Exile

by Taslima Nasrin

  Sensing this was my opening, I looked at him with wide, guileless eyes and replied, ‘The award function has already been held in Paris on 9 January. My French publishers have accepted my award on my behalf. I have told them to mail the certificate to my Kolkata address.’

  Clearly dissatisfied with the reply, Mr B said, ‘If you go away to France for some time that would be the best for everyone. I am assuring you as a minister, you don’t have to worry about a thing. We will make all the arrangements from here—your stay in France, if you wish to travel elsewhere, everything. Don’t worry about money. The government will take care of everything.’

  I was looking at Mr B. He was speaking to me but his eyes were trained elsewhere as he kept saying what he had come to say. Beside him, rather bizarrely, both the unknown gentleman and my captor were noting down our conversation in their respective notebooks. Mr B had come wearing a suit, with a woollen cap covering his head, quite unlike the usual dhoti I was used to. While I kept trying to find a smile on his suddenly unrecognizable face, or some remnant of his usual warmth, he was engrossed in his speech: ‘We can’t really say anything for certain about your return to Kolkata. They might create trouble again, that too right before the visa is up for renewal on the sixteenth. What if they do something the day before? At least if you are not here, we can tell them, “She is not here. We will think about it later if we are bringing her back.” You can obviously come back as soon as everything calms down. If you are apprehensive that you won’t be allowed to come back, then you are mistaken. I have already told Tapan Raychaudhuri. He is very fond of you. He has a daughter of your age and so has a soft spot for you. I had told him to let you stay at his house in Oxford if you wish to. Don’t worry. You don’t have to decide on dates right now. Take a couple of days and let me know.’

  While Mr B was advising me to take a few days off and go away for a while, I could feel it in my gut that this parting would not be as temporary as he wanted me to believe. It would be for good, just like when I had left Bangladesh fourteen years ago. Like I had been coerced into leaving Kolkata only three months ago.

  ‘Stay abroad for a while and it will be easier for us to get you back to Kolkata. You would be able to fly directly to Kolkata from France or anywhere else in Europe. Don’t worry. We will make all the arrangements for the trip. You are a respected guest. We are not letting you lead a normal life or letting anyone meet you simply because of security reasons. Ninety-five per cent of the people are compassionate but the other 5 per cent might not be so. We don’t want to take any risks.’

  While he was speaking, my eyes were searching his face. The creases on his forehead betrayed his annoyance. I was finding it difficult to relate the person in front of me with the person I knew, the person whose house I used to visit so often, with books and flowers and sweets. He used to sit and recite poetry to me, and would often confess his love of poetry to me. I remember once I had gifted him all the best books of poetry by some of the greatest poets. He used to constantly tell me to visit him, even making his party members wait while we would be engrossed in conversation. He would remember the renewal dates of my visa more than me, even making arrangements with the home ministry on my behalf, and telling me only after the formalities were over. It was impossible to come to terms with the realization that such a person was now part of the enemy camp. I have always had problems with thinking the worst of someone, and yet there he was, issuing ultimatums, not a trace of love or compassion on his face. He was repeating the now familiar diatribe, the gist of which was one single line: ‘Leave India!’ The person I used to trust the most once upon a time, someone who had always been on my side, was now so far removed from his ethics and ideals, and so invested in political charades that he had cast aside all love and empathy to bribe me into leaving, all in the guise of a well-wisher.

  It was my turn to speak as Mr B stopped. I must confess that I was immeasurably calm, perhaps because I had just escaped from the jaws of death. Death was still playing a macabre game of hide-and-seek with me, and I was almost light years away from dishonest politicians with their vested interests. Calmly I replied, ‘I was abroad for ten long years. Not for a single day of those years did I feel that I belong to their society or culture. How can I live in a place like that, where I don’t belong? I was well regarded abroad, had won many awards, but could never consider any of those countries as home. I am officially a foreigner in India, but I have never felt like one here. I speak in my own language here. I was raised a Bengali and our cultural heritage is similar. Not just in Bengal but anywhere in India that I go, I feel a connection with the land. It never struck me that I am not Indian, that I am a foreign national. Earlier, whenever I used to get my tourist visa, I would come to Kolkata. Then, after I was given a residence permit, I decided to settle down here. Whatever I had abroad I brought almost everything down to Kolkata, and I even asked my brothers to send all my books. You were the one who used to help me with my residence permit, remember? If you visit my house in Kolkata, I swear, it would seem like a three-decade-old household to you. Where will I go, leaving all this behind? I am a Bengali, I write in Bangla, and so I want to live there too. To live as I wish to, to write in peace, that is all I want. If it was possible, I would have gone back to Bangladesh. Trust me, I have tried. I spoke to my lawyer . . .’

