I pressed on. ‘Wherever I go, they make separate security arrangements for me. Haven’t you done so too?’ This time, however, with a lot of effort, I could catch a stray bit of what he was trying to tell me—‘Not really! It’s a small event, you see. And there hasn’t been much publicity. There’s no point getting into trouble with the police unnecessarily, you see!’ Trying to comprehend what he was saying, I replied, ‘Rather than getting into trouble with the police, they are necessary to make sure there is no trouble.’ He simply laughed in response.
I do not know why I didn’t correct Dr Inayya that day, why I didn’t remind him that I had refused his invitations twice because I had not felt safe travelling to Hyderabad. The radical Islamic activists of Hyderabad had previously created quite a racket, vandalizing bookshops that had been selling Lajja (Shame). I have always been absent-minded. I had simply forgotten about the considerable Muslim population of Hyderabad, a sure signal that the fundamentalist elements too would be of a considerable number. Islamic fundamentalists have always accused me of being anti-Islamic; it is a title that becomes impossible to erase once it has been awarded. Neither a life built on atheism, secularism, humanism, and a keen scientific outlook, nor my sensitivity and humanity—nothing can expunge the stubborn stain of my alleged anti-Islamic tendencies from the minds of the people.
The event was scheduled to be held at the Hyderabad Press Club. Two books were to be released, one of them being the translation of Shodh. My talk, scheduled after the launch, was preceded by a Telugu writer and a translator who spoke about their work and their experiences with translation. I chose to speak instead on human rights, especially because of the feminist underpinnings in the book and its protagonist Jhumur who refused to be treated as mere property and stood up for her rights. As always, in my usual mild-mannered voice, I tried to explain how a woman could not be treated as personal or social property. My voice, unfortunately, has never quite gotten tuned to the vitriolic one required at a protest meet. No matter how angry I get, how upset, no matter what harsh things I say, the timbre and pitch remain as polite, calm and sedate as always.
It happened just as we were about to leave for lunch. Suddenly, a group of men, chanting and shouting in Telugu, barged in through the front door and started advancing towards me. Neither could I understand what they were shouting, nor could I wrap my head around why they would want to attack me. All of a sudden, they began to pick up whatever they could lay their hands on—bouquets, books, bags, chairs—and threw them at me. A few bystanders, attempting to shield me, only ended up getting hurt while I stood cowering behind the journalists who were busy clicking photographs. I was not worried about what might hit me; I was preoccupied with what I felt sure was impending death. Someone, I don’t know who, grabbed me by the arm and pushed me towards the rear entrance hoping to get me out to the car through the back. By then, a mob had gathered at the back entrance too and it became instantly clear that there was no way we were going to get to that car. I attempted shutting the back door only to have the glass kicked in by one of the assailants. My mind had already blanked out every other thought except for the need to find a way to save myself. I ran to the front door to find the entire club surrounded by these men. In desperation, we shut the front door from the inside—I and a group of defenceless women in the room, and a few men too—piling chairs for a makeshift blockade.
I was told to hide behind the pillars or under the table, but I knew no matter where I hid in the room, if the mob broke in through the barricade, there was nothing to stop them from getting to me. By then, the raucous sloganeering outside had become plainly audible—‘Taslima Nasrin Murdabad’—along with a myriad of other kinds of screams and yells. All of a sudden, we heard a commotion behind the stage, to realize to our horror that some men were trying to break in through the hidden door behind the curtains. I realized all too well what that would mean. The first thing they would see on entering the hall would be me cowering behind the pillars, and there would be nothing to save me from their clutches. The journalists, even at the risk of getting severely injured, were trying to stop the men from breaking the front door open; many had abandoned their cameras in trying to save me, holding the makeshift barricade with all their might. On my part, as I stole from one corner to the next, it seemed like a long and terrifying wait, as if I had been asked to count down to the last remaining seconds of life, waiting for the final bell to ring! The mangalsutra that I had worn out of sheer whimsy had long since snapped; the end seemed nigh. The people in the room were frightened out of their wits by the screams and clamour coming from the outside, their anxiety and fear spiking with the steadily soaring din of the mob. I kept imploring for someone to inform the police, but the people there, having never come across a situation like this, were clueless and clearly out of their depth.
I remember that I kept wondering whether the people in the room were worried—whether they were anxious that somehow the knife or the bullet meant for me would end up hurting one of them. While stunned at first, many of the organizers as well as the audience had regained their senses and, sensing further violence, they had already begun a steady exodus, leaving me behind. Petrified, I remember shrinking further against the wall while trying to fathom just how many more blows would be required to break down either of the doors—a few more kicks, a couple of strong blows, and the barricade would topple over. I could almost sense death as I prayed feverishly for the police, aware that not many knew the event was being held at the press club. I couldn’t cry, nor could I faint as I kept thinking of how they would kill me—would it be the knife or the bullet? Perhaps they would beat me to death or crush me under their boots? Faced with a riotous mob, their clamour reaching a terrifying crescendo, I was beginning to feel even more alone as the room began to thin out. These were the people who issued fatwas against me, who announced rewards for anyone willing to bring them my head, who took to the streets calling for retribution against me, who regularly burnt my effigies and my books in public. Hitherto they had never managed to get close enough to cause actual damage. Faced with terrible odds, I could almost see my end—what was death like? Would it hurt? Would they shoot me through the heart or through the head, or would they dismember me? Or perhaps they would rape me, repeatedly, and crush the life out of me.
