Exile

by Taslima Nasrin

  10 January

  1.

  The book fair is back in Kolkata, like every other year. The only difference this year—I won’t be there.

  Since I have been in India, there has not been a single year that I have missed the book fair. At times, even when I have been busy abroad, I have chosen to fly down to Kolkata specifically for this. Besides, ever since I started living in Kolkata, the book fair had conveniently moved right next door. I believe, for a writer it is the most perfect space that exists—surrounded by books, interacting with readers or other writers, debating over a new work, exchanging new ideas, a haven of free thought.

  This year, however, I doubt there is even a sliver of a chance that I will be able to attend the book fair, though I am not entirely sure why. In moments of great sorrow, sometimes there are no answers, only questions.

  There are rumours doing the rounds that if I attend, the fundamentalists are going to raise hell. In all fairness, that is hardly a thing to get startled over these days. Raising hell has become such an easy thing to do, especially when it is implicitly supported by the authorities. When people are certain that violence will not cause them any harm, but will only add to their gains, why would they not choose violence?

  My desires have never been extravagant. Born in Bengal, I had wanted to live in Bengal as well, and work in peace, on either side of the border. In the years I spent in Kolkata, I never harmed anyone, nor did I ever cause anyone any trouble. Instead, I generously gave as much as possible. I have always written about my beliefs and now nearly two decades and thirty-odd books on human rights and women’s rights later, how could I be branded anti-Islamic? As if the sole objective for which I write is to contest Islam! The consequences of so many false allegations and lies are quite evident. What is also evident is what happens when an innocent person falls prey to political machinations.

  This year the book fair has been organized very close to my poor old, abandoned house—in Park Circus. All my friends, well-wishers and acquaintances, everyone I know will go. Except me, of course. Instead, for as long as the fair is on, I will be sitting alone within the confines of a room in Delhi, reminiscing about the times when I used to spend hours strolling through the dusty lanes of the fair. I have lost my freedom because I have written about freedom. The shackles on my feet will not let me walk like before, nor would they allow me to take part in the festivities.

  I do not wish to believe that the book fair is gone forever from my life. I do not wish to accept that my joys, my dreams, my desires and my choices have all been buried six feet under. So, I still dream. I still cross the seven seas in search of love. Even in moments of darkest despair, bent over with pain, bleeding from the lash of the merciless whip, and nursing my wounds, I can feel renewed life with just a fleeting touch of a loving hand. Even the smallest of such touches can instil in me a new sense of hope.

  The Bengali reader has the same emotional relationship with the book fair as a writer has with words. They may have been successful in keeping me away this year, but from the next, let my unbroken link with Bengal remain steadfast. Let it be forever.

  Some people have raised the issue of my security. All I know is that the love of the people is my strongest shield. I have lived in Kolkata for three years and I have never had to roam with guards or use bulletproof cars. So, what has changed? Do we stop doing things because of how someone else might react? If I know someone might whistle in a theatre, does that mean I will not go to watch a film? If I do that, then soon ten more people will join the fray just to see what else they can get out of it. Our problem is that we have gotten so used to remaining quiet that silence and inertia have become foundational to our culture.

  2.

  I kept smoking cigarettes in the morning. Perhaps I was deliberately trying to kill myself. Why else would I have cigarettes brought? Why else would I keep smoking? Not that I don’t remember how cigarettes had ravaged me over the years, or how difficult it had been to finally quit. Despite knowing and remembering everything, I still could not help myself. The otherwise smiling female officer kept looking at me with pity:

  Officer (O): Why cigarettes?

  TN: That’s easy!

  O: How easy?

  TN: Depression . . .

  O: You will destroy your essence because of their politics? Why do you wish to harm yourself? You are above all this, these petty squabbles and the muck. Can you not ignore all of this?

  TN: What is the use . . .

  O: Use? How does it matter? You have done nothing wrong! Just because they have kept you locked up does not mean you should harm yourself and let them win. Stay alive! Live with your convictions, your beliefs and your ethics. We are proud of you. The politics of this place is not something we can be proud of.

  TN: When will this end?

  O: Someday soon. It obviously cannot go on this way. The government will find a solution for sure.

  TN: I am so worried. That is why I am smoking. I am not inhaling though. What if I get addicted again!

  O: Quit cigarettes. Live! India is not everything.

  ‘India is not everything’—these words gave me hope. I went about my day as usual—wrote in the afternoon, took a shower, and put on fresh clothes. In the evening, while watching the birds returning to their nest, when I said, ‘Even the birds are returning to their nests, but I have nowhere to go,’ she replied, ‘Their nests get destroyed and they build new ones.’

  TN: Yes! Like me! I have built so many in so many countries!

  O: Have you never wished to have someone beside you? Someone who would stand by you, and give you a sense of support?

  TN: Yes, I have. But I have usually chosen the wrong person and suffered for it.

  O: Don’t you feel lonely?

  TN: Sometimes. But I have been on my own for a very long time. I don’t wish for anyone to come and disrupt my freedom. I don’t mind love, though.

  11 January

  4.27 a.m.

