Shibnarayan Ray, one of the most erudite men on either side of the border, wrote:
I can claim with certainty that the exiled Taslima Nasrin is the rightful successor to the discursive legacy of Mary Wollstonecraft, among any other in either Bengal. I considered Dwikhandito, the third volume of her autobiography that was recently banned by both Bangladesh and West Bengal, an exceptional literary work. In the mother’s womb our appearances undergo a series of mutations to finally arrive at the human form. However, since the moment of birth there begins a focused attempt to shape the child according to certain socially acceptable prototypes. Over the centuries, in various societies, the prototypes may have undergone radical transformations, but the intent behind them has remained unchanged—to construct citizens according to certain pre-set types and eradicate any possibility of independent or original thought. The ruling oligarchy initiates this production of citizens using convenient tools like religion, traditions, customs and pedagogy. Every child, though, possesses an innate ability to forge their unique self-identity, provided the process is aided by efforts, determination, honesty, reason, and intense dedication. Most do not succeed. However, those who do manage to come up trumps against every hurdle placed before them, emerge as the rare individuals whose sense of self is always reflected in their actions, their lifestyle, their ways of thinking, and their creations. We have known many such individuals—from Socrates to Vidyasagar, Giordano Bruno to Manabendra Nath Roy—but very rarely do we get a chance to read about their amazing journeys in any detail. In this regard I must say that I consider Taslima, much like French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir, an exception. The greatest contribution of her autobiography, especially Dwikhandito, is the fact that it provides us a glimpse of the path traversed by a young Muslim middle-class girl, against all odds, in her journey towards becoming the woman named Taslima Nasrin—the narrative that was laid out in the first two volumes finds completion in the third. Consequently, the book is of immense literary as well as historical value and anyone who ventures to read it, despite the bans imposed by the governments on both sides of the border, would undoubtedly find this unadorned honesty extremely refreshing. Similarly, many will perhaps find the book inspirational especially with regards to coming to terms with one’s true self. The kind of books that find favour with the reading public these days are primarily tales of social attrition and decadence, or satirical sketches. Despite her hardships, Taslima has never bowed down to forces of oppression and has been a tireless advocate for a more humanist outlook in life. In the first two volumes she had written candid accounts of her childhood and adolescent years which had deeply perturbed the elite civil society of both West Bengal and Bangladesh who consider the concealing of all uncomfortable truths as the primary condition of being called civilized.
Nearly a hundred years ago, Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain20 had written, ‘We have never been able to rise up against any form of social oppression mainly because whenever any of our sisters has tried to stand up for her rights, religion and traditions have been used as convenient excuses to mercilessly crush and silence her. Men have used our religious texts as God’s will in order to forever keep us in the dark. Begum Rokeya had had to suffer untold persecution for her brave admissions, and the essay was heavily edited when it was first anthologized and published. A hundred years later, it has yet again been proposed that Taslima’s book will be cleared for publication if certain sections from it can be expunged. In the course of a hundred years, have we made any progress at all?
Many daily newspapers in West Bengal too wrote against the ban, lengthy editorials and op-ed pieces were dedicated to the issue, despite some renowned authors and artists coming out in support of the decision. On the other hand, no newspaper in Dhaka wrote anything against the ban and the entire decision was more or less accepted. Nothing is as contagious as hatred; once let loose, it uses lies and subterfuge to spread, sometimes even faster than light!
So much happened because of Dwikhandito! It prohibited a way of thinking, divided the readers for or against the ban and fuelled anxiety regarding the consequences of criticizing religious dogma. It also played upon the fear and paranoia about communal unrest, and raised suspicions about the government’s attempts to appease the Muslim vote bank, since many had alleged how the ban was justified because the book had insulted the Prophet. However, I have always been vocal about the freedom of expression, regardless of whose rights we are considering or how contrary those views may be to my own. In the aftermath of the controversy, like me, my faith too has remained unbroken. Five of my books have been prohibited in Bangladesh thus far, unlike just the one in West Bengal. However, the reasons behind the prohibitions have been identical: I have hurt the religious sentiments of a community. Since the Dark Ages, when the Crown and the Faith had been coterminous, ruling powers have silenced voices of dissent citing the protection of religious sentiments.
The first person who attempted to challenge the ban was Sujato Bhadra.21 He moved the court, demanding to know whether, as a free citizen of the nation, his right to read a published book could be curbed and by whom. In his defence, renowned lawyer Joymalya Bagchi made a series of very powerful arguments in court in support of the freedom of speech and expression. I have never managed to personally thank Mr Bhadra and Mr Bagchi; neither have I managed to thank the judges who finally overruled the ban. I couldn’t thank them simply because I had not for a moment believed that the battle was mine alone. Almost always after a ban, the writer recedes into the background as questions regarding free speech and freedom of an author automatically assume centre stage—rights that are due not simply to an author but to the entire body social. There are always a handful of men who fight for the perpetuation of other’s rights, men who, unknown to others, end up creating history. Sujato Bhadra is one such person.
