Who are they, whose sentiments cannot be hurt at all? Who are they in front of whom Taslima has to kneel and pray for forgiveness? Whoever they are, I am sure they are not like you or me, or anyone who is tolerant and kind and rationalist, aware, educated, well-informed and invested in the freedom of thought. Surely, they are of the fanatic kind, backward, narrow-minded, and blinded by religion and superstitions. Henceforth, will they demarcate the boundaries of our freedom? Have they been entrusted with deciding what can be believed or not?
I have to assert that when Mr. Mukherjee says Taslima Nasreen must not say, do or write things that ‘hurt the sentiments of our people’, I do not recognise the pronoun ‘our’. Am I part of it? Are you? Is he? Or does he only have in mind a small but vocal and violent minority—perhaps disowned by, or at least, embarrassing to the majority of their co-religionists—who, he believes, delivers votes?
We don’t expect very much of our politicians—if there is one lesson experience has taught us, it must be this—but, at the very least, they should stand up for their freedoms. Otherwise, they could soon be tolling the bell for themselves. Let them remember what they deny Taslima or us today; they could end up losing themselves tomorrow.
My captors arrived with yet another spell of freedom—a visit to the dentist. I usually get excited whenever I have to go anywhere, at the prospect of leaving the house at least for a while, irrespective of where we are going. So, we set off, a new road stretching out ahead. It was a bit like going somewhere in a prison van, the tinted windows separating me from the world outside, while I sat and stared at every passing thing with avid interest—the regular people going about their regular routines, from the middle or lower classes, who had no interest in knowing who I am, let alone demanding my head. Why should they have even cared! There are usually no security guards in the car, and as we were travelling, people saw me through the front glass. So what? It matters very little to people, for those who know me or those who don’t. So, why keep me imprisoned? Apparently, if I am let loose, people will die; or so they keep trying to tell me. I will no longer believe their lies or their explanations.
I got excited at the sight of the new roads, at the prospect of a new place, even if it was the dentist’s. Not that I asked my captors anything! However, very soon, a familiar lane came into view and out went all my optimism. We were headed to that other ghastly safe house, the one with the high walls and the big iron gates. The only person in the house who I have ever seen is the one who serves us tea and biscuits. I trust he is summoned for such special occasions.
The only bit of freedom I have managed to steal for myself thus far is to go for walks in the field nearby during these sudden excursions to visit doctors. When a person’s world shrinks, even small spaces seem so vast!
The dentist came to see me at the safe house, with his tiny box of equipment. What harm would have befallen if we had indeed gone to his chamber? On our way back, my captors stopped the car to buy the medicines he had prescribed for me, before bringing me back to my cell again. The rest of the day passed like it always does; like the nights always pass.
14 January
A press conference was called in Kolkata today by a group of progressive Muslim activists. The group, also comprising ex-Muslims, and atheists within the Muslim community, gathered and gave a statement demanding Taslima Nasrin be allowed to come back to Kolkata. They argued that her presence in Kolkata will hugely benefit all undertakings for the development of the Muslim communities.
Nothing else of note happened the entire day. I had spoken to Supratik of PTI regarding the Simone de Beauvoir Prize; I saw a report on the same in The Hindu and Hindustan Times and a few other newspapers. The work that has earned me such an accolade in Paris is also the reason for the ignominy that has been heaped on me at home. What else is left to say after that?
Some phone calls I do still receive, and some I make, though the overall frequency of these exchanges is gradually decreasing. Shankha Ghosh called to congratulate me on the Beauvoir Prize. He had one complaint though. Why had I said that there was no one fighting on my behalf at home? I deflected the query by saying that it had been from a translation of an old piece of writing—Le Monde had translated it into French and published it—when in truth there had truly been no one beside me. Throughout the conversation I kept wishing I could tell him there aren’t too many people now either. There are only a handful, and definitely none of the political parties or welfare groups. In fact, before Mahasweta Devi’s protest meet and silent march, nothing had truly been done. Neither the political parties nor the numerous women’s rights groups and the human rights organizations had issued a statement in solidarity. I further assured him that I had only thanked people in my subsequent article, the one he had even edited a few lines from.
Shankha Ghosh understood. He kept trying to convince me that there were many people fighting on my behalf. He reminded me of his promise that he would call Mr B and request his help in getting me back to Kolkata. He has not had the opportunity yet to make the promised call. Should I trust him any longer? Whenever accusations of being un-Islamic have been levelled against me, he has remained silent. He has never said a word, never revealed to anyone how I had given him 10,000 rupees a couple of years ago to donate to the welfare fund set up for the destitute Muslim survivors of the Gujarat riots. He had been in charge of the fundraising campaign on behalf of the intelligentsia of Bengal. Granted I had never wanted publicity from this, but when they were throwing me out of the country on false allegations, could he not have said something?
