How much land does a storyteller need? As many countries, cities, continents, ports of call and manifold seas as possible, if you are to go by the stories of Hasan Manzar. Diversity of themes and settings is what strikes you instantly as you encounter the fictional world of this leading Urdu novelist and short story writer. The stories in his to-date six collections and six novels are set in a multitude of places ranging from Nigeria to South Africa to Naples to Iran all the way to the backwaters in the bygone United Provinces of British India to a small district town in Sindh. Sometimes the place is referred to in minimal terms with a single initial letter and the hint that this underdeveloped town will soon be reaping the bounty of oil; in other instances, he names the longitude and latitude of this very city in the title of a story, making it unmistakably exact. The sense of place informs his fiction.
The place, however, is never the entire story. Not for Manzar. The story is also never the full story for him. He suggests and hints more than he narrates, sometimes leaving things out and yet managing to impress the reader’s imagination. While for some readers, the stories have an almost clinical detachment, for others, the understated but emotionally charged, richly detailed and meticulously crafted stories engross you to the degree that it is only much later that you realise where did the author go? The man behind the fiction is not an open book, but probably a tale in many voices.
“I have not thought of writing my autobiography,” Dr Manzar says candidly, “as there are no juicy titbits or interesting episodes.” However, when he begins to recall bygone days, he brings up a wealth of memories. He remembers Hapur, the small town in North India where he was born in a house called Mahal. “It has a separate story by itself,” he informs me.Another town is associated with his narrow escape from a snake and a run over by a train-stories which he has heard other people narrate about his childhood. He started school in Muradabad, but the few days he spent away from classes, wandering about the town and looking at odds and ends, he regards as his “first entry into public life.”
He retains a vivid memory of the Partition and landing at the Lahore railway platform. It was in Lahore that he studied from high school onwards till graduation from King Edward Medical College. During these years, he met writers and poets like Faiz, Ahmed Nadeem Qasimi, Safdar Mir, Ahmed Rahi and Ahmed Mushtaq, developing lifelong friendships with some of them. He attended a programme of the Progressive Writers’ where Manto read a story. Later on, there was a more moving encounter with Manto; Dr Manzar describes the occasion showing me a book autographed by Manto for his friend: “Manto read my story, Lasah and nodded his granite head in approval while looking at me with his big bulging eyes and said a few words in appreciation. He could not say more because he was busy writing Is manjhadar main and had taken the script from Rahi’s hands to see what it was.”
Dr Manzar was fond of writing from his childhood days but would file away whatever he wrote. While he was waiting for his matriculation results, he submitted a story to a magazine. “It was about refugees and this must have influenced their decision to print it,” he comments retrospectively. He presented some of his work in the regular meetings of the Progressive Writers’ in Lahore but his output dwindled while he was in medical college. “I made the mistake of starting a novel and it sapped my energy,” he says.
He worked as a medical officer in a coastal settlement of Karachi and then as a surgeon on a Dutch ship. He kept taking notes throughout his many journeys, especially while working in Malaysia, Nigeria and Saudi Arabia, intending to use them for future work. He obtained his postgraduate degrees from Scotland. A long period of silence starting from the 1960s was broken after he settled down in Hyderabad and took up psychiatry practice. His first two books, Rehai and Nadeedi, were self-published but caught the attention of discerning readers and critics, confirming his reputation as one of the most interesting and significant fiction writers of the day.
Combining a busy practice in Hyderabad with writing on weekends and late evenings, he managed to complete nearly half a dozen novels which he had started and left unfinished years back, including Al-Asifa and started his longest work Dhani Baksh kay baitay. “Sometimes you get to read about writers in other countries that after such and such book, they didn’t have to do anything else. They can afford such luxury but for writers in our country, even survival is an issue,” he says, explaining how he has managed to sail in two boats at the same time. He has also written some essays and stories for children.
He also translated Prem Chand’s last unfinished novel Prem Chand Ghar Main, an intimate portrait of the author from the pen of his wife. His essays include a psychological study of Devdas and the prevalence of pornographic films in our society. A volume of his selected short stories, translated into English by Muhammad Umar Memon, has been published from Karachi and New Delhi. He considers himself to be a progressive in the true sense of the term, but his best ideological statement is the opening line of his story, Rehai: “If there is anything in life worth hating, it is hatred.”
Writing is only a part of the story. A man of cultivated and varied interests, he is at the same time a film buff, connoisseur of music and avid reader. He is a great fan of ‘New Theatre’ movies and a collector of their prints and music. At one point in time he even contemplated a career in films but moved on when his screenplay was subjected to changes and cuts by the directors he met in Lahore. He retains an interest in film technique and can talk about movies for hours.
Reading is another favourite pastime. He has recently finished Sholokhov’s monumental And quiet flows the don and is immensely enjoying Gogol’s Dead souls. “I am trying to ensure that I read at least one book by the major writers I have not been able to read as yet, but most of my reading time in the morning is spent in tafseer and various translations of the Holy Quran,” he describes his routine. He is modest about his work to the extent of being self-effacing but is by no means reserved.He says that he relishes the company of his friends but many of them have died. Along with his paediatrician wife and psychiatrist son, Dr Manzar has shifted only partially to Karachi. He still retains his two-days a week practice in Hyderabad and although he finds it physically taxing, he cannot bear to be away from his patients.
“I see a sharp deterioration in almost all institutions and every field of public life, even in people’s morals and behaviour.Families are breaking down and children discover so many wrong things on their own. I sometimes see my psychiatry practice as a refuge,” he says and I wonder if this is the psychiatrist’s final diagnosis or the storyteller’s holiday.