Two years after it was banned, Dwikhandito was finally freed for publication. The victory was not simply a personal one; it was a triumph of free thought, freedom of speech and the freedom to express one’s opinions without fear of retribution. There had been many fighters along the way—writers, publishers, those in favour of the ban and those against—who were present in court that day. No matter how dark the circumstances, it provided a glimmer of hope that personal opinions notwithstanding, no one really wants a book to be banned. Yet, a lingering sense of disquiet remains—that people almost always choose to remain silent.
And Then One Day . . .
My Harvard stint came to an end, plunging me into a familiar quandary. A new city, a new country—these had been recurrent concerns over the past years in a never-ending quest to find a land where I could finally and firmly plant my feet. I had tried time and again to shed the mantle of the wanderer, the forlorn traveller, but always in vain. This time, I was resolved—I wanted to come back to Bengal. The dream had been a long-cherished one, a constant companion in all my lonely travels abroad. So much had happened in Bengal in the meanwhile—the ban, the outrage, the relentless slander! Yet, leaving behind the glitz of the western metropolis, its fresh air and clean water, and its bright shiny lights, I returned to Kolkata. I had already made arrangements to lease out a fully furnished house in Triangular Park for a month, tired as I was of an endless array of hotel rooms. I spent a month in that house—a month full of people, commotion, friendship, work, surprises and curiosity—while searching for a new place in the city where I would be able to live out the end of my days. My long-nurtured dreams began to take flight, their enormous wings spreading and shielding me from sight.
I had met a kind man in the Indian embassy in Sweden who had confessed, much to my surprise, to being an admirer of my work. When approached for a visa, he had issued an Entry (X) visa for me which, I later came to know, could be renewed every six months to allow me to stay indefinitely in India. I was now no longer a tourist; I could be a citizen! All of a sudden, my desires were no longer old secrets tucked away safely in some corner of my soul—perhaps even without me being aware, the
y had started becoming tangible.
So, one fine morning, I found myself at the Kolkata airport, talking to a hitherto unknown voice, demanding that the absolutely startled man find me a house immediately. It became apparent that he had never come across someone keen on renting a house without even having seen the place once! Everything had to be arranged that very morning—the dusty empty house, new bedding, some stray pieces of furniture, utensils and the like. Not that there was anyone at hand to tell me about these things—how to find the house, where to buy furniture, what to do about food and other such chores. They who usually surround me—because of my name or perhaps because of me—were embarrassed to reveal that they had no answers whatsoever—at least not the correct ones. My life in Kolkata thus began with many small mistakes.
Within a couple of days, the house began to appear lived-in. In six months, it seemed like I had been there for nearly three decades. I planted a lot of flowers on the terrace, the ones I remembered from childhood. The smell of the flowers would permeate the house, becoming particularly heady in the dead of night. I would move the pot of hasnuhana, in full bloom, near my bed, the smell lulling me to sleep like it used to when I was a child. It was a safe house, in the heart of the city, but not too accessible—there were two immense iron gates and a guard at the entrance between me and the world. The smell of spices in the open terrace, the clothes left to dry flapping in the wind—incredible scenes that kept evoking memories of my childhood, long lost along the way. Awash with light and air, the house on 7, Rawdon Street soon became my home.
Kolkata remained the same except for one huge difference. Nikhil Sarkar,22 a true friend for all seasons, the person with whom I could always speak my mind, a truly erudite, well-read and talented individual, was not in the city. I could sense that, perhaps unknown even to me, my world had gradually begun to feel empty. My parents, Nikhil, none of them were there, and the less said about my relatives the better. There were only a handful of acquaintances who I could call friends, besides some of my admirers who would frequently visit. Sometimes I would wonder if I had been fooling myself with this house of cards, especially when everything increasingly seemed so transient—as if life itself had become an enormously puerile joke.
The doors of 7, Rawdon Street, however, remained forever open to everyone, including strangers. I have always been innately hospitable. So many people, right, wrong, cunning, naïve, have passed through my doors but I have never felt like judging any of them. Stupid and harmless, that is how I have always been.
I could simply walk out in my house clothes, just a pair of flimsy slippers on my feet, and shop off the pavement, buying things cheap at a bargain. I could pick up a stray kitten from Gariahat and bring it home with me. It was a simple, unadorned life which could, however, instantly transform into a glamorous one—the crowds would spill over outside the stall at the book fair and the police would have to be deployed to manage the admirers. Despite all this, I could still connect to my readers, even without socializing with the literary circuit of the city. That was just as well because I have never been comfortable with uninterrupted devotion or admiration, and as far as I knew, the elite of the city did not take kindly to blunt talk and the harsh truth. So I spent my life on my own, in solitude, content with my frequent travels and my life abroad when something or the other would call me away—to read my poetry somewhere or collect a prize somewhere else.
