Translators' Note
Saadat Hasan Manto’s ‘Tamasha’ (1934), translated here by the two of us as ‘A Spectacle’, is a lesser-known work in Manto’s oeuvre. The author is usually celebrated for his unflinching portrayal of the human condition amid the displacement and violence caused by British India’s partition in 1947. However, Manto’s first published story ‘Tamasha’, brought out when he was in his early twenties, remains relatively obscure and seldom anthologized, overshadowed by his more controversial works.
A key component of ‘Tamasha’ that we wish to highlight is its depiction of planes circling over Amritsar, as well as the British aerial bombing of Gujranwala, a colonial atrocity often overlooked in both literary texts and history books. Manto’s ancestral home was in Amritsar, and he was just six years old at the time of the 1919 Jallianwala Bagh massacre. Dr Saifuddin Kitchlew, who with Dr Satyapal organized the Jallianwala Bagh protest, was Manto’s cousin. Consequently, the events of 1919 became imprinted on Manto’s psyche. ‘Tamasha’ serves merely as the initial installment in Manto’s series addressing the Amritsar atrocities, followed by ‘Divaana Shayir’ (1936); ‘1919 ki Aik Baat’ (1951), in which Drs Kichlew and Satyapal feature; and ‘Swaraj ke Liye’ (1952).
Although Nadeem Aslam explored the Gujranwala event in a section from his 2004 novel Maps for Lost Lovers, Manto’s narrative offers a harrowing child’s-eye view that has searing resonance, particularly in light of present-day conflicts. We dedicate this translation to the Palestinians enduring unconscionable air attacks at this time, recognizing the continued importance of Manto’s exploration of state violence and injustice.
The decision to collaborate on this translation was influenced by the diverse backgrounds of the translators. With Claire Chambers hailing from the UK but having Irish heritage, and Sana R. Chaudhry a Pakistani American whose ancestors migrated from India to Pakistan, we hope to bring pluralist perspectives to Manto’s work. Additionally, we believe ‘Tamasha’ holds educational value, especially for language learners like Chambers, given its straightforward yet affecting prose.
Central to the narrative are interactions between a father and his frightened son, which serve as commentary on the cyclical nature of violence and its impact on familial relationships and intergenerational trauma. Through the deceptively simple language and yet the underdrift of emotion conveyed, ‘Tamasha’ offers readers an entry point into the young Manto’s anti-colonial views, inviting reflection on oppression, resilience, and hope.
In translating ‘Tamasha’ as ‘The Spectacle’, our aim has been to carry across the spirit of Manto’s Urdu while bringing this impassioned youthful work to a wider audience, ensuring that its timely ideas ring out at another dark moment in history.
— Sana R. Chaudhry & Claire Chambers
For the past two or three days, planes had been hovering in the silent sky like black hawks, their wings spread out as if in pursuit of prey. Crimson windstorms prophesied the coming of a murderous tragedy. Armed police patrolling the deserted bazaars made for a strange and frightening sight. The markets that not long ago were filled with crowds each morning were now empty, owing to some unknown fear . . . A telling silence gripped the city; a terrible fear reigned over all.
Fearful of the silent, still atmosphere in the house, Khalid sat close to his father, talking to him.
‘Abba, why don’t you let me go to school?’
‘Son, school is off today.’
‘Master Sahib didn’t tell us a thing. He was just saying yesterday that any boy who didn’t complete his school work and present his exercise book today would be severely punished!’
‘He must have forgotten to inform you all.’
‘Your office must be off, too?’
‘Yes, our office is closed today.’
‘Okay, good! Today you’ll tell me an entertaining story.’
They were in the middle of this conversation when three jets screamed past overhead. Khalid was terrified at the sight. He had been watching these planes for the past three or four days, unable to draw a conclusion. He was surprised that the planes kept circling under the sun all day long. Fed up with their daily movements, he said, ‘Abba, I am really afraid of these jets. Tell the plane people not to fly over our house.’
