The Dog of Tithwal

by Saadat Hasan Manto, Vijay Seshadri

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Short Stories

Synopsis

"The undisputed master of the modern Indian short story." —Salman Rushdie



Stories encircling the marginalized, forgotten lives of Bombay, set against the backdrop of the India-Pakistan Partition.



By far the most comprehensive collection of stories by this twentieth century master available in English.



A master of the short story, Saadat Hasan Manto opens a window onto Bombay's demimonde—its prostitutes, rickshaw drivers, artists, and strays as well probing the pain and bewilderment of the Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs ripped apart by the India-Pakistan Partition.



Manto is best known for his dry-eyed examination of the violence, horrors, and reverberations from the Partition. From a stray dog caught in the crossfire at the fresh border of India and Pakistan, to friendly neighbors turned enemy soldiers pausing for tea together in a momentary cease fire—Manto shines incandescent light into hidden corners with an unflinching gaze, and a fierce humanism.



With a foreword by Pulitzer Prize–winning poet Vijay Seshadri, these stories are essential reading for our current moment where divisiveness is erupting into violence in so many parts of the world.

Release date: September 14, 2021

Publisher: Archipelago

Print pages: 418

Sample

Kingdom’s End
The telephone rang. Manmohan, who was sitting beside it,
picked up the receiver and spoke into it. ‘Hello, this is 4457.’
A delicate female voice came from the other end. ‘Sorry, wrong
number.’
Manmohan hung up and returned to the book he was reading.
He had read this book nearly twenty times already, even though its
last pages were moth-eaten; not because it was especially interesting, but
because it was the only book in this barren office.
For the past week he had been the sole custodian of this office. Its
owner, a friend of his, had gone away somewhere to arrange some credit.
Since Manmohan had no place of his own, he had moved here temporarily
from the streets. During this one week he had read the book nearly
twenty times over.
Isolated here, he bided his time. He hated any kind of employment.
Otherwise, had he wanted it, the job of director in any film company was
his for the taking. But working for someone was slavery and he didn’t
want to be a slave. Since he was a sincere, harmless person, his friends
saw to his daily needs, which were negligible: a cup of tea and a couple
of pieces of toast in the morning, two phulkas and a little bit of gravy for
lunch, and a pack of cigarettes that lasted the whole day – that’s all.
Manmohan had no family or relatives. He liked solitude and was
inured to hardship. He could go without food for days on end. His friends
didn’t know much about him, except that he had left home while still very
young and had found himself an abode on the Bombay pavements for
quite some time now. He only yearned for one thing in life: the love of a
woman. He would say, ‘If I’m lucky enough to find a woman’s love, my
life will change completely.’
‘Even then you won’t work,’ his friends would say.
‘Work?’ He would answer with a big sigh, ‘Oh, I’ll become a workaholic.
You’ll see.’
‘Well then, fall in love with someone.’
‘No, I don’t believe in love that is initiated by the man.’
It was almost time for lunch. Manmohan looked at the wall clock
opposite him. Just then the phone rang. He picked up the receiver, ‘Hello,
this is 4457.’
A delicate voice asked, ‘4457?’
‘Yes, 4457,’ Manmohan confirmed.
‘Who are you?’ the female voice asked.
‘I’m Manmohan. What can I do for you?’
When there was no answer, Manmohan asked, ‘Whom do you want?’
‘You,’ said the voice.
‘Me?’ he asked, somewhat surprised.
‘Yes, you. Do you have an objection?’
Manmohan was flummoxed. ‘Oh no, none at all.’
The voice smiled, ‘Did you say your name was Madan Mohan?’
‘No. Manmohan.’
‘Manmohan.’
Silence ensued. After some moments, he asked, ‘You wanted to chat
with me?’
‘Yes,’ the voice affirmed.
‘Well then, chat.’
After a slight pause, the voice said, ‘I don’t know what to say. Why
don’t you start?’
‘Okay,’ Manmohan said, and thought for a while. ‘I’ve already told
you my name. I’m temporarily living in this office. Before, I used to sleep
on the pavement, but now I sleep on the desk here.’
The voice smiled, ‘Did you sleep in a canopied bed on the pavement?’
Manmohan laughed. ‘Before I go any further, let me make one thing
clear. I’ve never lied. I’ve been sleeping on pavements for a long time.
But, for about a week now, I’ve had this office all to myself, and I’m having
the time of my life.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I found a book here. The pages at the back are missing. All the same,
I’ve read it . . . oh, about twenty times. If I ever get hold of the whole
book, I’ll find out what became of the hero and heroine’s love.’
The voice laughed. ‘You’re an interesting fellow.’
‘Thank you,’ he said with mannered formality.
After a pause, the voice asked, ‘What’s your occupation?’
‘Occupation?’
‘I mean your work. What do you do?’
‘What do I do? Nothing, really. An idle man has no work to do. I loaf
around all day and sleep at night.’
‘Do you like your life?’
‘Give me a few moments,’ Manmohan started to think. ‘The truth is,
I’ve never thought about it. Now that you’ve put the question to me, I’m
asking myself whether I do or not.’
‘So did you get an answer?’
Manmohan took some time to reply, ‘No, I didn’t. But since I’ve been
living it for so long, I suppose I must like it.’
The voice laughed.
Manmohan said, ‘You laugh beautifully.’
‘Thank you,’ the voice intoned shyly and hung up.