TR: Things like that don’t happen in India. I have never heard about it.
TN: Have you ever heard about a writer being thrown out of a state within India’s borders?
TR: No.
TN: Didn’t it happen with me? I have a residence permit. I have a right to live in Kolkata. Have I been able to go back?
TR: No.
TN: If I leave India, I will never be allowed to come back, just as I have not been allowed to go back to Kolkata. Besides, have you ever considered why I should have to leave at all?
TR: I was simply trying to negotiate. I told them you are like my daughter. You want to go back to Kolkata, get back to writing, and we are willing to do anything to make that happen.
TN: Negotiate what?
TR: Your return.
TN: Then I will return to Kolkata. Why should I have to go abroad?
TR: They want to consolidate their vote bank.
TN: Hasn’t all this been enough? They drove me out of the state. They forced me to tear out pages from my book. The fundamentalists are finally satisfied and have gone quiet. What other demands are they trying to appease now? They are still not sure about their vote bank? For that I have to leave India? Next, the fanatics will demand my death in exchange for votes. Will they send men to kill me then? There are no limits to certain demands and there is no limit to appeasement either. Let me tell you, these are imaginary demands which they are trying to take the credit for handling—just to fool the uneducated poor into voting for them.
My captors came later in the night with the answer to the request I had put in as per Mr B’s advice. They had passed it on to the authorities for consideration and I had been waiting ever since for the reply. The answer was unequivocal: my Swedish friend would not be able to visit me and neither would I be able to visit him. If we have to meet, it would have to be somewhere else, which would not be decided by us. I would have to put in another request and if the higher powers approve it, my captors would make all the necessary arrangements. Why would I not be able to meet him here? Why would my friend not be able to visit me or I would not be able to visit him? My captors had no answer to these questions. They were following orders as usual.
The more I tell my captors that I cannot bear this, that no one can survive like this, that I want a normal life where I can breathe freely, go out, visit people or have friends come over, the more uncomprehending they become. Their faces devoid of expression, they stare me down. It would be more fruitful to try and converse with robots since my captors are way more lifeless than them. Or perhaps they are like walls. If you bang your head against one, the only thing you can be certain of is the possibility of a cracked skull.
They called me again after a while to ask me about the writer I had been speaking to over the phone, his name, address and other useless details.
TN: Tapan Raychaudhuri.
Captor (C): Oh yes. What else did he say?
TN: I have told you everything.
C: He spoke to you about the negotiations.
TN: Yes, but I have refused. I won’t give in to demands that I should leave India.
C: Why not?
TN: I won’t because it is unreasonable to ask me to leave the country first in order to be allowed to return to Kolkata.
C: Unreasonable?
TN: Yes, completely unreasonable. Tell me, do you understand how exactly does it get easier for me to return to Kolkata by leaving the country? Perhaps you do, but I don’t. Besides, I am not a child. I have gone through this before and the wounds are still fresh. I had been told to leave for a few days and then come back. It is only people who wish to kick you out who use words like ‘abroad’ and ‘later’. Those who don’t wish you to leave, allow freedom without restrictions. They don’t lock you up or try to disrupt your life.
15 December
I was taken to another safe house in the morning where a man had been called to draw blood for tests. His name on the official papers was Miku Srivastav.
16 December
Days have been passing, somewhat like how a dying animal lingers till the last breath has left its body. It is Victory Day in Bangladesh today. The long revolution to save the Bengali language had finally ended in war. On such a day, a writer from Bengal who has always written in Bangla finds herself caged. There is no victory for me to commemorate. I had written to Hameeda Hossain39 of the Ain o Salish Kendra,40 who had been steadfast in her support during the toughest of times in Bangladesh: ‘It’s been years. I hope you are well. My misfortunes have not ceased their pursuit of me. There is not a moment when I do not wish to return to Bangladesh but will that ever be possible? It can only happen if the cases against me are withdrawn, if the government provides me with security and if I am not stopped from returning. I would be eternally grateful to you if you could help me find my way back home.’
She wrote back: ‘You must not forget that even if all the cases are withdrawn, there will always be a group of people who will march in protest simply for their own petty gains. I am sure you have heard about the cartoonist from Prothom Alo. He is in jail now, fighting for bail. We don’t know what is in store. See, we don’t yet have the freedom that will allow us the freedom to say whatever we wish to. It’s become a part of the cultural script to use religion for the benefit of politics. Writers and journalists have to remain vigilant. It’s becoming clear that we are gradually becoming increasingly reactionary, both culturally and politically.’
I knew about Arifur Rahman. The poor man is in jail for his cartoon for the supplement Alpin (The Pinprick). An old lumberjack meets a poor little boy walking with his cat and asks, ‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘Babu,’ answers the boy.
‘Don’t you know that you have to add Muhammad before your name?’ snaps the man.
Seeing the boy shrink in fear, the man asks again, ‘What’s your father’s name?’
This time the boy answers, ‘Muhammad Abu.’