‘Wow! Have you gone mad, Khalid?’
‘Abba, these planes are very frightening. You don’t know, one day they might drop a bomb on our house. Yesterday morning, Ayah was telling Ammi Jan that the plane people have many bombs. If they do any mischief, remember, I also have a gun . . . the one you gave me last Eid.’
Khalid’s father laughed at his son’s unusual display of chivalry. ‘Ayah is crazy. I’ll ask her why she talks about these things in the house. Rest assured, they will do no such thing.’
Taking his father’s leave, Khalid went to his room. Pulling out the air gun, he started target practice so that on the day the plane people dropped their bombs, he wouldn’t miss. He would exact his full revenge. If only this innocent desire for vengeance could be instilled in every person!
While a little boy was consumed by thoughts of revenge, concocting all kinds of plans, in another part of the house Khalid’s father was sitting by his wife’s side, directing Ayah never to talk around the house in the future about anything that might scare Khalid.
Giving these instructions to Ayah and his wife, Khalid’s father was about to leave through the main door when a servant brought the horrifying news that despite the King’s warning, the people of the city were planning to hold a public assembly around evening time. It was expected that some disaster would occur as a consequence.
Khalid’s father was terrified by this news. Now he was sure that the preternatural calm in the air, the flight of the jets, the armed police patrolling the bazaars, the melancholic expressions on people’s faces, the threat of bloodthirsty windstorms – all these signs foretold a fearful tragedy coming to pass.
What might the nature of such a tragedy be? Like Khalid’s father, no one knew. Even so, the whole city was shrouded in an unknown fear.
Postponing the thought of going outside, Khalid’s father hadn’t even had a chance to change his clothes when the noise of jets ascended. He was petrified. It was as if hundreds of people were moaning in unison from great pain.
On hearing the jets’ noise and pandemonium, Khalid picked up his air gun and came rushing out of his room. He watched the jets intently so that when they dropped a bomb, he could strike them down with the help of his air gun.
At this instant, the signs of unwavering intention and determination were visible on the face of the six-year-old child, who would have put a brave soldier to shame from the way he held his pretend gun. It seemed as if today he was set on effacing that thing which had been terrifying him for such a long time.
As Khalid watched, something fell from the plane which resembled tiny pieces of paper. The minute they fell, these pieces of paper began to fly like so many moths. Some of them landed on the rooftop of Khalid’s house. Running upstairs, Khalid picked up one of the papers and brought it down.
‘Father! . . . Ayah really was talking rubbish. The plane people have dropped these pamphlets instead of bombs.’
When Khalid’s father began reading the paper, he went pale. He now saw the looming tragedy in sharp focus. This pamphlet clearly stated that the King did not give permission for any public assembly, and if one was organized against his wishes, the subjects themselves would be responsible for the consequences.
Seeing his father so troubled after reading the pamphlet, Khalid said worriedly, ‘Is it written on this paper that they will drop bombs on our house?’
‘Khalid, you are excused now. Go! Play with your gun.’
‘But what is written on it?’
‘It’s written that this evening there will be a spectacle,’ lied Khalid’s father for fear of prolonging the conversation.
‘There’s going to be a spectacle! Then we’ll go too, right?’
‘What did you say?’
‘Won’t you take me to this spectacle?’
‘I’ll take you along. Now go and play.’
‘Where should I play? You don’t let me go to the bazaar. Ayah doesn’t play with me. My classmate Tufail doesn’t come here nowadays either. Now who should I play with? We’ll definitely go to the spectacle this evening, won’t we?
Without waiting for any answer, Khalid left the room. Roaming around in different rooms of the house, he came to his father’s parlour whose windows overlooked the bazaar. Sitting near the window he began to peek out at the market.
What did he see but that even though the shops were closed, the comings and goings continued. People were leaving to take part in the public assembly. He was extremely surprised that the shops had been closed for two to three days. Khalid racked his childish brain to solve this problem, but couldn’t arrive at any conclusion.
