I took a few deep breaths, feeling some strength seep back into me from somewhere. I drew a plain sheet of paper towards me and wrote down everything I needed. I have handed the list over to my captor, a list of demands that I have previously been making verbally for the past few weeks.
I want to meet:
Jabir Husain, a Sahitya Academy Award-winning poet and Rajya Sabha MP
Sudhirnath, friend and cartoonist
Arun Maheshwari, friend and publisher
Sheela Reddy, friend
A regular doctor who would examine my blood pressure, blood sugar, cholesterol, and treat me accordingly
A therapist with whom I can talk about my depression, anxiety and apprehensions
I want to go outside, walk, watch people and their lives unfolding. I want to see life again.
My captors have assured me they will pass on my requests to the relevant authorities.
18 January
The only newspaper in Kolkata to have stood by me was Dainik Statesman. The other newspapers have been studiously silent, while Aajkaal, a mouthpiece of the CPI(M), has been spouting venom against me since Lajja was published. I have known Manas Ghosh of Dainik Statesman for quite some time too, since his visit to Bangladesh all those years ago to interview me for the Statesman. It had not been a surprise that I would have his support when he decided to launch the Bengali version. I used to write regularly for them for a while and through all my trials and tribulations they were right beside me, boldly publishing news, articles and editorials in support of me when the other newspapers had turned their backs. Now it seems the Statesman has come to a resolution to gradually sever all ties with me.
Manas Ghosh does not call often any more; in fact, when I had suggested I begin writing the column again, he evaded my proposal with an indistinct ‘Not now’. Two articles were published about me the day before, the more detailed one being the one by Bhabaniprasad where he had been critical about my choices. Yesterday, they published a letter complaining I have broken the laws of the nation. Today, the Statesman has published an article by Siddhartha Shankar Ray, where he has irrefutably declared that a foreign national has no right to say anything about any religion in this country, nor do they have the right to hurt the sentiments of 200 million Muslims. He has firmly called for a cancellation of visa for anyone unwilling to adhere to these laws.
Ever since I have read the article, I have begun to suspect that the Government of India is not planning to extend my visa. If the government had been sympathetic to my plight, I would probably have sensed it by now, and I would not have had to endure so much disgrace either. Even if the promised return to Kolkata could not be worked out, at least Mr B would have called me to tell me to stay in Delhi for some more time. I would have lived in Delhi on my own, moved about freely as I wished, asking for security only if required.
There is a month left before the visa expires. The foreign affairs minister, Pranab Mukherjee, has assured Parliament that there would be no issues vis-à-vis the renewal, but there is always the possibility that the government will cite some strange new development to go back on their word. My own country had disowned me. No matter how much I consider India my other home, at least on paper I am a foreign national here. Consequently, a foreign government has the right to cancel my residence permit any time they wish to. Of course, they will have to cite justifiable reasons for the same, but is the legitimacy of a claim something one can ever fully ascertain? They might as well say that the youth had taken to the streets to demand my ouster from India, so I will not be given another visa. Can that be something one can ever verify? I don’t think dreams ever crash and burn like mine have. No big movements have come up to demand my rights. There have been a few articles in a few leading newspapers, and only some of my friends marched in protest and held meetings. I have even overheard pointed questions about the same: ‘Where are custodians of human rights? Where are the Arundhati Roys, Romila Thapars, Teesta Setalvads, Shabana Azmis, Ram Puniyanis, Dinesh D’Souzas, Biju Mathews and John Dayals? Where is Sonia Gandhi or the Tehelka magazine? The salient features of development, human rights and secularism in India include the condemnation of Hindu fanatics while simultaneously endorsing any antisocial activities by Muslim and Christian fundamentalists.’
Try as I might, I cannot seem to push aside the heaviness that has settled over my heart.