The police arrived just as suddenly. They broke through the barricade before the mob could and enveloped me in an impenetrable blanket of security. Gradually, my frozen body seemed to sense freedom again, my fists unclenched as I heard the fundamentalists being herded into the police van. Eventually, amidst a tight ring of security, I was taken to a police car and my well-wishers could finally sigh in relief.
I have stared death in the face; I have seen how they kill, how they destroy and pillage in plain sight without any fear of repercussions in the name of the Prophet. It was indeed miraculous how I survived. I have long suspected that that is how death would find me, just as suddenly, while reading poetry somewhere or talking about human rights. What have I done to deserve this? Is it a grievous sin to speak out against religious dogma, superstitions and oppression? Is it a crime to take the side of humanity and basic rights? For all my purported faults, they are determined to burn me at the stake of hatred and intolerance!
I have been nurtured by love, love of countless readers from India and the rest of the world, love of many rational, liberal and tolerant individuals. I have shed tears not at the hatred and violence I have witnessed but at the voices of care and concern that have inquired about my well-being, who have assured me their unyielding support. I do not feel alone any more because I have come to realize that all of us who believe in the ideals of a just democracy and freedom of expression are larger in number while the intolerant, violent radicals who seek to undermine freedom of speech and human rights are far fewer. This is not my fight alone! Anyone who has a stake in a just society, a beautiful, caring State, and a safe world, must necessarily take up the fight against this small but destructive forc
e.
Bringing this train of thought to a screeching halt, the car reached the police headquarters. I began to pray earnestly: let there be only Hindu policemen, let there be no Muslim policemen around! Religion is a truly dangerous thing! As they began to introduce me to the high-ranking officials in the department, the only thing I could do was to surreptitiously check their name tags to ascertain their faith. Most of them, however, were unfailingly kind and polite, and they seemed to know of the radicals who had attacked the press club. The footage of the attack was being replayed on a television, interspersed by comments from the police officer-in-charge. Eventually, he made me sign two complaint letters against the men, assuring me that they would be brought to justice. Not that I was actually worried since I knew I would soon leave the city and never come back.
The flight had been scheduled for the evening but the police managed to call the airport and convince them to bring the time of departure forward. I was escorted to the airport directly from the police station, and even though journalists were not meant to know about my departure, there was a huge crowd of them waiting for me there already. Perhaps, they had been waiting there for hours! Regardless, I refused to give any interviews, though that did not deter them in the least from thronging the airport. It was the same as I stepped into the airport in Kolkata. There was a sea of reporters waiting for me, none of whom were supposed to know my itinerary. A similar scene awaited me at home, the courtyard buzzing with journalists and camera crews, though I refused to entertain even a single one. I was determined that I would not personally protest against what had happened; the protest had to emerge from the people. I have fought for the freedom of speech and expression all my life, so why should I have to make a display out of my shock and terror to reiterate the importance of these rights? Everyone had seen what had happened and was that not enough? Did I become a writer only to have to fight for the freedom to write? How much longer would I have to bear torture, and then describe the same for the benefit of others? Did I not have a right to be angry? Would I have to spend the rest of my life being beaten and broken, pleading to be understood, in tears, being pursued and hunted?
My friends were anxiously waiting for me at home. As for me, I was numb inside, alternating between burning rage and cold, unfeeling ice. Everyone wanted to know what had happened, the why and the how and everything in between, but I did not wish to say a single word to anyone—the only one I wanted to see was my cat. The phone was ringing incessantly but I had no desire to answer it. I wanted my friends to leave, wanted to cuddle with my cat, lick my wounds in solitude, and fall asleep. It seemed I had gone a thousand years without sleep, but the moment I would try to sleep, the images of the attack would reanimate in front of my eyes, and the cruel, vicious, angry faces of the attackers would taunt me again. Perhaps they had not meant to kill me. However, while it was happening I had not been aware that the goons had been sent by the local MLA in a bid to boost the sagging popularity of his party. I had assumed them to be a group of fundamentalist zealots, who had found me within their grasp at long last and who would never waste such a golden opportunity to ascend to Paradise by murdering a defenceless and unarmed woman. I have had close escapes before, but this time I had given up all hope of escaping from their clutches. They did not kill me, because they did not wish to and not because they could not. Anger has been known to drive people to the worst of crimes, least of all murder.
I have risen from the dead. I am resurrected.
House Arrest
I was attacked in Hyderabad even though I had not uttered a single word against Islam. From what I later learnt, the attack had been a ploy to generate popular support for the Hyderabad-based political party All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen (AIMIM). In fact, an AIMIM leader declared at the Andhra Pradesh state assembly, ‘People who spread anti-religious messages must be summarily executed.’ Coming out in full support of the incident at the press club he went on, ‘The Muslims are proud of what our local leaders have done. We will not tolerate any disrespect to the Prophet.’ The president of the party, an ex-member of Parliament, supported the former, ‘Our party workers deserve praise for what they have done.’