  ‘Sara Hossain, right?’ he suddenly intervened.

  Nodding in answer, I continued, ‘Yes, daughter of Dr Kamal Hossain. I have tried contacting Dr Hossain but he does not want to address the issue of my return at all. I have written to his wife, Hameeda Hossain, too, but she didn’t show any interest in the matter either. If I could have I would have returned, I would not have insisted on staying here. I stay here because of the language, because of the life I can have here, because of my roots, and because I have nowhere else to go. I can write freely here, and also have friends and family visit me from Bangladesh. I have not written anything against Islam. I had written Dwikhandito a long time ago while I was living abroad, much before I moved here. I have never written anything against Islam during my entire stay here. Besides, after Mr Pranab Mukherjee’s speech in Parliament, I had even deleted the allegedly offensive sections from the book. Do you meet him? Ask him, he knows.’

  Mr B nodded and I went on: ‘If your government does not extend my residence permit, I would be forced to leave. I would know that there is no place for me in the subcontinent.’ My voice heavy with tears, I continued speaking. A relentless stream of tears had begun to flow down my cheeks. Here was Mr B, a powerful member of the administration of a nation that was fast becoming a superpower, and such a nation was confessing to being unable to give me shelter among a billion citizens because the fundamentalists did not want them to! Though I was not unaware of how important fundamentalists were for votes and for the sustenance of power, I could scarcely believe such a blatant exercise of the same regardless of how it was affecting society.

  Wiping my tears I went on. ‘I might be able to survive abroad, but I won’t be able to live there. If I have to truly live, I have to stay here or in Bangladesh. I won’t be able to live as a writer there either. I don’t like living abroad, I am never happy when I am abroad, and I won’t go. Rather, I will stay here where you have kept me thus far. The day you let me go back to Kolkata, I will do so happily. Till then, I will stay here. And so many people in India love me too.’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ replied Mr B.

  ‘Those who don’t want me here, they are far fewer in number. Why should my life be destroyed because of something they want? Their threats are nothing new. They keep threatening when they have an ulterior motive and stop soon enough too. I don’t mind living in this safe house for a while longer. I simply wish to be allowed to meet a few friends.’

  He listened to me, and then repeated what he had just said once again. I, too, repeated my earlier answer: ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Suddenly, he looked at his watch and told me he had another important meeting to attend.
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  ‘I want to call you but I feel awkward about bothering you. You are such a busy man.’

  ‘Call after 10 p.m. Meanwhile, let me have a word with the Bengal government,’ he answered with a smile.

  I had assumed that his stance towards me had softened after our long conversation. The assumption was short-lived—I received a call from him on the way back to my personal jail. He had two things to tell me: that I should try and understand that he was genuinely trying to help me, and that I should not talk to the media about our conversation.

  On the way, I tried coaxing my captor to take a longer route via a restaurant or at least a café. These days, I sometimes forget that I am a captive and I should not demand such things. My captors are made of sterner stuff though. And so we head back to the safe house.

  Strolling on the roof, my mysterious captor by my side, my train of thoughts was suddenly broken by his voice.

  C: Your presentation was great. I was amazed.

  TN: I did not go there to put up a performance. I was speaking about my life.

  While walking, I had forgotten about my senseless blood pressure, about the CCU. On measuring, it read 220/120.

  TN: You have to take me to the hospital right now!

  C: They won’t admit you. There’s no use going.

  TN: Why won’t they admit me? Hadn’t they initially refused to let me go until my blood pressure became normal? It’s not stabilized yet. I have to go to a hospital. Yesterday the reading had fallen from 200 to 50. I can’t trust this instability.

