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  Green Sandals

  Saadat Hasan Manto, the most widely read and the most controversial short-story writer in Urdu, was born on 11 May 1912 at Samrala in Punjab’s Ludhiana district. In a literary, journalistic, radio scripting and film-writing career spread over more than two decades, he produced twenty-two collections of short stories, one novel, five collections of radio plays, three collections of essays, two collections of personal sketches and many scripts for films. He was tried for obscenity half a dozen times, thrice before and thrice after Independence. Some of Manto’s greatest work was produced in the last seven years of his life, a time of great financial and emotional hardship for him. He died several months short of his forty-third birthday, in January 1955, in Lahore.

  Muhammad Umar Memon is professor emeritus of Urdu literature and Islamic studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He is a critic, short-story writer, translator and editor of the Annual of Urdu Studies. He has translated the best of Urdu writers. His most recent translation is Collected Stories, a selection of stories by Naiyer Masud.

  Saadat Hasan Manto

  Green Sandals

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  Green Sandals

  ‘I don’t think I can put up with you any more. Please divorce me.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, what kind of talk is that? You know what, your biggest problem is that every now and then these strange fits take hold of you and you completely lose your senses.’

  ‘And your senses—like they never leave you. When are you ever not drunk?’

  ‘I do drink, I admit. But I never get drunk without drinking the way you do. And I don’t spew out nonsense.’

  ‘So I talk nonsense—is that it?’

  ‘When did I say that? But stop and think, what’s all this talk about a divorce?’

  ‘I just want a divorce. A husband who couldn’t care less about his wife . . . what else can she want but a divorce.’

  ‘You can ask me for anything, but not a divorce.’

  ‘As if you can really give me anything.’

  ‘So now this is another accusation you’re piling on me. What other woman could be as fortunate as you are. In the house . . .’

  ‘Curses on such fortune.’

  ‘Don’t curse it. What could have displeased you so? I love you dearly, honest. Believe me.’

  ‘God save me from such love.’

  ‘Okay, stop making these caustic jibes. Tell me, have the girls gone to school?’

  ‘Why should you care whether they go to school or to hell? Oh, how I pray that they’d die.’

  ‘One of these days I might have to yank your tongue out with a pair of red-hot tongs. Uttering such nonsense about your own daughters . . . Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

  ‘I’m warning you: Don’t use foul language with me! It’s you who should be ashamed. You talk to your wife as though she’s some street girl, rather than with respect and deference. It’s all due to the bad company you keep.’

  ‘And the kink you’ve got in your brain—what’s the cause of that? ‘You. What else?’

  ‘It’s always me you have to dump on. God knows what’s happened to you.’

  ‘What’s happened to me? Nothing. It’s you who’s gone mad. Always breathing down my neck. I’ve told you, I want a divorce.’

  ‘Want to marry someone else, do you? Tired of me?’

  ‘Shame on you. What kind of woman do you take me for?’

  ‘So why do you want a divorce? What will you do?’

  ‘I’ll get the hell out of here. Go anywhere that I can find a room. I’ll work, work hard to put food on the table for my children and myself.’

  ‘You, working hard—ha! You get up at nine in the morning and go back to bed after breakfast. After lunch you take a three-hour nap. Hard work—huh! Don’t deceive yourself.’

  ‘Oh really! I’m the one who’s sleeping all the time, and you, you’re awake all day long! Just yesterday your office boy was here. He was saying that our Afsar Sahib is always dozing off with his head on his desk.’

  ‘Who was that son-of-a-bitch?’

  ‘Mind your tongue.’

  ‘Oh, I’m just furious. When you’re angry, it’s hard to control your tongue.’

  ‘I’m angry too . . . angry at you, but I haven’t used such filthy language. One must never overstep the limits of propriety. You hang out with lowly people and now you’ve picked up their foul language.’

  ‘Just who are these lowly people whom I hang out with?’

  ‘That fellow who says he’s a big cloth merchant . . . Have you ever seen the kind of clothes he wears: such crummy stuff, and grimy besides. Says he has a BA but his attitude, his manners, his conduct— God, they’re revolting!’