  Had a nightmare and woke up with a start. I was dreaming that they have taken the little blue book, my only permit for staying on in India, and torn it up. I could hear people arguing while I was on my hands and knees, trying to gather the torn pieces and put them back together again. The pieces were flying about in the wind. I cannot fully remember if I was running around after them or simply standing there flabbergasted.

  4.30 a.m.

  I lie staring at the ceiling; the white ceiling with the nearly - white fan hanging from it. It is not a very common sight in this country—a static fan. People are more used to the opposite. It feels as if I too have been hanging like the fan, for the longest time. Though, if the tether breaks, I don’t know where I will fall, and how.

  4.40 a.m.

  It is all so absolute lonely. And so very cold.

  4.42 a.m.

  I keep remembering Ma whenever I close my eyes. I want to feel reassured by her touch, hug her tight, and whisper in her ear to take me away from this place. To take me home.

  4.45 a.m.

  The tears are rolling down on to the pillow.

  4.46 a.m.

  Except for the sound of my breathing, everything else is absolutely still. It is deathly quiet. Tears, as always, are reliably silent.

  4.48 a.m.

  I get up, reach out to my laptop and switch it on. The laptop had been the only thing I had taken with me from Kolkata for the two-day trip to the resort they had promised me. The thought sends ice running down my veins now! What a ruthless plan they had come up with to get me out of the way!

  4.50 a.m.

  Google it is, then. That piece in Merrynews.com was so upsetting! The writer has alleged that I have complained against the government by claiming to be under house arrest. How dare I demand comforts when so much money has already been spent on me? Did I know that there were nearly seven to ten thousand homeless women on the streets of Delhi itself?

  I don’t know how to react to such allegations. So, am I staying here of my own free will? Is it
because I want to live off the government’s money? I have always been self-sufficient and financially independent. I have never asked anyone for help. In fact, I have helped people when they have come to me in need. Why am I here? The only thing I crave for is freedom. Freedom and self-reliance—the only things I have fought for all my life.

  5.00 a.m.

  I check my emails. One of the mails is from Paris, about the award I got yesterday. The Simone de Beauvoir Prize. So many eminent academics and philosophers were present at the ceremony. Kate Millett was in the jury.

  5.20 a.m.

  A fleeting feeling of warmth has settled over me. I can imagine what a big auditorium in Paris will look like. I have spoken in such places before, in front of thousands of educated and socially aware intellectuals, artists, writers and philosophers. Nevertheless, this sort of an endorsement, from distant shores, seems like a fairy tale. Especially since it does not bring with it the freedom that I so desperately crave.

  12 January

  1.

  Sometimes I wonder why this madness possesses me, this uncontrollable desire to be back in Kolkata. What has the city ever given me? It’s not as if I had a sterling social life there! Rather, I spent most of my days alone. No engaging literary soirées I can recall or events and ceremonies where I had been invited—despite the countless ones that used to keep happening. Sometimes, Ranjan used to coax me to go somewhere, that too if he suddenly remembered me or someone reminded him of me. The few parties I attended, I did not like. Had I been a drinker, or very consciously fashionable, I might have been able to fit in better but those have never been things that have held any interest for me whatsoever. The only other attraction had been to meet a few interesting people, and to have some interesting conversations. However, there are not too many of those that I can recall! In Kolkata, I mostly met people running blindly after fame.

  Anandabazar began ignoring me—perhaps simply out of a fanciful whim—about a year or so after I started living in Kolkata. I submitted the manuscript of Narir Kono Desh Nei (A Woman Has No Nation) to Ananda Publishers but they sent it back saying they did not wish to publish it. They do still print articles about me but perhaps that is simply because of its value as news. They have summarily written me off as a writer though, which is deeply ironic considering they have awarded me with the Ananda Puraskar twice. The only silver lining was the Wednesday column I used to write for Dainik Statesman—being able to write with some sort of regularity went a long way in assuaging hurt. Otherwise, there is no other example of a social life that I can recall. There were a few friends who used to visit regularly, none of them from the literary and cultural world. The people from this domain gradually severed their ties with me. After successfully appealing against Dwikhandito and managing to get it banned, Sunil Gangopadhyay and his friends and cohorts, along with the government’s friends and acolytes, had deemed it perfectly acceptable to politically and socially reduce me to an enemy, a hostile alien needing to be kept at bay. A warm and lively person such as me had to spend months in solitary confinement in Kolkata as a result. Then why does the city fascinate me so? Is it the language? Is it because there I can speak to someone for a while in Bangla? Is it because I can go and watch plays in Bangla or read the Bengali newspaper early in the morning while sipping my morning tea?

  I have no qualms in admitting that I have never been part of a truly literary or culturally vibrant social space. I cannot say if this was because I was taboo or because I was a celebrity—sometimes I am not able to differentiate between the two.

  There were always people who used to come to me for their own nefarious reasons. An older man called Ranjan Sengupta turned up one day claiming to be a friend and well-wisher. His ulterior motive had been to extort money from me. Once he even borrowed nearly 82,000 rupees, promising to return it soon, which he never did of course.