I spoke to Abdul Gaffar Choudhury today to request him to try and approach the caretaker government to help me return to my home in Bangladesh. Gaffar Choudhury informed me that he has already had a word with Fakhruddin52 regarding the same; the latter has apparently recoiled at the very mention of my name. None of them are willing to help me; no one wants me to go back. Gaffar Choudhury kept telling me, ‘They will kill you here! They have already slaughtered the person who had started following your footsteps.’ On asking who it was, he replied, ‘You don’t know? Humayun Azad! They killed him because they could not get their hands on you. If you come back here, they will do the same.’
I had a word with social theorist Ashis Nandy, who is famously called a political psychologist by the intelligentsia. He told me he feels the government will renew my visa, especially since Sonia Gandhi is quite fond of me.
TN: Even Mr B used to be fond of me. Is that still true? If so, why have I been kept captive? Why have I not been shown an iota of humanity? Why have I not been allowed a normal life like a free human being?
AN: Perhaps he is afraid!
TN: Afraid of what?
AN: Afraid of the consequences.
TN: If something were to happen, it would have happened already.
Although Ashis Nandy’s words have managed to fill me with renewed hope, some doubts still linger.
20 January
Arundhati Roy and Ritu Menon53 had a talk with renowned human rights lawyer Indira Jaising a while back. If anyone can help at this point, it is Jaising. However, as usual, the advice was to file a court case.
TN: Against who?
IJ: Against the government.
TN: That won’t be possible for me.
IJ: Why not? You will win if you file a case!
Indira has called after that to see if I have changed my mind; so have Arundhati and Ritu. The advice remains the same, despite my repeated refusals. ‘You have no other way out except a court case.’
I have tried explaining to them that I am not a citizen of this country and that I have been allowed to live here by the grace of the government. So, I will not file a case against them. I am certain I will be released from this safe house if people who believe in human rights and the freedom of speech and expression come together to petition the authorities on my behalf.
Indira did not want to listen to a word I had to say. ‘You just sign the paper allowing me to fight on your behalf. Leave the rest to me. The only way you can get out of this predicament is by filing a case. Otherwise, one of these days, they will just kick you out, and you won’t ever be able to return. We have this way open till you have a valid visa, after which there’s nothing much we can do. They forced you out of West Bengal and brought you to an unknown safe house because some fundamentalists protested against you. With the mental stress you have already gone through, there’s nothing else left for you to lose any further. Now if they manage to drive you out of India too, there will be nothing else left for us to do, not even file a case. Take time and think about it.’ She called a few days later and repeated the same thing but I still refused.
So it went on, them trying to convince me and me refusing again and again. One fine day, I finally said, ‘No matter what happens, I will not file a case against the government. I will wait for the day their decision changes.’
Annoyed, Indira Jaising hung up on me.
23 January
After repeatedly asking my captors, they have sternly informed me that the list of demands I had submitted via them a few days ago have all been turned down by the Government of India.
27 January
<
br /> ‘This is not to claim that for the first time the people who delve in this sort of divisive and fraudulent politics have been publicly unmasked. However, their complete failure in protecting human rights, freedom of speech and the integrity of the Constitution of India is indeed very painful to witness. There is nothing comparable to the heinous political experiments that have been done on Taslima both by the State and the Centre. Such shame even Lajja will not be able to mitigate.’—Anonymous
My captors have taken to constantly encouraging me to leave India. Besides, terrible things have been happening. The incident with the doctors has proved to me beyond a shadow of doubt how devastating mental coercion can be. I had been asking to see a doctor for my blood pressure for quite a while, but there had been no response from my captors. Since verbal requests were not effective, I even wrote an application stating that I wished to consult a cardiologist. There was no answer for nearly three weeks despite my earnest requests. Everything else I needed—clothes, shoes, toiletries—was brought in except for the doctor. That last request my captors summarily refused to grant.
TN: Why not?
C: Because of security.
TN: I can’t see a doctor because of security?
C: No, madam.
TN: What security issues?
C: We can’t take you to a doctor’s chamber.
TN: Then bring a doctor here. My blood pressure now reads a 170 over a 120. And you guys are telling me I can’t visit a doctor due to security reasons?
