Exile

by Taslima Nasrin

  It would have railed and cursed, and killed itself in shame.

  Two thousand years ago, before it all began,

  Faith would have died to save humanity.

  4.

  There is nothing on the other side, no one—

  In fact, there is no other side.

  Death will not take me to the hereafter,

  Or to some seat of judgement, or a door,

  Beyond which lies eternal flames and pestilence

  Or the eternal blessing of Paradise.

  Once I leave this world

  My body will lie in the morgue for a while,

  They will cut it open,

  And then my bones would be sold,

  Cheaper by the dozen

  Till, one fine day

  That too has crumbled to dust, and ceased to be.

  Those who believe in the hereafter,

  Let them go and embrace death,

  And knock on the bejewelled door;

  Infinite wealth, wine and women, await them inside.

  Let me be in this world, in the forest,

  The mountains, and the fuming sea,

  Let me sleep on the grass, wake by the songs of the birds

  And wrap the sunlight around me like a quilt.

  Let me laugh, let me love under the moon,

  Let me walk in the crowd, in the sun and the rain,

  Let me live.

  Those who are happy with the other side, let them be happy.

  If I have to, let me bear my burdens on this earth,

  My here and my hereafter.

  5.

  I have cried for life simply because you stand waiting past my door.

  Our eyes meet, every now and then, you smile shyly,

  And I know you love me; that you want me.

  If you hadn’t wanted to kiss me,

  Would I have begged to love?

  If you hadn’t been waiting,

  Would I have dug my heels into the earth?

  Would I have backed up to the wall? Tried to grab and hold on?

  If you hadn’t reached out for me

  Would I have run amok, in search of life?

  If death had not stood waiting at my door,

  I would never have pushed it away, would never have run.

  Rather, I would have searched the world, and brought it back home.

  Exiled

  In a daze, I have begun speaking to myself. I have begun to remind myself that I was not born in India, though there is no way, be it in my education, my tastes or my cultural heritage, that anyone can justifiably say I am not Indian. If I had been born a few years earlier, I could have been a citizen of India; my father had been born before the Partition. India’s political history forced my father to live through three changes in his citizenship status, and it has forced me to do the same twice.

  Once upon a time, there lived a Hindu farmer called Haradhan Sarkar in a remote village in erstwhile East Bengal. One of his sons had converted to Islam for some unknown reason. I don’t remember his name. Perhaps it had been Jatindra, which became Jamir, or Kamal, which became Kamaal. I have descended from that line of the Sarkars, going back nearly six generations to Haradhan. The latter’s children must have migrated to India after the Partition, becoming citizens of independent India, while my grandfather, Jamir or Kamaal Sarkar, had stayed back because of his Muslim first name.

  When I was a child, I had been told that it was impossible for Muslims to ever be united—they have always fought among each other, like the Muslims of East Pakistan had fought their counterparts in West Pakistan over secularism and the Bengali national identity. Though I was born after the Partition, I had always nursed a strong attraction for the idea of an undivided India and Bengal, having even written poems and stories about it in my youth, much before my first visit to India. I have never given credence to the idea of a barbed frontier between people of similar languages and cultures, between families.

  In fact, right from my childhood, I have never been religious—this has led me to consciously invest in ideals of humanism and feminism. My father had not been religious either, perhaps one of the things that unconsciously fed into my world view. That is how I grew up, overcoming superstitions, customs and institutions steeped in misogyny. When I first came to India in 1989, it never felt to me that West Bengal, or any other part of India for that matter, were places in a foreign land. The day I first stepped on this soil, from that day onwards, I have believed that I belong to an undivided nation, where it is impossible to distinguish between India and Bangladesh. Not because of my Hindu ancestors, or the similarities in culture, or because I look Indian and speak one of the many languages spoken in India—it’s because the very essence of being Indian is deeply entrenched within me. Similarly entrenched is an awareness of Indian history, be it as a victim of history or as someone who has been enriched by it to whatever insignificant degree. I have been a victim of poverty, colonialism, religious diversity, intolerance, greed, communal hostility between the Hindu majority and the Muslim minority, violence, the Partition, the mass exodus thereafter, the Two Nation Theory, the gradual breakdown of democracy, the ever-prevalent caste system, riots, pogroms and wars—it is these events which have given shape to what it means for me to be Indian. In addition to this, the fundamentalism, the terrorism, the corruption, the poverty and the perpetual deprivation that constitute the state of Bangladesh has further added to my experience.

  I was exiled from Bangladesh, once a fragment of India’s history, by the blindness, lack of knowledge and intolerance of the Islamic radicals. The doors of my country having closed for me, I had knocked on India’s gates. The day those gates opened to let me in, it did not feel even for a moment that I was migrating to a foreign land. Why is it that even today I consider other Asian countries or Europe and America to be foreign lands, but never so with India? Even after having lived almost a dozen years in Europe, I was never able to fully accept it as home; in India, it did not even take a year for me to get so deeply attached. This could only have happened because of the shared sense of history that I have always felt with the people here; after all, the forefathers of Bangladesh were originally people from India who had been converted to Islam on Indian soil. If forces of intolerance and fundamentalism are ascendant in Bangladesh because of the pervasive corruption and cowardice of its political leaders, if ideals of democracy, freedom of speech and free thought are being summarily ignored, if a lynch mob is demanding the head of a writer who has been advocating human rights, then who must accept the responsibility of coming to her aid—should it be Europe and America, or should it be secular India?