  ‘He’s a majzub, god-enraptured.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. I’d be wasting my time explaining it to you.’

  ‘Oh, your time is so precious, is it? You can’t afford to waste it explaining just one little thing?’

  ‘What, exactly, are you trying to say?’

  ‘Nothing. I said what I wanted to. Divorce me so that I’m finally rid of this daily squabbling that has made my life a living hell.’

  ‘Even a word full of love makes your life hell—is there a cure for it?’ ‘Yes, there is. Divorce.’

  ‘All right, then, send for a maulvi. If this is what you want, I won’t stand in your way.’

  ‘How am I going to send for one?’

  ‘Aren’t you the one who is asking for a divorce? If I wanted it, I would have summoned ten maulvis in one minute flat. Don’t expect me to help you out in this. It’s your business, you find a way.’

  ‘You can’t even do this much for me?’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  ‘Haven’t you been telling me all this time that your love for me is limitless?’

  ‘Yes, only to be together, not to break apart.’

  ‘What am I to do then?’

  ‘That’s your business. And look, don’t bother me any more now. Send for a maulvi, have him draft the papers and I’ll sign them.’

  ‘What about the mehr?’*

  ‘What about it? You’re initiating the divorce. The question of payment doesn’t arise.’

  ‘That’s really something!’

  ‘Your brother is a barrister. Ask him. He’ll tell you that when a woman asks for a divorce, she forfeits her right to demand mehr.’

  ‘In that case, you divorce me.’

  ‘Why would I do such a foolish thing? I love you.’

  ‘Spare me your wheedling. I don’t like it. You wouldn’t treat me so shabbily if you really loved me.’

  ‘When have I treated you shabbily?’

  ‘As if you don’t know. Just yesterday or the day before you wiped your shoes on my brand-new sari.’

  ‘I did not! I swear.’

  ‘So maybe it was ghosts who did.’

  ‘All I know is this: Your three daughters were wiping their shoes with your sari. I even scolded them.’

  ‘They are not so ill-mannered.’

  ‘Oh, but they are, quite a bit. And you know why—because you haven’t bothered to teach them good manners. Ask them when they’re back from school whether or not they were wiping their shoes on your sari.’

  ‘I don’t have to ask them anything.’

  ‘What’s gotten into your head today? If only I could crack it, I might be able to do something about it.’

  ‘You keep thinking about that something. I know what I have to do. Let’s make it short: Divorce me. There’s no
point in living with a husband who doesn’t care about his wife.’

  ‘I have always cared for you.’

  ‘Do you know that tomorrow is Eid?’

  ‘Of course I do. Just yesterday I bought new shoes for the girls and I gave you sixty rupees for their frocks a week ago.’

  ‘As if that was a big favour to me, why, even to my father and his father.’

  ‘No, it’s not a question of doing a favour, to you or to anybody. Just tell me, what’s bugging you.’

  ‘All right, if you want to know. Sixty rupees weren’t enough. The organdie cloth alone for three girls cost sixty rupees. The tailor charged seven rupees for each of the three frocks. You think this is a favour to the girls and me? Hardly.’

  ‘So you made up the shortfall from your pocket?’

  ‘If I didn’t, who would have stitched their frocks?’

  ‘Let me give you the difference, right now. Oh, I get it. So this is what was upsetting you.’

  ‘Eid is tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’m ordering two chickens . . . sevaiyan, too. And you—what preparations have you made?’

  ‘Nothing—how can I? ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted to wear a green sari tomorrow. I had ordered a pair of green sandals to go with it. I asked you so many times to find out from the Chinese shoe shop if they were ready, but why would you? When have I ever meant a thing to you?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake. Now I see. So all this bickering is over the green sandals. But I already brought them two days ago. The package is in your closet. You probably never opened it. You’re always lazing around all day long.’

  * As required by Islamic law, the mandatory amount of money or possessions given at the time of marriage by the groom to the bride for her exclusive use.

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  Copyright © Muhammad Umar Memon, 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  This digital edition published in 2018.

  e-ISBN: 978-9-387-62579-2

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

 

  Saadat Hasan Manto, Green Sandals

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