Manto kahanian by Saadat Hassan Manto Literature Books, Poetry Books, Loud Speaker by Saadat Hasan Manto Urdu Afsana PDF Free Urdu Afsanay Free. Manto Ki Bees Kahaniyan Was Written By Saadat Hasan Manto. Manto Ki Bees Kahaniyan By Saadat Hasan Manto (download pdf). Ahmed 4 years ago Novels & Fiction, Urdu Books. Book: Manto Ki Bees Kahaniyan.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Japanese|
|Genre:||Politics & Laws|
|ePub File Size:||19.80 MB|
|PDF File Size:||10.61 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Register to download]|
SAADAT HASAN MANTO, HINDI, KAHANIYAN. IdentifierManto-Kahaniyan- Hindi. Identifier-arkark://t1sf86t1f. OcrABBYY FineReader. सआदत हसन मंटो का जन्म- 11 मई, को समराला, पंजाब में हुआ था। आप कहानीकार और लेखक थे। मंटो ने फ़िल्म और रेडियो. The contains top Afsanas of Sadat Hasan Manto-one of the controversial short stories writer. he talked about sex workers and drug peddlers- the topics that.
Toba Tek Singh by Sadat Hasan Manto Two or three years after the Partition, it occurred to the governments of India and Pakistan to exchange their lunatics in the same manner as they had exchanged their criminals. The Muslim lunatics in India were to be sent over to Pakistan and the Hindu and Sikh lunatics in Pakistani asylums were to be handed over to India. It was difficult to say whether the proposal made any sense or not. However, the decision had been taken at the topmost level on both sides. After high-level conferences were held a day was fixed for exchange of the lunatics. It was agreed that those Muslims who had families in India would be permitted to stay back while the rest would be escorted to the border.
Santhanam, an eminent lawyer and the family of a jeweler called Girdharilal. He died on 18 January , in an apartment located off Hall Road in Lahore. His death was attributed to the effects of alcoholism. His daughter Nighat Bashir Patel still lives in the vicinity of the house where Manto lived.
On 18 January , the fiftieth anniversary of his death, Manto was commemorated on a Pakistani postage stamp. His first story was "Tamasha", based on the Jallianwala Bagh massacre at Amritsar.
To add to it, his numerous court cases and societal rebukes deepened his cynical view of society, from which he felt isolated. Lawrence , partly because he wrote about taboos of Indo-Pakistani Society. With my stories, I only expose the truth". The ghatan's dripping- wet, two-piece dress was lying on the floor in a messy heap, while she herself was wrapped around Randheer.
The warmth of her naked, unwashed body produced the same sensation in his own that he felt in the hot, filthy hammams of the barbers during blustery winters. She had clung to his body all night long, as if their two bodies had melded together.
They had no need to. Their breath, their lips and hands conveyed all that needed to be communicated. With the tenderness of the gentlest breeze, his hands caressed her breasts all through the night — and however light the touch, her tiny nipples, in the middle of their large, dark, coarse areola, responded, sending a wave of tremulous pleasure through her body that never failed to produce the same in his own.
He had, many times, and he was familiar with the pleasure they gave. And even spent time with such capricious girls that they had no qualms about sharing the kind of intimate stories about their families that are usually kept from strangers?
So unbelievably different! A strange smell wafting from her body flooded his senses all night — a smell at once pleasant and nauseating. It flowed from every part of her body: under her arms, around her breasts, her hair, her belly, and it permeated every breath he took.
All night long he wondered about this smell: without it creeping into every crevice of his mind, crowding out all his thoughts, new and old, could he have felt as close to this ghatan as he did now?
Absolutely not! This smell had fused them together for the night. It was like the smell of fresh earth just sprinkled with water.
But not exactly. It was different somehow.
It was something primal and timeless — like the relationship between man and woman. Amazingly, though Randheer detested the odor of perspiration and routinely dusted his body with talcum powder and daubed his underarms with deodorant after every bath, he found himself madly kissing the ghatan's hairy armpits over and over — yes, over and over — and felt no revulsion; instead he found it strangely pleasurable.
