Sadaat Hasan Manto.
I’m not a writer. I wish I was but i’m not. This is basically a love letter to one of my favourite writers.
This blog does’t have a structure because all my thoughts are disorganised. I don’t know where to start and how to so i’ll just pour my heart out.
I loved the way he wrote. I wish I was cultured enough, smart enough, hungy enough to have read his stories in Urdu but I wasn’t. I was just a guy.
He had a way of writing no doubt but he had a way of ending things. You see the way Manto ended his stories might look like an ubrupt ending if it was any other writer. He left the last sentence up to me, the reader, to make my own last sentence. Even though his stories ended, there was still something that was unsaid and i’ll never be able to figure out why.
I read, I read and I read and i know the story is about to end but there’s something missing. Manto solved the puzzle but it felt like he forgot a piece. And at the end of every story, I felt like that peice was with me. In my mind.
This blog is not for anyone but me. An authour I so dearly love and respect. An author that trusted me enough to write the final sentence of his story.
Maybe none of this is true. Maybe i’m looking too much into it. Maybe it’s all in my head. But to be honest, I wouldn't have it any other way.