Utsob Roy

Until you finish it, you'll never notice how well-crafted this novel is. That is how good art or literature should be. It will hide the craftsmanship. The narrative was concise, flowing, and captivating.

Another thing not strictly about this book is, I envy authors who (though being a man) can portray women such a way that it compels you to think that they know women from the depth of their psychology. I know they don't know everything about women. However, they can create a character which may not be like ‘This is how women are' but will be like ‘this is also how a woman can be'. Dazai can do this very well.

It has been suggested, for instance, that the Mahābhārata, the great early Sanskrit epic, owes a debt to the Iliad and to the Odyssey, with the theme of the abduction of Lady Sita by Rāvaa a direct echo of the elopement of Helen with Paris of Troy.

It is supposed to be Rāmāyana, not Mahābhārata. Mistakes like this, and that also in the first few pages made me skeptical about the quality of this book.

Beyond that, I found this book enlightening. Writing a history based on how businesses have been made (and related things like coercion and war) is a very refreshing read.

Only recently, I think, Manto is getting traction once again. A writer disowned by his country because of cultural bigotry (This act is an irony itself since Manto himself left his country and then regretted it.) and was unable to grow in his new ground, died as a middle-aged man.

The stories are indeed well-chosen, as the translator claimed to show the spectrum of Manto’s ability. I can also vouch for the translation quality because I’ve already read some excellent translations of Manto in Bengali. Since all the languages in the Indian subcontinent are kin, they share similarities. You can easily get a vibe of the original writing.

To see in Manto’s eyes is like seeing with sensors rather than wisdom. You don’t need any special depth to understand Manto, I think. His writings are all about the things that are alive. You’ll rarely find any description about the environment in his writings, but whenever you get some, they will hit some of your nerves. You may find yourself beside a long wall with the stink and stains of urine, or in a room so small that you may suffocate. These stains and stinks, these feelings of suffocation, are lively. Attention to minute details, which is a strength of many writers, is almost absent in his works. Rather, he will talk about people's minds and thoughts in length, what they are thinking, acting, and living… The stories are stories of living things, and you’ll start living and breathing in these stories.

Time to time, we talk about this and that, the responsibilities of writers and artists in general. Well, to be truthful, an artist’s only responsibility is to speak his mind truthfully. To do that, an artist may, and historically always has been, an iconoclast in their style, subject, and expression. Obscene, Manto was, and also sceptical about the then-contemporary ideas of revolution and freedom. An icon, be it Gandhi or Virginity, he has challenged. By doing this, he expressed truths that transcend beyond society's ethics, yet are very close to our human self.

It is an absolutely fantastic collection of short stories. I read it while I was travelling through Thailand. With all the things I saw as a tourist, the real life of the Thai people is beyond my grasp. This book is a portal of their life, happiness, humiliation, and sorrow.

I consider myself a writer. However, I fear writing, and I fear publishing more. For, writing is agonising. And, I don't dare to publish until I really have a story to tell. My fear accumulated over time by reading more, by reading books just like this. And, I will tell my fellow writers this: If you are not really as serious as Danielewski, Borges, Tagore, Pessoa, or Jibanananda, stop writing.

The structure of this book is recursive, layered and of a madman. It is a book you should approach with an arsenal of bookmarks, much patience for multiple re-readings and the intention to read cover-to-cover— footnotes and appendix and all. While some of the references in this book are purely fictional, many are real. It is not necessary, but some familiarity with classic literature, and existential philosophy (resources like Being and Time by Martin Heidegger) can be very rewarding. I will also recommend reading Walking by Thomas Bernhard which deals with madness singularly unlike this book which deals with a lot of things. A knack for etymology and the exact meaning of words can be rewarding too.

Now about the madness… It is everywhere, and it must be relished. It must be understood on its own terms, not from our couch of comfortable 'normality'. Madness is, in some sense divine. Madness is motherly. Madness is a concentrated potion, too hard to gulp down, of the essence of our existence. This book talks about that madness, and love, and madness-inducing love, and love-inducing madness.

Most readers of this book may find the preceding paragraph needs some qualifications. The book is considered to be of genre horror, and rightly so. However, it is not a run-of-the-mill horror. I will put it in a sub-genre: philosophical horror. Because, most horror content depends on unfamiliarity, and not understanding of the situation, this book depends on understanding and examining. Instead of jump-scares and goosebumps, author brings in elaborate discussion on meanings of words like 'uncanny', 'space', 'echo' etc. so that as the meanings sinks in us in most accurate and non-trivial manner, so does the horror of the situation.

But, at the end, it still remains a story of love, or seeking, of remembering, of hope, and of redemption.