Damp with sweat, her soft, underarm hair was releasing a scent that was very conspicuous and yet completely unfathomable. It was a day during the rains — just like today…. He was looking out the same window. The peepal leaves were trembling in the pouring rain, their rustling sound blending into the atmosphere.
It was dark outside, but the darkness was suffused with a soft fluorescence, as though a little light had escaped from the stars and descended to the earth with the raindrops…. Yes, it was a day during the rains. His room had a single teak bed then, now it had two — the new arrival next to its mate — and a brand new dressing table stood in one corner. It was the same season, the same weather, and a barely discernible light was coming down from the stars along with the raindrops, but now the atmosphere was filled with the overpowering scent of henna.
One bed was empty. On the other, Randheer lay with his head down watching raindrops dancing on the fluttering leaves outside the window, and lying next to him was a fair-colored girl who seemed to have fallen asleep after her futile attempts to cover her nakedness. Many times he made himself forget what she said and forgive her for how she acted. For two years he suffered like this. Mozelle shook herself free, sat down in a chair, and began looking at the hem of her gown. Trilochan felt as though someone had tucked a bunch of burning coals into his turban.
He flew into a rage. Mozelle got up and, in her alluring way, shook her well-trimmed brown hair. This spurred Trilochan into action. He strode forward, brusquely drew Mozelle to him, and pressed his lips against hers.
Mozelle took out a small mirror from her purse and looked at her lips where she saw scratches on her thickly laid lipstick. It could really clean my Navy blue skirt. Trilochan became so angry that he gave up.
He sat down calmly on the sofa, and Mozelle came and sat beside him. She let down his beard, sticking the pins one by one between her teeth. Trilochan was beautiful. Before his beard had started to grow, people always mistook him for a striking young girl. But now his beard hid his features beneath its bushy mass. He knew it obscured his beauty, but he was obedient and respected his religion. With the pins between her teeth, she smiled.
I was wrong to say it could clean my Navy blue skirt. Trilochan could feel his face turning red with anger beneath his beard. Mozelle stopped playing with his heard. I want to marry you. Trilochan jumped up. Mozelle pushed herself away. Trilochan was resigned to his fate.
Mozelle began to do a tap dance. Suddenly religion was the last thing on his mind. Quickly she came up to Trilochan, kissed him on his beard, and left, grimacing. It is impossible to describe how much Trilochan suffered that night as he thought about getting his hair cut. The next day in a Fort barber shop he got his hair cut and beard shaved. He kept his eyes clamped shut throughout the proceedings. When the business was finally over, he opened his eyes and stared for a long time in a mirror—now he would draw the attention of even the most beautiful girls in Bombay!
Now Trilochan felt the same strange coldness he had felt leaving the barbershop. He began to pace back and forth on the terrace over to where there were a number of water pipes and tanks.
The second day he sent a note to Mozelle through his servant saying he was sick and asking if she could come by for a moment. Mozelle came. Seeing Trilochan, she stopped short. She was so emotional that her nose began to run.
The memory flashed through his mind of how that first day he had run into her and the strange mix-up that had followed. He smiled and drew her to his chest. It was decided that the wedding would be in Pune. This was a legality.
Pune was the best place for the marriage as it was close and Trilochan had some friends there. They decided to leave for Pune the very next day.
Mozelle was a salesgirl in a store in the Fort. There was a taxi stand near her store where she asked him to wait. The next day he learned that she had left for Deolali with an old friend who had just bought a brand-new car and that she was going to stay there for a while.
What happened then to Trilochan? That is a very long story. The short version is that he drew up his courage and resolved to forget her. Soon after that, he met Kirpal Kaur and fell in love with her. Then he realized that Mozelle was nothing more than a wild girl with a cold heart who jumped from here to there like a bird. Despite this he would think about Mozelle from time to time.
These were bittersweet moments: Regardless, it was painful for Trilochan to think that she was living with someone other than him, but at the same time such behavior was nothing but in character. He had spent not just hundreds but thousands of rupees on her.