After giving it a lot of thought, he assumed that for the sake of watching this spectacle which the planes had sent the adverts about, all the shops were being kept shut. Now he formed the opinion that the spectacle must be exceptionally interesting to get all the shops closed down. This idea made him very restless and he became desperately impatient for the time when his father would take him to watch the spectacle.
Time ticked on . . . That bloody moment was inching closer.
It was late afternoon. Khalid and his parents were sitting quietly in the courtyard gazing at each other in silence . . . The winds moaned.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Hearing this sound, the father’s face turned white as paper. With great difficulty, he could only utter a single word: ‘Gunshot!’
In mortal fear, Khalid’s mother couldn’t speak a word. Hearing the word gunshot, she felt as if a bullet were piercing through her own chest.
As soon as he heard the sound, Khalid grabbed his father’s finger and said: ‘Abba, let’s go! The spectacle must have begun!’
‘What spectacle?’ said Khalid’s father, hiding his fear.
‘The spectacle which the planes were distributing adverts about this morning. The act has started, that is why we’re hearing the sound of firecrackers.’
‘There’s plenty of time left, don’t make so much noise . . . For God’s sake, go to Ayah and play!’
Heeding his father’s words, Khalid went into the kitchen. But he couldn’t find Ayah, so he went to his father’s parlour instead and began to look out of the window at the goings-on in the bazaar. Because the hustle and bustle had stopped, the sound of silence was palpable. From far away, the painful screams of dogs could be heard. After a few moments those screams merged with the cries of human beings in agony.
Khalid was suddenly taken aback by the sound of someone moaning in pain. He was just in the middle of searching for the source of this sound when he spotted a boy running in the market square, screaming and wailing. Right opposite Khalid’s house, the boy teetered and then fell down, instantly becoming unconscious. There was a wound on his calf and blood was spurting out.
Watching this scene unfold, Khalid was struck by fear. He ran to his father and said, ‘Abba, Abba, a boy has fallen down in the bazaar. His leg is bleeding so much.’
As soon as he heard this, Khalid’s father went to the window and saw that there really was a young boy lying facedown in the bazaar. Out of fear of the King, he did not dare lift this boy off the road and lie him down on the front platform of the nearby shop. The government authorities had provided ironclad vehicles to carry away any homeless, unclaimed, or abandoned individuals.
The corpse of this innocent youth that had fallen victim to the blade of their tyranny, the sapling that had been crushed by their own hands, that unfurling bud that had withered before it could blossom by virtue of the poisonous air they had unleashed, the peace of someone’s heart that had been snatched away by their oppression, now lies on a road constructed by them . . . Ah! Death is dreadful, but oppression is even more terrifying and dreadful than death.
‘Abba, has someone beaten the boy?’
Khalid’s father nodded in affirmation and left the room.
Once Khalid was alone, he began thinking that the boy must have been in so much pain because of such a big wound. One time he himself had been unable to sleep all night just because of the prick of a pen-knife. His parents had stayed by his bedside the whole night. As soon as this thought occurred to him, it seemed to him that the wound was in his own calf, which was throbbing with intense pain . . . Suddenly, he began to cry. Hearing him sob, his mother rushed in and, taking him in her arms, asked, ‘My child, why are you crying?’
‘Ammi, did someone beat that boy?’
‘He must have made some mischief.’ Khalid’s mother had already heard the story of the wounded boy from her husband.
‘But in school, they punish us for naughtiness with the cane; they don’t draw blood,’ Khalid protested through his tears.
‘The cane must have struck him hard.’
‘So, Ammi, won’t this boy’s father go to the school and be angry with the teacher who has beaten the boy so much? One day, when Master Sahib pulled my ears till they turned red, didn’t Abba complain to our headmaster?’
‘This boy’s teacher is a very big man.’
‘Bigger than Allah Mian?’
‘No, compared to Him, he’s small.’