That is not to say some good things were not happening for me in Kolkata. BAG Films approached me for the rights to my short story ‘Frasi Premik’ (The French Lover) to adapt it into a feature film, and paid me for the copyright. A book of short stories from the last 100 years of Anandabazar Patrika, with a preface written by me, was published amidst much pomp by Anandabazar. They even approached me for publication rights to my complete works. A month-long miniseries based on my novel Shodh (Vengeance) was telecast, and became more popular than many other daily shows. It even led to offers of writing for television, which I graciously took up. At the same time, a theatrical adaptation of my short story ‘Phera’ (The Return) was being performed at theatres like Girish Mancha, Madhusudhan Mancha and Rabindra Sadan. I would regularly attend the shows and this, in turn, introduced me to many other splendid plays being performed by independent theatre groups. I was even invited on stage by Rudraprasad Sengupta23 to felicitate award winners at the end of a week-long theatre festival organized by his group, Nandikar.
Many of these instances helped me feel secure about being a part of the cultural and artistic community of Kolkata; gradually, I began to feel as if I belonged in this city, that I was not from a different land. My bond with Kolkata, in fact, dated right back to my adolescence. One day I resolved to invite for dinner all the old acquaintances I could locate from that time—the many whose poems I remember publishing or little magazine publishers who had published my work. Some of them were still writers but had not exactly progressed over the years; others had given it all up to become business owners or even witch doctors! Despite that, every bit of all this made it clearer how much I craved the past. So when any of my relatives visited me from Bangladesh—my brother, his son Subho, Aunt Jhunu—I used to almost smother them with love.
Kolkata too had resolved to draw me in with open arms. Gradually, hitherto impossible things—a Bengali newspaper in the morning, a Bengali magazine or a book in the afternoon, the evening adda in Bengali or a boisterous and noisy Bengali dinner at night—began to feel commonplace. Invites started pouring in for various talk shows on television, gallery inaugurations, book launches or simply poetry-reading sessions. Simultaneously, despite my own Bengali Muslim upbringing, I was working towards realizing a long-cherished dream of founding a humanist organization—the Secular Humanist Collective—bringing together people from various backgrounds with a common goal of extricating oneself from dogma. Keeping myself deliberately in the shadows, I, instead, concentrated on the primary objectives of the collective: the formation of a truly secular state, society, pedagogy and law, the education and development of women, and working to curb the tyrannical tendencies of the madrasas. Steadily, interested people from across the state began to come to us, joining forces in their own way to help us work for the deeply oppressed Muslim society of Bengal. Our collective may not have been adequately large, our scope and abilities limited—organizing events and performances, holding meetings and processions, and distributing leaflets—but our dreams made up for the lack. The light was strong, the effect too was startling, but we also had to accept that it might not immediately breach all the way through the shadows.
At the same time, I was writing a series of articles for Dainik Statesman, aimed at undermining the inequities between men and women prevalent and naturalized over a thousand years and finding possible ways ahead towards a goal of restoring social justice. Enriching and engrossing debates, be they literary, political or cultural, continued with eminent people like Shibnarayan Ray, Amlan Dutta24 and Prasanta Roy25, despite the vacuum created by Nikhil Sarkar’s absence. One fine day, I decided to donate my body to the cause of medical science after my death, registering myself at the Kolkata Medical College. The eyes and the kidneys would be preserved for donation, it was agreed.
Invitations also began to arrive from other states, for seminars and literary events, letting me travel across the country—Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Bihar, Orissa, Assam, Maharashtra and Delhi. I was somehow convinced that I would spend the rest of my life in Kolkata, leading me to even impulsively buy an entire house, a beautiful two-storey one and that too on a day’s notice. Meanwhile, I had formed a deep attachment to an up-and-coming young poet. With a certain doctor too, there was a strange, unresolved connection.
That dark, terrifying day came quite unexpectedly.
Though I usually prefer being homebound, around that time I had begun to feel a tad restless. Dr Inayya had been inviting me to Hyderabad for a while to attend the launch of the Telugu translation of Shodh, which had been translated by his wife. Despi
te having refused twice, I agreed on his third attempt, perhaps because I was looking forward to a change in scenery too. It would be a one-day trip, so no toothbrushes, no suitcases and no luggage. I selected a simple blue chiffon sari for the day, convenient because it can do without ironing. Not that it has ever mattered to me, that sort of thing. I have always been a little uninvolved about clothes, or looking pretty, and had stopped putting lipstick on too at one point of time. At least now I run a comb through my hair and put a light colour on my lips, more so to protect them from becoming dry than anything else.
I confess to have been surprised as soon as I stepped into the airport at Hyderabad. Dr Inayya was there, waiting to greet me, but he was quite alone—there wasn’t a single security officer in sight. Assuming that there would be police at the venue, I readily accompanied Dr Inayya to the hotel I was to stay in. They had booked a room in a five-star hotel for me to use before the event, and I spent the rest of the time there, watching television and making tea for myself as I waited. Soon, there was a call from the reception telling me that it was time for me to leave for the book launch. I must admit that I was not entirely sure what the event was all about, and asking Dr Inayya yielded very little because I could not entirely comprehend what he explained to me, or tried to, in his strong Telugu accent. So when I asked him if he had made arrangements for police protection, I could not understand what he said in response.
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