Manto Ke Behtreen - Free ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read book online for free. The contains top Afsanas of Sadat . List of Books by Manto - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online. It is a list of all Manto's books, comprising his short stories, plays, essays, and. E-BOOKS BY: Saadat Hasan Manto. Collection of books and magazines on Urdu language & literature . Manto Ke Gum Shuda Aur Ghair Matbua Afsane.

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    Khali Botlain Khali Dabbay Pdf Free Download. Khali Botlain Khali Dabbay Urdu Book Authored By Saadat Hasan Manto. Visit the below. A collection of afsaney (equivalent to the Short Story in English Literature) by the celebrated Saadat Hasan Manto, one among the very few. SAADAT HASAN MANTO, HINDI, KAHANIYAN. IdentifierManto-Kahaniyan- Hindi. Identifier-arkark://t1sf86t1f. OcrABBYY FineReader.

    Early life[ edit ] Saadat Hassan Manto was born in Paproudi village of Samrala , in the Ludhiana district of the Punjab in a Muslim family of barristers on 11 May He was ethnically a Kashmiri and proud of his Kashmiri roots. In a letter to Pandit Nehru he suggested that being 'beautiful' was the second meaning of being 'Kashmiri'. Abdul Bari Alig encouraged him to find his true talents and read Russian and French authors. It was here that he met writer Ali Sardar Jafri and found a new spurt in his writing. His second story, "Inqlaab Pasand", was published in Aligarh magazine in March During this time, he lived in Foras lane , in the center of Bombay's red light area of Kamathipura. What he saw then around him had a profound impact on his writings. This proved to be his most productive period as in the next eighteen months he published over four collections of radio plays, Aao Come , Manto ke Drame Manto's Dramas , Janaze Funerals and Teen Auraten Three women.

    Another highlight of his second phase in Bombay was the publication of a collection of his stories, Chugad, which also included the story 'Babu Gopinath'. During this time, as stories of the atrocities of partition riots reached him, in the midst of occasional communal riots in Mumbai itself, he decided to migrate to Pakistan, and left for it by ship. Manto and his family thus found themselves as "muhajirs" refugees from India and were among the millions of Muslims who left present-day India for the new Muslim-majority nation of Pakistan.

    Pak Tea House holds a special place in the memories of those who know about Lahore's vibrant literary and cultural past. 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". He was fined only in one case. The police are always on the lookout to nab someone.

    Even I am being tried in court.

    We all have to be very cautious. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, Ram Dai was sitting there cutting bidi leaves. Every third or fourth day she had to go looking for Sarita and would repeat these very words to Ram Dai as she sat all day near the stairs with a basket in front of her as she tied red and white strings around the cigarettes.

    No one in the building felt any sympathy for her, perhaps because their lives were so difficult that they had no time to think about others.

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    None had any friends. Most of the men slept during the day and worked nights in the nearby factory. Everyone lived right on top of one another, and yet no one took any interest in anyone else.

    I pray to God he goes blind for eyeing my little girl like that. You—going on about honor—you must be kidding! Get out of here! You take him into your room for two hours just to sniff his kerosene? All she wants to do is play around all day. All you do is play around, you good-for-nothing. He brought a rich man with a car. So listen.

    Hurry and run upstairs. Put on that blue georgette sari. When she was in a car speeding through the empty streets, the wind whipping over her face, she felt as though she had been transformed into a rampaging whirlwind. Sarita must not have been any older than fifteen, but she acted like thirteen. She hated spending time with women and having to talk to them. All day long she kept busy playing meaningless games with younger girls. Or she would take an old gunnysack from their room and spend hours engrossed with her friends on the sidewalk—twisting it around, laying it on the sidewalk, sitting on it, and such childish things.

    And yet she was healthy. Although she lived in a dirty neighborhood, her body was graceful and fit, and in fact you could say that she embodied youth itself. She was short and a little chubby, but this chubbiness made her seem only healthier, and when she rushed about the streets, if her dirty dress should fly up, passing men would look at her young calves that gleamed like smooth teak.

    Her pores were like those of an orange, its skin filled with juice, which, if you applied the slightest pressure, would squirt up into your eyes. She was that fresh. Sarita had good-looking arms as well.

    Even though she wore a poorly fitting blouse, the beauty of her shoulders was still clear. Her hair was long and thick and always smelled of coconut oil, and her braid snapped like a whip against her back.

    Sarita was blissfully free from worry. She got two meals a day, and her mother did all the work at home. Sarita did only two things: every morning she would fill up buckets of water and take them inside, and in the evening she would fill up the lamps with a drop or two of oil. This had been her strict routine for years, and so each evening without thinking she would reach for the tea saucer in which they kept their coins and grab a coin before taking the lamp down to download oil.

    Once in a while, meaning four or five times a month, Kishori would bring customers, and the men would take Sarita off to a hotel or some dark place, and she considered this good entertainment. Perhaps she imagined that all girls had to go out with rich guys to Worli to sit on cold benches, or to the wet sand of Juhu Beach. Whatever happened to her must happen to everyone, right?

    Send her out with me, okay?

    This one always orders me eggs, and Shanta really likes eggs. There they gossiped for hours. The cloth gave her goose bumps, and the thought of the upcoming car ride excited her. Is the sari okay from behind? When she was ready, she smiled and looked at Kishori for his approval.

    Then she haphazardly covered her lips in lipstick. This man is very rich, okay? He even has his own car. The poor man! They would have moved the car, but the wall went on for a long ways and the stench of piss ran its entire length. Guys, look—the one in the blue sari. She had gone to see a friend. She squeezed her thighs together and rested her hands on her lap, and several times just as she had built the courage to say something, she would suddenly stop. His two friends had come from Hyderabad: Shahab wanted to experience all the big city had to offer, and so Kifayat, the owner of the car, had bought Sarita through Kishori.