I owe Shankha Ghosh one debt of gratitude though. He edited my subsequent articles, be it for a seminar or for publication, to make sure there was not even a single utterance which would be perceived as hurtful to Islamic sentiments. Bengal’s premier poet could painstakingly excise anything and everything communal from my writing, but nevertheless could not manage to attend the assembly held to demand for my return. He sent word instead that he was otherwise occupied.
I do not yet know when our leading poets and writers would finally stop pandering to censorship.
I was walking on the terrace in the evening under a clear sky flecked with a scattering of stars. My captors and their sentinels have seemingly given up office and spend nearly all their time here. I do not want to cause them inconvenience but it seems to be happening regardless. How long can they keep ignoring all their official duties in order to play nursemaid for me? I do not wish to live like this in India! All I wish for is love and acceptance.
Suddenly my captor asked:
C: Haven’t you given up your house in Kolkata?
TN: No, I haven’t.
C: Isn’t it a waste of money? You aren’t living there, after all.
TN: That it is.
C: How much is the rent again?
TN: Twenty thousand. Plus, another two and a half for maintenance.
C: You are paying that much extra every month?
TN: What can I do? I have asked my publishers to pay the rent and deduct it from the royalties.
C: Why don’t you just give it up?
TN: I could have rented another flat, but who will do that on my behalf? I would have to go and do that myself. To try and find some place a little cheaper.
He kept quiet for a while before starting again: ‘Won’t you go to France to collect your prize?’ I told him the ceremony had already happened, and my French publishers have accepted the prize on my behalf.
C: It has happened already?
TN: Yes, it’s over.
C: When?
TN: On the ninth.
C: Won’t you have to go to Paris to get the prize?
TN: Not really. It’s a certificate and money. They will courier me the certificate and deposit the prize money in my account.
C: What does Svensson say?
TN: About what?
C: He doesn’t call?
TN: Sometimes he does.
C: He doesn’t say anything?
/> TN: What should he say?
C: He doesn’t ask you to go back to Sweden?
TN: Where?
C: Sweden.
TN: Why should he do that?
C: He came. He saw how much mental pressure you were facing. That you aren’t well. Does he not want to take you away from all this?
TN: No.
C: How is that possible?
TN: Why should he want that? He knows how much I love living here, that I want to keep doing so. He knows I don’t want to go abroad, don’t want to stay anywhere else any more. And what would I do there? I might not have freedom here right now, but all that is going to change, right? This cannot go on forever.
Through it all, there was one thing I picked up. That my captors had been instructed to learn everything they possibly could about me—what I was thinking, whether I was thinking of going away, if not, then what could they say or do that would make me consider it, and so on and so forth. My captors were supposed to make me feel convinced that I should leave India. One of the officers had once told me, rather randomly: ‘Freedom is the most important thing. Unless we are independent, nothing else matters! Why are you not going away? What is the point in living as a prisoner?’ His words had shocked me that day.
They are trying to break me. Have they been instructed to do this? Or are they just making polite conversation? What if I refuse to break? What will they do then, what new plans will they hatch? Will they use any means necessary? I should not be afraid, but try as I might, fear has begun to creep up on me like darkness.
15 January
I am not sure if the days are passing at all. I don’t have a calendar, so the only way I can verify this is via the morning newspaper, which assures me that the days are indeed passing. My captors had called to ask about my teeth. In response, I had asked them if there was any news vis-à-vis my return to Kolkata. The voice had mechanically replied in the negative.
I just want news, be it good or bad. No one can go on living like this. I have been put in chains after having fought for freedom all my life. In this country of a billion people, a writer has been forcefully ousted from her home and shipped to a safe house in another state to be confined there for days on end. This is, as unbelievable as it is, happening in India. Those who used to call have stopped now, perhaps because I have been struck off the list of priorities. People generally prefer to keep a safe distance from irrelevant or blacklisted names.
Manas Ghosh’s newspaper has printed a small article on yesterday’s assembly of the Secular Humanist Collective. They have not mentioned that most of the members of the collective were progressive and rationalist Muslims. They had published the news of the first rally in a big way on the front page and had promised to write extensively about the meeting as well. Is this what they had meant? Is Ghosh too trying to distance himself from this controversy? Anandabazar had done it a while ago, and it is difficult to correctly assess the other newspapers. Only a relatively new entrant like Dainik Statesman had stood by me through all my ordeals.
I tried taking a nap in the afternoon; these days whenever I try it, I invariably have a nightmare and wake up. I have begun to feel very alone. I miss my parents and I feel even lonelier. I don’t remember ever feeling this way. Fakrul mama called yesterday. It felt a little strange in the beginning since I had last seen him in Kolkata about seven or eight years back. When he asked me where I was, I could feel the pain twist in my gut. These are my family, my loved ones! They don’t want to forget me, nor I them! I want to live in the same city as them, share their joys and their sorrows, and share love. I cannot because I am not allowed.