Another Islamic group, Majlis Bachao Tehreek, claimed that the original plan had been to kill me, but the AIMIM had instead let me live. The three MLAs who had been arrested were soon released on bail, and the AIMIM clearly spelt it out that if I ever went back to Hyderabad, I would not be spared: they would kill me—yes, that is how explicit the message was. Various people informed me that the AIMIM was trying to muster local support and increase their influence before the imminent municipal elections. Those who would be able to cause me harm would be considered saviours of Islam and they would consequently command the support of the larger Muslim community. A woman called Taslima was out to destroy Islam and the only way to stop her and save the faith was to kill her. Killing her would earn a hefty reward off the fatwa and would also ensure Paradise in the afterlife. It is a very convenient equation which the Islamic fundamentalists use to agitate the poor, uneducated and backward Muslims of secular India. It is also the perfect way to ensure the support of the entire minority vote bank, considering that such radicals are representatives of the significantly large Muslim population of India, nearly a fourth of the entire demographic. There is perhaps nothing sadder than the fact that more educated and civilized representatives are not chosen.
The incident came up in discussion in Parliament and was strongly condemned. News channels conducted a series of panel discussions on issues surrounding freedom of speech, and the radicals from Hyderabad joined these debates to vociferously argue their case. The crux of the matter remained that I had said anti-Islamic things, insulted the Prophet Muhammad and hurt religious sentiments. Consequently, I had been attacked, but it had not been enough and I deserved more. It did not seem to occur to anyone to point out that I had not uttered the word ‘Islam’ even once in my entire speech that day. My deportation from the country remained the primary demand—I was an outsider, I had no right to hurt the sentiments of the Muslims of India. I could not ask them if that meant Indians had the right to hurt those sentiments or whether that meant no one in the world had the right to hurt Muslim sentiments. It would have been just as well if they had told me to my face that they did not believe in petty concerns like the freedom of speech and expression.
I have had to face many difficult situations and withstand a lot of pain in life. However, sometimes a few words of kindness have gone a long way in alleviating some of the torment. An editorial in Anandabazar Patrika managed to do something similar, one fine morning:
The recent attack on Taslima Nasrin, that too on the eve of the diamond jubilee celebrations of India’s independence, has only served to reveal the feeble and unstable nature of the nation’s socio-cultural milieu. The attempt to physically and mentally harm the renowned and much-debated author can only be described as barbaric. The three local leaders at the forefront of the attack have served to foreground the uncomfortable truth that cultural intolerance in this country is not a stray, disconnected set of incidents. It is well-organized and carefully orchestrated, a menace that has afflicted everyday politics in an enormous way. Taslima Nasrin may have come under the wrath of Islamic fundamentalists in her own country and abroad, but her experience of the same must be radically different in the context of the supposedly secular, pluralist ideals of one of the biggest democracies in the world. We are sure she will now have to reconsider travelling freely within the country. She might even choose to surround herself with increased security, removing herself from the ambit of democratic rights altogether. It is a shame for our nation too—sixty years of independence has clearly been unable to teach us about the fine line that runs through personal viewpoints and tolerance.
It is here perhaps that the root of the problem lies. Intense criticism of this incident has already poured in from everywhere, even from the political parties. Every person has to be made aware of this basi
c difference; there is no going ahead without that valuable lesson. In the march from prehistory to modernity, it has become amply evident that the cornerstone of human civilization is the need to be able to accept a contrary viewpoint or ideology, even if one cannot respect it. This is not simply desirable; it is necessary. We require exemplary punishment for offences arising out of intolerance, for people who dare to assault a painter for putting the erotic games of the gods on canvas or who try to attack an author for perceived slights to their ideologues. If society is unable to foster civil liberties and cultural acceptance, if it cannot teach the message of tolerance, then it is the State that must take the initiative.
Though many such protests emerged, the perpetrators of the Hyderabad incident were never punished. They were arrested, taken to the police station, perhaps treated to tea and biscuits, and then let go. AIMIM was a part of the ruling coalition of the state; it was evident there would never be any actual punishment for their crimes.
I can never understand why people are so cruel and so stupid; there is an inextricable link between cruelty, stupidity and religious fundamentalism. Besides, cruelty by itself is devastatingly contagious. The radical elements of Kolkata soon took to the streets in protest. There had already been murmurs as to why the local pro-Islamic groups had so far been quiet when their brethren in Hyderabad had done so well. So, one fine day, they shook off their despair and began clamouring for my head, burning effigies and all. Students from madrasas, young boys barely in their teens who had never even heard my name, were deployed for the task. None of them had ever read a word of my writing, but they were protesting against my actions as their leaders had instructed them to—they were the soldiers who would save Islam from my noxious influence. This active institution of brainwashing has a long legacy within the madrasa and the masjid. My only concern is that even when they have no idea about me as a person, if they are going to organize meetings and processions in the name of Islam, should it not be necessary for them to have some basic knowledge of Islam in the first place!
Exile Page 5