  I have had to face trouble over the smallest of issues in Kolkata—a household help, for instance. There was no one who was willing to help me find someone trustworthy who would be able to help me take care of my home. Whoever I have allowed in my life with trust has invariably turned out to be unworthy of it.

  2.

  Even though they have assured me time and again that they are not here to convince me to leave India, I do not believe that the two men posted here, to assist me, accompany me and keep an eye on me, have told me the truth. They know everything and they are here to find out all my secrets—what I am thinking, whether I am considering leaving India, and so on. In fact, sometimes they wonder aloud that it must indeed be better abroad, where there is freedom. That I should simply visit India during vacations. Why do they say these things? Is it because they are my friends and well-wishers? Or have their overlords taught them to say such things? I am inherently a suspicious person, or perhaps circumstances have made it necessary. Or it could simply be that there is a far more sinister game that is afoot. I am a colossal fool; what I am seeing is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg!

  The whole day has been spent in trying to write—sometimes it has borne fruit, sometimes it hasn’t. Other things have happened too. A group of young boys and girls have started a signature campaign to secure my safe passage back to Kolkata. Sunil Gangopadhyay signed but added a disclaimer to it: ‘The way things have been publicized, that she is not being allowed to live a normal life in Delhi, is simply not true. She is well.’ They went to Mrinal Sen too. Later, Sen called me up to talk to me and expressed deep shock and anger on hearing the accounts of my life here. However, he still did not sign. Instead, he told them, ‘The letter is too harsh. Bring me a slightly “softer” version and I will sign.’ When they requested him to write a softer letter, he instead passed the responsibility on to Manasij Majumder.47

  Bijoya Mukhopadhyay has signed, but only after giving them an earful for not having taken an appointment before barging in. Sarat Kumar Mukhopadhyay48 was, unfortunately, sleeping and could not sign. While honesty is not a crime one can accuse Bengali poets of, Sarat has always been an exception. Even now, he can startle his readers with a few quick poems about a prohibited figure like Taslima Nasrin! Dibyendu Palit49 has signed, but with a carefully attached disclaimer: ‘These are governmental issues. I don’t think a signature makes any difference.’

  How do signatures matter? I had read about two other boys previously, though I never met them. They had taken to the streets to gather signatures for a campaign to bring me back to Kolkata, eventually sending nearly 6000 signatures to Delhi. Where are those papers now? In the trash, most probably.

  13 January

  Enamul Kabir, as has become a regular habit, called in the morning to read out an article by Ghiyasuddin in the newspaper today. In the article the author has said that the biggest crime I have committed is to have been born to Muslim parents. He has gone on to boldly state that the people of West Bengal are not really concerned about their Hindu fundamentalists; instead, everyone is perpetually wary of their Islamic counterpart. This is true of everyone—renowned political leaders and social activists, artists, writers and the intelligentsia. Among the Muslims, those who are not orthodox remain quiet when something happens because they are afraid, while the non-Muslim population chooses to remain neutral lest their perfect secular images be tarnished. As a result, those persecuted by Hindu radicals find support among the intellectuals, while those wronged by Muslim radicals are almost always shunned.

  Ghiyasuddin has made it clear that this critique has been composed keeping politicians out of its ambit; they are but slaves to power and will do anything to ensure their perpetuity is never jeopardized. He has primarily directed his questions at the intelligentsia who exhibit this duality without fail—to wilfully ignore the plight of those who have been prey to Muslim fundamentalism, especially if the survivors are Muslims. It is not difficult to ascertain why. So afraid they are of upsetting the Islamic radicals that they would rather treat such incidents as internal issues within the Muslim community, to be solved internally.
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br />   Ghiyasuddin has asked me a question too—he has asked me whether even I know why I have been punished. He has then gone on to answer this very question and reveal that all the other accusations levelled against me had been fabricated, imaginary and illogical, meant to hide another truly horrible crime: my Muslim parentage. How dare I, hailing from a Muslim family, assert myself as a rationalist, a feminist, a humanist and a dissident? Since I have been guilty of all of these crimes, neither the Quran nor the religious leaders will ever forgive me. With such powerful enemies, is there any wonder that the intellectuals are not on my side? The cultural elite pride themselves in being ‘secular’, and expressing solidarity with me would undoubtedly be too communal a thing to do.

  Such things have been written before, usually by truly honest and daring proponents of secularism, most of them Hindus or associated with them. Muslim intellectuals rarely tread this territory unless they are someone as irredeemably atheist as Ghiyasuddin. There are not many people born to Muslim families in India who can claim to be atheists. Once upon a time, I had gathered a few such people around me to set up the Secular Humanist Collective to foster a scientific outlook and combat orthodoxy and superstitions among Muslims. Among other things, the collective demanded a society free of terror, education shorn of religious proselytizing, equal rights for women, and an adherence to basic human rights.

  I thanked Ghiyasuddin over the phone and wished him luck for their press conference in Kolkata tomorrow.

  There is another reason to be happy today. Karan Thapar has written an excellent article in the Hindustan Times, criticizing Priya Ranjan Dasmunsi who had asked me to get down on my knees and apologize to Muslims for having hurt their religious sentiments. Thapar has written: