while playing flash, Inspector Ibrahim told me that Agha Hashar was in Amritsar and was staying with Mukhtar. I requested him to take me there. He promised but did not deliver. When I reminded him about it, he made an excuse, “Agha Sahib has gone to Lahore.”
I had a friend named Hari Singh. He was a great chap. He had sold his five houses in order to travel across Europe. Nowadays, he was feeding on his sixth and last house. He had spent some six months or so in France and spoke French very fluently. He was very thin but very active, and sharp like a drill. One day I mentioned about Agha Hashar to him. He asked immediately, “Do you want to meet him?”
I said, “I have a great desire to see him.” Hari Singh replied, “What is the difficulty in it? From the time of his arrival in Amritsar, he has been staying at Pandit Mohsin’s place. I meet him almost every day.” I jumped up, “Will you take me there tomorrow evening?” Hari Singh lifted his glass of whisky to his thin lips, sipped a little and said something in French which roughly meant, “Of course, my friend. ”
And the next evening, Hari Singh took me to Agha Hashar Kashmiri. Pt. Mohsin, as is clear from the name, was a Kashmiri Pandit. I do not know his real name but Mohsin was his pen name. He presented himself as a model of conventional poetry at poetic gatherings. As far as business was concerned, he owned Amrit Cinema in Kattra Ghanaiya.
I am not sure whether Agha Sahib’s friendship with Pandit ji was because of poetry or cinema, or maybe Kattra Ghanaiya was the reason, where Mukhtar’s place and Amrit Cinema stood face to face. Whatever was the reason, Agha Sahib was staying at Panditji’s place and as far as I could make out from their conversation, they were quite close to each other.
Pt. Mohsin’s office was across the wool market, at the beginning of vegetable shops, above a large porch. Hari Singh was ahead of me and I was following him. While climbing the stairs, my heart started beating hard. I was about to see Agha Hashar.
A few men sat on chairs in the courtyard. In a corner, Pt. Mohsin was sitting on a bed with his hubble-bubble. I saw a strange kind of man. He was wearing a lacha of screaming red colour, a white collared shirt of boski, a dark blue azarband with tassels. I took him to be a seer of Kattra Ghanaiya. Suddenly, someone addressed him as Agha Hashar, I was shocked.
Hari Singh went forward to meet that strange man and pointing towards me, he said, “My friend, Saadat Hasan Manto…was very eager to meet you.”
Agha Sahib rolled his eyes towards me and said smilingly, “How are you related to Lord Minto?”
I could not answer. Hari Singh said, “Manto, not Minto…a Kashmiri.”
Agha Sahib uttered an elongated “Oh” and started a conversation with Pt. Mohsin regarding the lineage of Kashmiris. I took a seat nearby. Pandit ji was least interested in this discussion. He said repeatedly, “Agha Sahib, leave it. You just tell me when will you write a comic play of two reels for me?”
Agha Hashar was least interested in the drama. Though he was talking about the lineage of Kashmiris, I felt that his mind was preoccupied with something else. In the course of this conversation, he mouthed big abuses for his servant and wondered why he had not returned yet.
When Agha Sahib paused a little, Pt. Mohsin said, “Agha Sahib, you are in a good mood. I will get a pen and paper and you start dictating that comedy.”
Agha Sahib had a squint in one eye. He rolled that eye and gave a strange look to Pandit ji, “Aye you! Keep quiet. Agha Hashar is always in a good mood.”
Pandit ji became silent. He started smoking his hubble-bubble. Suddenly, I felt that my head was spinning. I felt a torrent of strong aroma. I saw that there were scented swabs of cotton in both the ears of Agha Hashar and probably his head was also sprayed with perfume. I was almost lost in that strong smell and in the bright dark-coloured clothes of Agha Hashar.
Suddenly, the noises in the street grew louder. A gentleman got up, looked outside, and said, “Agha Sahib, please come, there is a Mehndi procession.”
Agha Sahib said, “Nonsense.” He began an intellectual lecture on the events of Karbala. Everyone was astonished at his argument. At the end he said in a dramatic style, “There was not even a drop of water to drink, how was mehndi kneaded?” He stopped. A gentleman, who was probably a Shia, got up and went away. Agha Sahib changed the topic.