  At such a time of need, India had barred its gates to me, and Europe had welcomed me with open arms. However, in European society I had always felt like an outsider—so much so that after coming back to India, it had felt as if a twelve-year-long deathly spell had broken. The peace and content had perhaps been due to the fact that the social milieu had appeared familiar, much like the one I had grown up in. I was writing like before, was trying to contribute to society in my own way, and working towards helping women become educated, self-sufficient and aware of their rights and freedom and the ways to fight for the same. I was trying to inspire through my writing a spark of bravado and rebellion that would help women in achieving these goals and end centuries of oppression, torture and fear.

  So, it is deeply sad and ironic that whatever had happened to me in Bangladesh is about to happen yet again, in progressive India, that too in the highly progressive state of West Bengal. I have been put under house arrest in this country, and have been repeatedly told that public places are no longer safe for me, and neither are friends’ houses. Effectively, I had been hidden away in the dark, while the people who had issued the public threats were allowed to walk, all sins forgiven, with their head held high. They had all the rights—the right to call strikes and disrupt daily life, the right to destroy someone’s life in the name of religion, the right to spread terror.
On the other hand, those who raised their voices against terrorism, communal hatred, lies and injustice were to be forced into silence. Time and again, I have been warned about radicals marching in protest against me, advised to leave and go somewhere safe and come back only after things calm down. Do things really go back to how they were? I had been told the same thing before being put on that flight out of Bangladesh, and in the next thirteen years nothing had changed. My leaving will be a huge victory for the fundamentalists and a huge setback for supporters of free thought, free speech, democracy and secularism. This cannot be allowed to happen since the ensuing damage would be more devastating for India than it would be for me. Once such a demand is met, there is no telling what new ones would come up soon—undemocratic assertions would gain ground along with fresh lists of people to exile, arrest, prohibit, burn or kill. The devotees of secularism would gladly accept each and every decree issued by the fundamentalists, not realizing that such acts of capitulation only serve to whet the appetite of fanatic elements for more preposterous claims and dangerous requests.

  Never in my dreams did I ever imagine that I would suffer in India as I had suffered in Bangladesh. Unlike Bangladesh, Muslims are a minority here, but certain circumstances remain the same—the fanaticism, the intolerance, the violence, the public executions, the murderous violence and the tendency to rubbish science and development, just to name a few. I often feel the need to ask what purpose would my death serve them; irrespective of their personal gains, even the leaders know that my death would help Islam in no way. Islam would remain the same it has always been, beyond reproach. The faces of extremism, their language, cruelty and aspirations are the same everywhere in the world—they simply desire to push society back by thousands of years, and revel in that power.

  Gradually, my world has begun to shrink. Someone like me who used to love to roam around the city has been put in chains; my garrulous mouth has been sewed shut. I am not allowed to go out and join the protest marches, or attend the film, theatre and music festivals. I have been warned to not so much as step out of my dank, suffocating house. No, I do not accept this as my fate. I still believe I can live a normal life. I still believe India will not punish me in a manner reminiscent of communal Bangladesh. I have faith that this country and the love of its people will provide me security, that I will be able to spend the rest of my days here. I love this country, I think of it as my own. If this nation were to disavow me and quash my last bit of hope, it would be akin to death.

  I have nowhere else to go, no other country, and no new home. India is my country and my home. I have spoken the truth and consequently I have had to face the wrath of zealots and the shrewd politicians who wish to use them to garner votes. How long will this ordeal last? Despite all the rebukes and insults, I have not been able to fully give up on my dreams yet. I keep dreaming that for an honest, secular writer, India is still the safest nation in the subcontinent.

  Farewell, 22 November 2007

  A small protest march had been organized in Park Circus the day before—something about the government’s actions in Nandigram, the Rizwanur murder, and demands for Taslima Nasrin’s exile. About fifty clerics had taken to the streets, none of them with even the slightest intention of calling for a revolution. Perhaps they had been peacefully asleep in their beds when they had been dragged out to the street to march, ending with the police herding the entire lot, along with the leader, into their vans. The leader was previously known to have tried to cause trouble under the guise of ‘The All-India Minority Forum’.