C: We can’t get a doctor here either.
TN: Then take me to that other safe house where you bring people to meet me.
C: I will pass on your request, madam. I am sorry but I do what I am instructed. Please do not misunderstand me. You too must try and understand that everything we do is for the sake of your security. That is the only thing we are concerned about.
TN: My security will be disrupted if you bring a doctor here? But if I don’t see a doctor, I will die!
C: Let me see what I can do.
After two months of repeated requests for a doctor, when I began telling my captors that I was about to have a heart attack, they did not seem too perturbed. In fact, it seemed to me they were almost relieved. If I were to die of a heart attack, it would have indeed solved a lot of problems for them. I told them that people would think they have killed me, but even that did not seem to be a cause for worry. Finally, when I gave a statement to the media that I was not being allowed to see a doctor, they were forced to arrange for one. I was taken to the other safe house. There was no reason for me to be impressed by the doctor I met there. He did not show me an ID, nor did he tell me his name because my captors had asked him not to. In fact, it did not seem to me he was a proper doctor, and it soon became clear to every single person present there that I knew more about blood pressure-related ailments than he did. Besides, the moment he had recognized who I was, he had begun to tremble and that was the end of his interventions. The doctor left and I was brought back to the safe house.
A few days later in the evening, I was taken back to the other safe house. This time the doctor seemed like a proper one and he examined me and prescribed a combination of three drugs. However, my body began to react badly to the calcium channel blocker Amlodipine the moment I had it after returning to the safe house. I began to sweat profusely and I could feel my body give way. It was unlike anything I had ever felt. I was losing control of my senses, and slowly sinking into darkness. With the last bit of strength left in my body, I called Akash. He came and though I could not speak to him, he made arrangements for a stretcher to be summoned from the cantonment stores to take me to the hospital. My captors and the doctor were waiting for me there and I was admitted to the coronary care unit (CCU) immediately. I could not speak properly, each word taking me an inordinate amount of effort to articulate. A plethora of machines and monitors were attached to me to check my vitals, while the doctors set themselves to ascertain if I was having an allergic reaction. I managed to tell the doctor that it could be an adverse reaction to Amlodipine, or to the mix of medicines I had been prescribed. Around two at night, things took an even more serious turn, with the previous symptoms returning. I was feeling light as a feather and I could sense my blood pressure dropping rapidly. All I could do was to beg the doctor to save me. The saline channel was opened to full blast and steroids were pumped into my body to restore it in any way possible. I could feel life slipping away, images of Mymensingh, Bangladesh, West Bengal, all my friends, colleagues and admirers flashing before my eyes. It took nearly two hours for the steroids to be effective and for things to become a bit stable. Death had wanted to hold me in its cold, restful embrace but had had to content with only a few stolen whispers.
The doctor brought in by my captors examined me the next day and declared that I had had a poisonous reaction to the medicines. When asked which medicine had caused the reaction, he couldn’t really say for sure, though he warned me that if it had been Amlodipine, I would not be able to have it ever again. I requested my captors to let me talk to Mr B and they told me that they have informed him of my request. I asked them by what logic I had been prescribed a combination of three drugs when everyone had known that I was taking 2.5 mg of medicine already. The doctor confessed that it should not have happened but now that it had, I should move on and not dwell on the past. He advised me to remain ‘tension free’ in order to recover faster.
The next Sunday, my captors came to visit me. When I inquired yet again about Mr B, they had nothing new to say except to assure me that he would speak to me soon enough. In the meanwhile, my blood pressure had not stopped being erratic. The doctors had recommended complete bed rest and absolutely no physical exertion. They had also been careful to remind me that stress and tension were the last things I needed because these were gradually pushing me towards death. Of course, that was easier said than done! For the next two days, I was kept in the CCU. The doctors had initially informed me that I would have to stay in the hospital till my blood pressure was normal again, but soon enough they changed their diagnosis. I knew that my captors had taken them aside and told them something, though I was not sure what that had been.