January 16
My morning call from Kolkata had a trove of information today. Shaoli Mitra50 and Bhabaniprasad Chattopadhyay have written in support in Dainik Statesman. The Publishers and Booksellers Guild has also informed me that they have dutifully passed on to all my publishers the news of the embargo placed on my books at this year’s Kolkata International Book Fair by the Milli-ittehad Parishad. Shibani Mukhopadhyay51 has immediately declined to adhere to the draconian demand while Anima from Gangchil Publishers has countered saying none of their books are on religion. Subir Mitra from Ananda Publishers has issued a statement to the effect that it would be unnatural to keep the books off the shelves, and that there is enough time to further deliberate on the issue since the fair is still a few days away.
I called Manas Ghosh in the morning, but after a while I could no longer continue speaking through my choked throat and the tears streaming down my cheeks. I spoke to Prasanta Roy too about the Guild. Since the Guild had received the embargo they ought to have handled it themselves. However, they have passed on the responsibility to the publishers, as if they have a stake in this.
In her article, Shaoli Mitra has demanded to know if I am worse than a homicidal mass murderer, considering the way I have been kept locked up. Bhabaniprasad Chattopadhyay has advised that the way I have been going on, trying to effect change through writing, is no longer a feasible option against the rising tide of fundamentalist thought. The only option that apparently remains is to visit the uneducated and backward Muslims, from one door to the next, with explanation. To that effect, he has cited the example of Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar who was much revered despite his critical and reformist attitude simply because he never said anything directly offensive to Hinduism.
I cannot help but doubt as to why it should be so. Why must we persist in thinking of these as the only means to effect social change? It has been years, isn’t it time enough for change? What if I want to go about it differently? What if I don’t wish to go from one house to the next? What if instead I continue writing, which is what I do best? Will that be such a crime?
Sudip Maitra writes a fantastic weekly column on Wednesdays, on social customs and common superstitions. This week’s entry is on faith and fanaticism where Maitra has tried to critique the old adage that I too have often countered with my writing—that faith is a good virtue while fanaticism is not. Despite how I have been made captive, how my thoughts have been made captive, to the threat of fanatic zeal, it gladdens my heart to hear someone speak the language that I have always spoken. I called Dainik Statesman to congratulate Sudip on his article and he seemed pleased. I have never met him previously and it saddens me to think how much time I spent in Kolkata in the absolutely wrong company while never crossing paths with the genuine people. I have decided to change my lifestyle entirely when I get back to Kolkata.
Nothing is happening. Something has to happen.
17 January
I had yet another nightmare last night. This time I dreamt that both my kidneys were malfunctioning. I spent the entire night suffering visions of disease and death, so much so that it was only after sunrise I could manage to convince myself that it had only been a bad dream. I have suffered the memories of the nightmare all day, though that is not saying much since things like dreams and nightmares, truths and lies have long become fuzzy and unclear. Not having seen anything in the newspapers and not having received any calls either, I called Tapan Raychaudhuri and found out that he has yet to write the letter he had promised he would write to Mr B requesting that the rules against my going out be relaxed. Besides, he also has not had the opportunity of discussing my predicament with someone influential within the Government of West Bengal. I feel so awkward calling someone up asking them for favours, especially for myself.
Everything seems a bit bizarre, this house, this state of being. I have to take deep breaths to calm myself down. So many people have promised so many things but everyone seems to have forgotten it all. No matter who calls from Kolkata, I keep asking them to call again—tomorrow, the day after or whenever. I can sense the terrible desperation that has me in its grips.
Finally, something happened in the afternoon. CNN-IBN had organized a small live chat with their readers, and a guy from the bureau sent me a bunch of questions and then called me to get the answers. Some time was spent on this for sure. But then?
For me, it was back to the empty rooms, and the hours spent staring out of the window, and the intermittent long sighs. Besides, I have not been able to study or write. I have spent all my time in growing anxiety about when I would be allowed my freedom to lead an independent life.
Late in the afternoon, I was speaking to Shibani about our old book fair sojourns and the gatherings at Coffee House. We had always dreamt back then of having a decent place for the People’s Book Society in College Street, somewhere we would go often to meet, talk and hang out. That space has finally been acquired and we were discussing when they were moving, when the room was going to be set up and the first meeting of friends to toast the occasion. Shibani confidently replied, ‘Once you are back . . .’
I was having my tea while my captor was sitting and watching television, and laughing. Suddenly, a question out of the blue:
C: Have you sold your house in Kolkata?
TN: Why?
C: You were speaking on the phone. You said something about a new flat . . .
TN: No. That was not about my own flat. My publishers are moving to a new place.
They have never been nosy about anything to do with my personal life. I suspect these sudden questions are compulsions of the job. I have begun to be convinced that they have been told to keep an eye on me, to see how long I can endure before I break. These instructions have come from Mr B, the person who used to claim to have my best interests in his heart. Where did all his affection disappear? Does he not know that I have not done anything wrong? Is he not aware of how I have been? What have I done to not deserve mercy?
Christian Besse called from France with a proposal for a book about my strange exile in India. He has also informed me that they are making arrangements for my Beauvoir Prize to be handed over to me in India, though not by the visiting French President, but definitely by one of the accompanying ministers or high-ranking officials.
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