Pt. Mohsin got a chance to request again, “Agha sahib, you have to write a comedy.”
Agha Sahib rolled down a blistering invective, “Comedy…we are talking about tragedy and you have brought up your comedy.” He resumed his lecture on the battle of Karbala as he had not related his thoughts on the issue to the satisfaction of his heart on the previous occasion. But suddenly, something came to his mind and he started abusing his servant.
After a short while, the discussion drifted to other topics. When someone asked Agha Sahib about Maulana Abulkalam, he answered, “So you are asking about Mehuddin…both of us used to debate with American and Christian missionaries. We debated for hours, those were strange days.”
For a short while, Agha Sahib, with the bright colours of his dress and the perfumed swabs in his ears and his perfumed head, was lost in the old days. His big eyes were closed and he looked like a seer of whores. His face was aggressive. Underneath the thin skin of his closed eyelids, two marbles of glass were moving slowly. When he opened his eyes I could see the intoxication of many long years and the redness those eyes had imbibed.
Agha Sahib said again, “Those were strange days…Azad was habitual of slack lines whereas I enjoyed a fight of taut lines, to cut a kite with a single movement of hand. Once Azad was surrounded, the competition was with four fanatic Christian missionaries. When I reached there, he handed over the argument to me and heaved a sigh of relief. I gave such arguments that they lost the ground and I was the winner. But my throat was parched. It was very hot and the Mosque had turned into hell. I said to Azad, “Where is that bottle?” He replied, “In my pocket.” I said, “For God’s sake, get moving.” My throat had dried up like a wooden stick. I was not in a position to go far. We had to accomplish the task in the washroom of the mosque.”
Agha Sahib’s servant arrived. Agha Sahib poured down abuses in his peculiar style and asked the reason for delay. The servant was used to this maltreatment. He brought out a bundle of paper and stretched it towards Agha Sahib, “I have brought such a thing that it will lift your spirits.”
Agha Sahib took the bundle in his hands and examined it. There were four azarbands of bright colours. Agha Sahib raised his eyes in a very terrifying way and thundered, “You have brought this?” He threw the bundle on the floor and rebuked the servant for some time. The he brought out probably two to three thousand rupees and ordered, “Go and get some paan.”
Pt. Mohsin kept aside his hubble-bubble and said, “Agha Sahib, I will pay for the paan.”
Agha Sahib put back the notes in his pocket, “Go, do you have something left with you?”
The servant was about to leave when Agha Sahib said, “Stop… Go and enquire why she hasn’t come yet?” The servant went away. After a short while, a delicate fragrance came from the staircase. Then the rubbing of silk cloth was heard. Agha Sahib’s face brightened up. Mukhtar, who was definitely not beautiful, entered in bright clothes. She greeted Agha Sahib and others, and went into a room. Agha Sahib’s eyes chased her to the room.
The servant brought the paan, these were wrapped in a newspaper. Agha Sahib said to the servant, “Keep the paper, do not throw it away.”
I asked, “What will you do with this paper, Agha Sahib?” Agha Sahib replied, “I will read it. I have always read every printed piece of paper that I have ever got hold of.” He got up saying, “Excuse me, a beloved is waiting for me inside.”
Pt. Mohsin picked up his hubble-bubble and started smoking. I and Hari Singh got up and went our way.
For many days, I kept reflecting on that meeting. Agha Sahib was a strange man, a multi-faceted personality. I had read a few of his dramas, these were crammed full of mistakes, and were printed on a poor quality paper. Wherever there was comedy, there was farce. At dramatic moments, the dialogue was very intense; a few stanzas were grave while a few were funny. The most interesting thing was that the subject of these dramas was a prostitute, where Agha Sahib had shown her existence to be a poison for society; and Agha Sahib, in the last days of his life, had abstained from drinking because he was madly in love with a whore.
When I met Pt. Mohsin once, he said, “I do not know about love but giving up alcohol will surely prove fatal for him.”
Agha Sahib lived for a while after this but Pt. Mohsin passed away within a month after saying this.