Saadat Hasan Manto's Prayer

Dear God, master of the universe, compassionate and merciful: we who are steeped in sin kneel in supplication before your throne and beseech you to recall from this world Saadat Hasan Manto, son of Ghulam Hasan Manto, who was a man of great piety.

Take him away, Lord, for he runs away from fragrance and chases after filth. He hates the bright sun, preferring dark labyrinths. He has nothing but contempt for modesty but is fascinated by the naked and the shameless. He hates sweetness but will give his life to taste bitter fruit. He will not so much as look at housewives but is in seventh heaven in the company of whores. He will not go near running water but loves to wade through dirt. Where others weep he laughs, and where others laugh he weeps. Faces blackened by evil, he loves to wash with tender care to make visible their real features.

He never thinks about you but follows Satan everywhere, the same fallen angel who once disobeyed you.

A fasting companion knows of hunger...

A fasting companion knows of hunger,

a dying friend-weeps for memory,

inside terror-ridden bars

the shriek of anguish awakens rust-laden manacles

and, I stand apart,

with iotas of tears,

at each misquoted hanging,

gathering spirit in longer weeps

for it grows into bigger tears

each time, each moment

I hang my head in shame

as the tide swells

with salted cries

all around

I breathe fresh air,

warming myself to the task ahead

and the tears don't stop,

the tsunami of abbreviated sadness

is awaiting-

and it strikes-

for in the jungles of kipling

there were savages

whispering instinct at each breath,

and nowhere was there soul

(but in the truth of their mind and heart)

-and the tears swell

and I ride waves, until

I weaken-

my boat rocks, and I drown,

can't sleep at night,

can't breathe fresh air,

the drowning begins

scorching sun strengthens my belly

and technical mystery

marvels at its new value

but should I shake out,

and pursuit that naggine ache-

of what is the

MALADY of our generation.

I will listen,

No Talismans of purity,

a wholesome cancer of injustice,

within, without,there exists

not-bottles of white rum

not- cycles in autumn

but the fate of a generation

to teach posterity

I must raise head from the sea of tears,

stand tall in dignity-

and proclaim

I am human, I hunger,

and must you!

And cancer withers,

as the labour begins,

the manacles soften

as the scorching sun calms,

and the might is mine,

and so it will be yours

But never will you

take away the joy

of a smile

or the right to laugh

because in it is not

selfish escapism

it is not mine,

It is a wish to create for all

a dream, a vision,

maybe a mirage

of beautiful worlds

of naked kindness

of nascent truth

And, it will be yours,

mine,

and the comrade who sits

on a cold floor, with waning light

and it belongs to our children

so they will say

My father was a happy man,

a gentle man,

And a JUST man,

and he Smiled

when tides would sweep other mere mortals.

-Rohan Mathews