The government had decided that I had to leave the hospital, and the doctors accordingly complied and discharged me immediately. It was not until much later that I realized that the hasty decision had been a reaction to news reports in Times of India regarding my health. The report had perturbed my overlords; they were worried that it would make the news of my condition public knowledge, and consequently everyone would find out about the exact nature of my exile. It’s a myth that the administration is never anxious of what the media might find out.
The other reason cited for the quick release from the hospital was that I had to meet Mr B. He could have called, of course, or come to meet me in the CCU, but apparently that was not possible. I remember how much my suggestion that Mr B come to the hospital had shocked my captors. Mr B was a minister in the government! How could he come to meet an ordinary person? So, I was taken out of the CCU to meet Mr B. Things were done so efficiently that we did not even waste the extra time we had before the scheduled meeting; I was brought back to my safe house instead of staying at the hospital. From there I was taken to meet Mr B in another empty house, yet another safe house in the endless chain that I had visited during the course of my exile in Delhi. This one seemed more like a government guest house, one in a row of similarly pretty single-floor houses, though I was never informed where exactly we were. This was not surprising, especially because my captors had successfully hidden even their names from me. Like everything else in this exile, this meeting too was held in utmost secrecy.
While we were waiting, tea was served. I kept trying to explain to my captors that in such a physical state, the best thing to do would be to pack me off to my home in Kolkata since I was somehow sure that this would not have happened had I been home in the first place. I was sure that all my health issues—the blood pres
sure, the gradually worsening heart—were due to my exile. Mr B arrived in about fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, I had noticed that my captors had fixed wide smiles on their faces; in fact, that had been the case this entire time. It was a little disconcerting and I could not help but begin to anticipate what was about to happen, hoping against hope that it would spell good news for me. Perhaps they knew Mr B would be sending me back to Kolkata! Or perhaps they were overjoyed at being considered close confidants of Mr B; such had been the dedication and efficiency with which they had done their duties! Nevertheless, tired and restless, the burgeoning hope of deliverance could not fully manage to animate me and I could still feel the ravages of my unpredictable blood pressure and the after-effects of drugs pumping through my veins. My captors had always been secretive. Perhaps that had been part of the instructions given to them. They had often seemed to me like wound-up dolls, and I could not fathom if their smiles too were part of the range of emotions they had been taught to display as and when required.
Mr B was in the other room with another unknown gentleman. As we greeted each other and sat down, I could not help but think that I knew nothing about what Mr B was thinking and what his plans were for me. The only thing I was sure of was the warmth and support I had always received from this man. Always a well-wisher, I had often visited his house besides speaking on the phone every so often. Despite all the pressure from the government, he had made sure to get my visa extended without a hitch. I was convinced that he was trying his best to get me back to Kolkata. Just like someone complains to a loved one, I complained to him about the delay in getting a doctor to check on me. In a rush, I told him about the entire debacle with the doctors, the first one a quack, and my near-death experience after that.
My captors were sitting nearby and I had hoped Mr B would suitably chastise them immediately for their negligence and for their part in endangering my life. So, it was quite surprising when he said absolutely nothing to them. Instead, skirting any mention of the things that had happened thus far, he launched straight into his most urgent query: ‘I have come to assure you that you are an esteemed guest of our nation; we give you our word that you would get our visa without problems in the future and you are always welcome to our hospitality. As promised, we will extend your visa in February. However, it will be best if you go to France soon to receive the award you have been given. I have told the French President that regrettably a French award cannot be given on Indian soil. The award can be handed over only in the country from which the award has originated or the country to which the recipient belongs.’ My attempt to intervene at this point was cut short by Mr B’s stern rejoinder: ‘Please listen to me.’ Satisfied that I would be quiet, he continued, ‘You are not a citizen of India, so the award cannot be given to you here. Either you would have to go to Bangladesh or to France. The French President has already extended an invitation and we will make all the necessary arrangements for your travel. Go and receive the award.’
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