    Once they left the city and entered the suburbs, Sarita sprang to life. The cool wind rushing over the speeding car soothed her, and she felt fresh and full of energy again. In fact she could barely contain herself: she began to tap her feet, sway her arms, and drum her fingers as she glanced back and forth at the trees that streamed past along the road. Anwar and Shahab were growing relaxed, and Shahab felt he could do whatever he wanted with Sarita.

    He reached around her waist, and suddenly Sarita felt someone tickling her. Again Shahab reached out for Sarita, and she doubled over laughing so hard that she could hardly breathe, forcing Anwar to scrunch against his door and try to maintain his composure.

    Everyone burst out laughing. Kifayat kept looking over his shoulder even though he could see everything in the rearview mirror.

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    He sped up, trying to keep pace with the laughing in the back seat. She jumped over the seat to sit next to Kifayat where she began to play with his necktie.

    The money distracted Sarita, and she instantly forgot what Kifayat had said as she took the bill and crammed it into her bra. She was a child—ignorant and happy. She wanted to believe that even bad things could be redeemed, she wanted the car to continue speeding along, and she wanted everything to fall into their whirlwind.

    Suddenly she wanted to sing. I really like Devika Rani. Then they began singing together.

    Manto kay Afsaney

    Sarita was happy—Shahab was happy—Kifayat was happy—and seeing them all happy made Anwar happy too, and yet he was embarrassed for having been so inhibited.

    He felt a tingling sensation in his arms, and his repressed emotions awoke: he stretched loudly, yawned and then felt ready to join in the revelry. He felt discombobulated. Her long hair was blowing back and forth, and it looked like a column of thick smoke spreading in the breeze.

    She was happy. Sarita was happy—Shahab was happy—Kifayat was happy—and Anwar once again tried to join in, but when the song ended, everyone felt as though a hard rain had suddenly stopped. Kifayat asked Sarita to sing another song.

    Then suddenly the winding road ended, and they found themselves at the sea. The sun was setting, and the breeze off the ocean was becoming colder by the minute. Kifayat stopped the car. Sarita got out and set off running down the beach, and Kifayat and Shahab joined her.

    She dipped her finger into the beer and licked off the foam, but it was very bitter and she immediately puckered her lips. Kifayat and Shahab burst out laughing. They had six bottles—some they poured quickly so that the head overflowed their glasses and its foam disappeared into the sand, and some they actually managed to drink.

    Sarita kept singing, and once when Anwar looked at her, he imagined that she was made of beer. The damp sea breeze was glistening on her dark cheeks. She was very happy, and now Anwar was too.

    Sarita picked up two empty bottles and banged them against each other. They clanged loudly, and she burst out laughing, and everyone followed suit. They left the bottles right there on the wet sand and raced ahead to the car to find their seats.

    They began to sing. The car sped lurching down the road, and Sarita kept singing where she sat in the backseat between Anwar, who was dozing, and Shahab. The two lost track of time as they talked with each other, and before they realized it, they found themselves back in the bazaar where Kishori had ushered Sarita into the car.

    With his hands still on the wheel, Kifayat was replaying in his mind all that had just happened when Sarita stopped and turned around. She returned to the car, removed the ten-rupee note from her bra and dropped it onto the seat next to him. Startled, he looked at the note. Kifayat stared in disbelief at the note, and when he turned to the back seat, his friends were fast asleep. The sky was completely clear but hung like an enormous ash-colored tent over all of Bombay.

    For as far as he could see, lights burned through the night.

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    It seemed to Trilochan as though countless stars had fallen from the heavens and had attached themselves to the buildings, which in the dark of the night loomed like enormous trees around which the fallen stars glimmered like fireflies. For Trilochan this was a completely new experience, a new plane of existence, to be out beneath the night sky.

    He had come up to the terrace feeling anxious, but after only half an hour the tension had eased. He could now think clearly. Kirpal Kaur lived with her family in a neighborhood known for its fanatic Muslims. Many houses had already been burned, and several people had already died. Trilochan felt it was no longer safe for them to live there, but there was a curfew in effect and no one knew how long it would last, maybe forty-eight hours.

    He felt he could do nothing surrounded by Muslims of the most violent sort. Then troubling news reports were coming one after another from the Punjab saying that Sikhs were terrorizing Muslims. Her mother was blind. Her father was paralyzed. And her brother was staying in Deolali to supervise his newly acquired construction contracts there.

    Whatever your obligations are here, you really have to leave. Come to my place. He must have thought the city kept some charm so that when violence broke out, it would quell itself.

    Or he thought it was like a mythical fort, upon which no harm could be wreaked. But in the cool morning breeze, Trilochan could clearly see that the neighborhood was not safe at all. He was even preparing himself mentally to read in the morning papers that Kirpal Kaur and her parents had already been killed. If they died and Kirpal Kaur escaped, it would suit him just fine. And if Niranjan was killed in Deolali, it would be even better because then no obstacle would remain.

    Kirpal Kaur had just entered his life. Unlike her brother, she was very gentle and delicate. She had small breasts, which would have been more pleasant if plumper. In comparison to average Sikh country girls, her skin was fair, more like the color of raw cotton, and her body was glossy like the texture of Mercerized clothes.

    She was extremely shy. He had left for high school in the city, where he had begun to live permanently. After high school he had enrolled in college, and while during those years he had gone to his village countless times, he had never heard of Kirpal Kaur, probably because he was always in a hurry to get back to town as soon as possible. Then his college days had become a distant memory.

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