  Immediately after, however, a group of youths emerged from one of the by-lanes of Park Circus, and amidst raucous laughter began pelting the police with stones and empty Coke bottles. The police just stood there for a while, getting hit, before shooting a few rounds of tear gas to bring the situation under control. The group of lungi-clad boys set fire to a few cars, buses and trucks, attacked a few journalists and broke their cameras—a familiar sequence of events that is more contagious than having any particular reason or motivation behind it, much like beating up a pickpocket. Traffic was diverted from the Park Circus area, causing massive jams throughout the city. A few of the boys were caught on camera holding placards that read: ‘Taslima Go Back!’ I called up a few friends to inquire who the boys were and almost everyone told me that these boys probably had no clue who I was, nor had they ever heard my name before. Primarily Urdu-speaking uneducated boys from the Bihari community, they were usually petty thieves or pickpockets or daily wage labourers who were doing exactly what they had been told to do, and my friends assured me that I had nothing to worry about. In stunned disbelief, I saw paramilitary forces and the army being deployed to handle the situation, and a citywide curfew was soon declared. At night, CPI(M) State Convener Biman Basu declared to the media: ‘If there is unrest because of Taslima Nasrin, she should leave the city immediately.’

  The security chief of the police, Vineet Goel, called me the next day to inform me that all plans for my assassination were in place; the radicals would march to my house after the prayers next Friday. Like before, I asked him again, ‘Why aren’t you arresting them?’

  VG: There are reasons.

  TN: What reasons? With all of you here, surely they will not dare come!

  VG: We cannot touch them.

  TN: Why?

  VG: We can’t touch the Muslims. There’ll be a riot.

  TN: But this is not a Hindu–Muslim issue, it’s a terrorism issue. If someone’s done something wrong, shouldn’t they be punished? How can the fear of a riot be reason enough not to do anything?

  VG: No, we can’t risk a riot.

  TN: Then what do I have to do?

  VG: You have to go to Jaipur for two days.

  TN: Two days?

  VG: Yes, just two days.

  TN: Everything will be fine after that?

  VG: Sure.

  TN: Why Jaipur?

  VG: We have a luxury resort there. Go and relax there. We will bring you back after two days.

  TN: I will not go to Jaipur. If you cannot give me security in this house, then let me go somewhere else on Friday.

  VG: Where?

  TN: Behala.

  VG: No, we cannot give you any security in Behala. Wherever else you go, it will solely be your responsibility.

  TN: Salt Lake?

  VG: We cannot give you any security in Salt Lake either. It will be your responsibility.

  TN: Then let me go to Belgharia. It’s just for a day. My publisher lives there.

  VG: No, that’s not possible.

  TN: Durgapur? Bolpur?

  VG: Wherever you go, you will alone be responsible.

  TN: You are telling me they have made plans to kill me but you cannot give me any security. Then why was I given protection all this while? Only so that you could cut it off at my time of need? I had no clue about any threats! You informed me that I was in danger! And now you are telling it will be solely my responsibility. I don’t know what I am supposed to do here.

  VG: Listen to us. Go to Jaipur, it will be for your own good.

  TN: What is most surprising is that such a huge police force does not know how to combat the plans made by a handful of men. If it had been sudden, I would have understood. But you are completely aware of everything in this case. And yet you cannot save me?

  VG: Sorry, we can’t.

  The West Bengal Police informed me quite irrevocably that they would not be able to protect me from an attack by the Islamic fundamentalists. Astounded, I tried to make sense of what was happening. I had never asked the government for security but ever since my first visit in 1993, I had always been provided with adequate protection. But this time the same people were informing me that they were not responsible for my security and the only way they would help me was if I consented to leaving West Bengal. Never before had I heard something like that, or faced such behaviour either. I had always considered myself to be an ordinary citizen, never demanding stringent security arran
gements or wanting the government to spend its money on me. Like an ordinary citizen, I had only ever craved freedom and a normal life. In the beginning, there used to be quite a few sentries at the door, but eventually the number had dwindled to two. If I had to go out somewhere, a single officer in plain clothes would usually accompany me, but he too would go home at night after bringing me back. The decrease of security personnel from 200 to two had reassured me that I was safe in Kolkata, that the love of the people would keep me secure, and that the number would soon come down to zero. It was a strange turn of events that the administration was threatening to cut off all protective measures after informing me of an impending attack. Why did they do that? They might as well have removed all security arrangements without telling me anything; at least that way, I would have had fewer things to be anxious about.

  Around noon, a car came to pick me up for the airport. My brother was with me and we were handed two one-way tickets to Jaipur. A throng of policemen was there to see me off as I boarded the flight. They stood there perhaps till the plane vanished from the Kolkata sky, their way of bidding me a silent farewell. Neither was I aware that the conspiracy to drive me out of Bengal had finally succeeded that day.

  There was a sea of policemen at the Jaipur airport. Apparently, they had received the news about my arrival only a short while back; the Kolkata Police had simply told them that I was going to attend a literary event. They took me to a cheap hotel which they said had been booked from Kolkata. It definitely was not the luxury resort that I had been promised; rather, it quite resembled the inexpensive, run-down, riverside shanty hotels of Mymensingh in Bangladesh. Considering I had never been fortunate enough to have stayed in such a hotel, one could chalk it down as an experience. The police began asking me questions about when my event was going to be.

  TN: But I don’t have an event to attend.

  Police (P): Then why have you come here?

  TN: They have sent me here from Kolkata.