Pleased, the old man asks again, ‘What do you have there in your lap?’
‘Muhammad Cat,’ replies the boy.
In all probability, it had been a harmless cartoon meant to underscore how a lot of the poor and uneducated people erroneously believe in adding ‘Muhammad’ before every name. However, nearly 25,000 people had marched in protest against the cartoon. On top of this, Motiur Rahman, an ex-communist and editor of Prothom Alo, did something extremely shameful—he fired both the cartoonist and the editor of the supplement, and apologized to the citizens. He did not stop there. He went on to apologize to the khatib41 of the Baitul Mukarram,42 crouching on his knees. As the saying goes, when communists begin to rot, they rot badly and the stench is enough to smother a nation.
I do not accept a nation that does not guarantee the freedom of speech as my own. This Bangladesh is not my nation. Thirty million people did not give up their lives and two million women did not get raped for the independence of this Bangladesh.
17 December
Svensson called from Ashoka Palace to complain about his hotel room. There are rats roaming in the room. The air is apparently heavy with the stench of kerosene. The bathroom window is open and it cannot be pulled shut.
My captors have told me that Svensson has been given all facilities. They were careful enough to inform me that it was they who had received Svensson at the airport, who brought him to the hotel, and who were feeding him and showing him around. Despite all this, Svensson was not only refusing to show any gratitude, he was also constantly trying to find faults. Svensson has never been fortunate enough to have been a guest of a government anywhere in the world. If it had been somewhere in Europe that people had escorted him from the airport, put him up at a five-star hotel, showed him around and fed him, he would probably have been in a half-bow of gratitude throughout. If he is given just an ice lolly by a white man, we would probably spend an eternity praising both the white man and the ice lolly. However, if someone black or brown were to give up even their absolute everything for him,
he would still scrunch his nose in discontent. A closet racist through and through, it is a side of Svensson that I have been aware of. I wanted to meet him and I put in an application for him to stay here with me, not so much for him but for the sake of my freedom.
Around noon, I was again taken to the other safe house where they had drawn blood for the medical tests. Svensson was brought there too. My captors informed me that they had extended the duration of the visit for my sake, from one hour to three. I could not help but wonder what they were expecting—that I bow my head in gratitude? Am I a murderer or a thief? Have I been jailed? It stuns me to think that someone else other than me is going to take decisions regarding how long I can be out and for how long I can talk to my friends.
Arrangements were made there for lunch, again by my captors. It was a quiet and desolate house, a government property usually used for covert meetings. A spread was laid out for us on the dining table so artfully that one would not be able to guess that nothing there had been cooked at home. I do not know much else about the house, especially because my captors refused to answer any of my questions.
In the evening I suddenly had an absurd urge to cry my eyes out, thinking about the state of my life. Till late in the night, I could not stop crying.
18 December
I could not sleep well last night. I woke up with a start finally at around dawn. While surfing the Net, I chanced upon the happy news of Gloria Steinem’s visit to Kolkata. There she has spoken about me, stating, ‘This is an outrageous violation of her human rights. She has a right to be safe.’ On the news of certain passages being removed from Dwikhandito, she has said, ‘It is one thing if a writer excises passages from their writing of their own free will, but if they are forced into doing it then that is another concern altogether.’ How easily she can voice the truth! Steinem has always been someone whose words would compel one to pause and reflect. She has written about me in her magazine, Ms, and has also published my writings, and has spoken about our previous meeting in Delhi at the South Asian Writers’ Conference. I too have written so much about her work. If only I had been in Kolkata, I would have invited her over to my house to truly commemorate her visit.
Gloria Steinem was one of the leading icons of the feminist movement in the late 1960s and early 1970s. When I began writing back in the 1980s, I remember feeling the same pain, protesting in the same language, arguing similar viewpoints and reflecting on similar opinions and reasons, as her work two decades back, without ever having read her writing prior to that.
19 December
I received an invitation for dinner at Khushwant Singh’s house, 7 p.m., Saturday evening. I dutifully passed on the invitation to my captors for approval. I also gave them Khushwant Singh’s details, address, telephone number, etc. and the request was forwarded to the authorities concerned. As usual, it has been turned down. I had also fixed a meeting with Brinda Karat of the CPI(M) but that too has been turned down.
The first time I spoke to Brinda Karat, she said, ‘The final decision regarding your return to Kolkata rests solely on the Centre, not the state.’ Obviously, this had terrified me. So many people have told me so many different things that sometimes I cannot understand what I should believe and what I shouldn’t. I tend to believe everyone, especially since I have trouble believing that someone would deliberately misguide or lie to me. Even after so many lies that have been spoken to me, I have not learnt my lesson. I do not understand the complicated equations between the Centre and the state. I simply know the truth that I have done no wrong and that I have been unfairly persecuted.