‘So then he would complain to Allah Mian.’
‘Khalid, it’s getting late, let’s go to sleep.’
Allah Mian! I pray that you give a fitting punishment to the teacher who has beaten the boy. Take away the cane he uses, the one which draws blood. I haven’t memorized my times tables, so I’m afraid that the same cane might end up in my teacher’s hand. If you don’t heed my words, I won’t speak to you either.
At bedtime, Khalid was making this supplication in his heart.
Acknowledgments
Image: Antonello Silverini. All rights reserved. For more of his interesting collages and illustrations check out his insta:@a_silverini.
A curious feature of art works involving aircraft and children (usually boys) is that they tend to suggest one of two themes: boy-dreaming-of-becoming-a-pilot OR isn’t-war-terrible-on-innocents. Silverini’s collage (digital) painting contains both themes. The boy seems to be looking upwards with a smile, but the grey background, black planes, peeling canvas, and the bright redness of the toy plane are, well, less optimistic. In one interpretation, Manto’s story lives in this terroir infirma, hence.
Author | SAADAT HASAN MANTO
SAADAT HASAN MANTO [سعادت حسن منٹو] (1912-1955) is considered one of the pioneers of the Urdu short story.
He has authored numerous works, including numerous short stories, a novel, essays, radio plays, and sketches. He was widely admired, widely despised, widely emulated and widely condemned. He was charged with obscenity six times by two different governments, quite possibly a literary record on the subcontinent.
He drank too much for his own good, or that of his loved ones. His “epitaph” (included as an epilogue to one of his stories) reads: “Yahaan Saadat Hasan Manto Dafan Hai. Uskay Seenay Mein Fan-E-Afsana Nigari Ke Saare Israar-O-Ramooz Dafan Hain. Woh Ab Bhi Manon Mitti Ke Neeche Soch Raha Hai Ke Woh Bada Afsaana Nigaar Hai Ya Khuda!” (“Here lies buried Saadat Hasan Manto in whose bosom are enshrined all the secrets and art of short story writing. Buried under mounds of earth, even now he is contemplating whether he is a greater short story writer or God.”). Perhaps it is superfluous to add that he wasn’t entirely joking.
Photo credit: X/@DebotriG
Translator| SANA R. CHAUDHRY
SANA R. CHAUDHRY is a researcher, writer, translator, and educator. She specializes in literatures of the body, trauma, witnessing, and silence. Her monograph Experiments in Silence: The Urdu Short Story after 1947 is forthcoming from Clemson University Press in Spring 2025. In her free time, Sana likes to read, travel, and play chess. She lives in Florida with her husband and son.
Translator | CLAIRE CHAMBERS
CLAIRE CHAMBERS is Professor of Global Literature at the University of York, where she teaches contemporary writing in English from South Asia, the Arab world, and their diasporas. She is the author of British Muslim Fictions: Interviews with Contemporary Writers, co-editor of Imagining Muslims in South Asia and the Diaspora and Translation and Decolonisation: Interdisciplinary Approaches, and co-author of Storying Relationships: Young British Muslims Speak and Write About Sex and Love. She published two paired monographs, Britain Through Muslim Eyes: Literary Representations, 1780−1988 and Making Sense of Contemporary British Muslim Novels. Together these books narrate a literary history of Muslim writing in Britain from the late eighteenth century to the present day. Claire has also brought out such anthologies as Rivers of Ink, A Match Made in Heaven, Desi Delicacies, and Forgotten Foods. Her forthcoming monograph is Decolonizing Disease: Pandemics, Public Health, and Decoronial Writing (Liverpool University Press, 2025). Claire’s research has been supported by funding from HEFCE, the British Academy, the Arts and Humanities Research Council, and the Leverhulme Trust. She publishes widely in such journals as Interventions and Contemporary Women’s Writing, and for over a decade acted as Editor-in-Chief of JCL: Literature, Critique, and Empire Today.