She liked cheap things. They would spend hours kissing, and he would run his hands all over her body. But she never let him go further. I hate you. If she had, she would never have agreed to spend time with him.
Mozelle made up her own mind about things. On many occasions Trilochan had stressed their absolute necessity and even tried to shame her into wearing them, but she never reformed her ways.
If you get offended, close your eyes. I know you wear those silly baggy underpants. You should be ashamed. When they had first met and Mozelle said things like this, Trilochan would get angry, but as time passed he started to consider what she was saying, and sometimes his prejudices gave way.
Then, after getting his hair cut, he was overcome by the feeling of how much time he had wasted carrying around his heavy mess of hair.
Trilochan stopped near the water tanks. He cursed Mozelle and forced himself to stop thinking about her. Kirpal Kaur, pure and innocent Kirpal Kaur, whom he loved, was in danger.
She lived in a neighborhood full of the most violent sort of Muslims and already two or three incidents had taken place. The problem was that there was a forty-eight-hour curfew in effect. And yet who really cared about that? Muslims living in her building could very easily kill her and her parents at any time. Concentrating on this, Trilochan sat down on a large water pipe.
His hair had grown out, and he was sure that in under a year it would look as though he had never cut it. His beard had grown fast as well. He stroked his long, soft hair and sighed deeply.
He was about to get up when he heard the hard slap of wooden sandals. He wondered who it might be, as there were many Jewish women in the building and they all wore the same wooden sandals when at home. The noise grew closer. He glimpsed Mozelle near the next water tank—she was wearing the special loose gown of Jewish women and, with both arms raised above her head, was stretching in such a sexy way that Trilochan felt as though the air itself would shatter.
He coughed loudly. She approached him, and her sandals clapped against the ground. His face began to burn. Mozelle came forward and rubbed the back of her hand against his chin. Then she smiled. But I left that in Deolali. Mozelle pinched his arm. No special change had taken place, other than how she looked a little weaker. Is it someone in this building? Trilochan remained silent.
Mozelle got up and tickled his beard with all five fingers. When she smiled, Trilochan felt as though he had entered a village butcher shop where the butcher had just cut in two a thick-veined piece of meat.
Then she laughed. Trilochan wanted to tell Mozelle how much he loved Kirpal Kaur and how he was going to marry her, and how in comparison to her, Mozelle was wanton, ugly, faithless, and unkind. Then I met Kirpal Kaur.
I do up my turban in a way so that even one man in a hundred has a hard time telling I cut my hair. Mozelle lifted her long gown and scratched her pale voluptuous thigh. But look at this stupid mosquito! See how hard it bit me! Trilochan turned his gaze away from her. With her finger Mozelle applied saliva to where the mosquito had bitten her and then let go of her gown and stood up.
At that moment Trilochan needed someone to talk to. Even Mozelle would do. Go get her! You would never understand the delicacy of this situation, the delicacy of any situation. Mozelle banged her sandal against the water pipe. Stupid idiot. We would never have lasted.
But screw all that. I know that neighborhood inch by inch. Come on. Trilochan pushed back some stray hairs. I have to wear it there. Stupid ass! This irritated Mozelle. I wonder if all Sikhs are so stupid. This incensed Mozelle.
She writhed in anger, and her breasts twitched and trembled. Trilochan was furious. Mozelle cackled. Go and put on your turban. She began to walk downstairs. Mozelle shook her head.
She continued on down, her sandals slapping against the stairs. Trilochan listened to her reach the last stair, then he smoothed back his long hair and descended towards his apartment. Inside he changed his clothes quickly. His turban was already made up. He fixed it carefully into place, locked the door, and went downstairs. Outside on the sidewalk, Mozelle had her sturdy legs spread wide and was smoking just as a man would.
When Trilochan approached, she mischievously blew a mouthful of smoke in his face. Mozelle smiled. It looks like you still have all your hair.
The market was completely deserted. The wind blew so slowly that it seemed as though it too was afraid of the curfew. Lamps were lit but their light seemed sickly.