I can also sense the inexorable passing of time. Previously, journalists would incessantly inquire about how I was, about what I was doing or thinking. Now the phones do not ring as often, although back when they used to, I would usually never take the call. Similarly, I would refuse to talk or give interviews. My captors would often warn me against the media and journalists, how greedy they were, how each and every one of their actions was motivated by money or fame, how they would all abandon me once they were done without even glancing back to see if I lived or died. I must admit though, my captors are not always wrong.
I have received an email from Gloria Steinem: ‘Please, please tell me if I can do anything—and you always have a room with me in New York.’ The words have lifted my spirits immeasurably. The world has still not been damned because there are still a handful of good people left in it. Despite all the limitations, the severity, the injustice and the abuse, hope springs eternal.
What happened today should not have happened in this country. This is a democracy, which makes it necessary that everyone enjoys the freedom of speech in this country. This nation has always boasted of being large-hearted and generous, after all! A senior officer from a top ministry had come to talk to me today. He did not reveal who he was but for some reason told me his name—let it be Sanatan Sengupta. He seemed a lot like my captors. I knew his name but that was about all that I knew, though I cannot say why he should feel the need to hide his identity from me. So, I assumed he had been sent by Mr B. And why had he come by? Mostly, to repeat the things that Prasun Mukherjee had once narrated to me back in Kolkata:
SS: You should go away.
TN: Where should I go?
SS: Go away from India.
TN: But why?
SS: Why are you here? Is it because you want to go back to Kolkata? Isn’t that what you are waiting for?
TN: Yes, it is. Kolkata is my home. I have left everything behind there, my house, my books and my things.
SS: But you cannot be allowed to return to Kolkata.
TN: Why not?
SS: They will kill you. Besides, we have to save our people too.
TN: What do you mean?
SS: It means people are going to die because of you!
TN: How is that possible?
SS: Do you want a bunch of people to die because of you?
TN: Why on earth would I want that? I believe in humanity, I write about it. I write about life. Why should I wish for people to die?
SS: There will be protest marches because of you. Guns will be fired. People will die.
TN: I don’t believe any of that will happen. I see no signs of protest marches. No one has declared one recently and there is no reason to do so either. Even if there is a protest march, why should people have to die?
SS: Do you want an old person to die because of you?
TN: Why would I want that? But why would they have to die in the first place? Who would kill them?
SS: Do you want innocent children to die because of you? You want to be responsible for their deaths?
TN: So strange! Why should kids have to die? And why would I want something like that to happen?
SS: If you don’t want that then you must leave!
TN: I don’t want a single life hurt because of me. However, I don’t believe that in order for that to happen, I have to leave this country. If there is going to be a procession, it will happen regardless. People march in protest against so many things. Do all of them have to leave the country after that?
SS: This is not your country!
TN: I know it isn’t. I am living here because of a residence permit. I am here today because of the permit. If I don’t have the permit, tomorrow I might have to leave.
SS: Yes. So then, leave. If you are anxious that you will not get a residence permit if you leave, then I am assuring you that won’t happen. It will be renewed as usual. I am giving you my word. I am sure you want the safety of the people of this country.
TN: I won’t leave. I am not harming anyone. I have done no wrong, committed no crime. I am a completely honest person. I have lived in Kolkata for years. No one has come to murder me, and neither has anyone died because of me during that time. Send me to Kolkata if you can. None of you have to worry so much about me any more.
SS: You won’t go abroad?
TN: No, I won’t leave India.
SS: This is not your cou
ntry!
TN: Despite that, I will live in this country. Not because my ancestors hail from this country, but because I love this land and its people. If you wish to manhandle me and physically throw me out, please go ahead and do so.
20 December
Arundhati Roy had advised me never to trust politicians. She had said, ‘They don’t think of you as a person, they think of you as currency. They want to use you for their business deals. They have no intention of loving you.’
I have been in a terrible mood the entire day. My captors came in the evening, probably to find out my decision after my conversation with Mr Sengupta yesterday. Just as I had told him, I informed them too that I would not be leaving any time soon. Writers don’t instigate riots and pogroms. Other people do, politics does. There are other nefarious reasons behind the murder of innocents. Writers and artists write and paint. They don’t riot.
21 December
It is the 21st today, a month since the terrible events of November. It still seems so fresh, as if it was just the other day that those non-Bengali ruffians had caused pandemonium on the streets of Kolkata. The days seem to be flying by! Even now, the moment I close my eyes, I can see those uncouth, disgusting men dancing on the street, their macabre glee apparent in each exuberant gesture.
I could not control myself any more. Mr B has not been receiving my calls, though I understand why a busy man such as he might not be able to take my calls. I usually don’t send him messages. If he is so busy, he would probably not read those either. Yet I wrote to him: ‘You have already done so much for me and I am immensely grateful. I depend on you and I want to tell you how difficult it has been to endure this life of captivity. At least in Delhi, can I not have a normal life? If I don’t meet my friends, don’t spend time with them, how am I going to survive? Can we please meet one of these days?’
Exile Page 17