  I could tell that my captors did not want to go, but I was adamant. While packing some clothes for the hospital, I kept thinking back to when the doctors in the hospital had insisted that I stay there for some time only to change their stance at my captors’ behest. I kept thinking that though Mr B had been constantly pressurizing me to leave the country, what was far more inhuman of all the things they had done was the cavalier attitude they had shown with a patient of irregular blood pressure. What if my heart had stopped in shock?

  All pretences have been abandoned. The gloves are off. It’s clear as day that they want me to go away. A person is depressed when they are unwell. These people have chosen their time very carefully, using my weakened spirit against me. I may have refused to leave but I don’t think they will rest easily. They are obviously fuming, angry at my stubborn stance. But I doubt they have given up. I’m sure they are biding their time, hoping that a lonely, unwell woman will crack sooner or later.

  I had to come back from the hospital. They refused to admit me.

  This exile, it has torn me up, like a rabid animal digging its talons deep into its prey. My house, my cat, my books, my friends, and my life—I have had to trade all of this and more in exchange for months spent in uncertainty in an unknown dark, musty, old house. The heart, torn and broken, eventually gave way and brought me face-to-face with death. But who cares? Did that stop them from delivering yet another killing blow? Go away! Leave! But where do I go? This is my land. This is where I wish to be buried.

  Dig into the earth, pull out my roots and see for yourself whether I belong here or not! No one cares enough to find out, to feel empathy for someone whose entire world has been snatched away from her!

  Having cast me aside into the darkness yet again, the big, important men have gone home. I wish them all the very best.

  5 February

  Do I live only for myself? Do I make these demands only for myself? If that had been so, wouldn’t I have compromised or apologized long back for the sake of safety? My fight for my freedom of speech and expression is also how I fight for the same rights on behalf of others. I want this freedom to be recognized in the state or the country I had been driven out of. I want this freedom to be recognized the world over. All I wish is that henceforth, no one will be barred from expressing their views and opinions, that society will no longer have to stay in the dark, that it will be able to walk towards the future. I wish that the country, its people and their precious society will no longer have to suffer the ills of misogyny, intolerance, superstitions, dogma, stupidity and prejudice. I know I will not be able to see even a fragment of this change while I am alive. My only hope is that humanity will last for generations, learning to live in peace, harmony, security and tolerance. Let the future of humanity be free of religion and false customs. Let it be free of the snares of greed. Let it thrive and let it learn to love.

  7 February

  French television channels have managed to accomplish what the home media and television channels have thus far been unable to do—to show how my life has been in the safe house. The French journalists came down to India for it and went to Kolkata to meet my friends and well-wishers. They also took photographs of the meetings and protest marches besides interviewing me over Skype.

  9 February

  The days seem to have fallen into a rut and no matter how much I huff and puff, I cannot seem to propel them even an inch further. They sit sulking, refusing to budge, waiting for the critical 17 February to see if I am allowed to live on in India. If I am not allowed, I do not know what I will do or where I will go. All along I had assumed my visa would be renewed. Now, however, I am not so sure, despite all the reassuring things they have declared in Parliament regarding my visa renewal.

  21 February

  I have not written anything for quite some time. I simply did not feel like writing, what with so much that has happened over the past month. The only thing I have accomplished—I have managed to write a few poems during this time.

  It’s the 21st today, the International Mother Language Day. It used to be celebrated so grandly in Bangladesh! Now I cannot for a moment believe it was my home. Was it ever truly my country? Had I not thought of India, especially West Bengal, as my country too? Now that too is a lie. My dreams, at the cruel mercy of both these nations, have crashed and burnt.

  A hunger strike has been called by some activists demanding my return to Kolkata. The activists, mainly comprising a group of sixty-five to eighty-five-year-old veterans, have set up a makeshift platform at Behala. It warms my heart to see people like Sunando Sanyal and Amlan Dutta there. With talks and speeches lined up throughout the day, the strike will continue till the 23rd.

  I had a very surprising conversation with Enamul Kabir in the morning where he advised me to leave India. Kabir—the convener of the Secular Humanist Collective who has always been by my side and has always supported my decision! When did he change so much? From what he told me, he had sent a letter to Buddhadeb Bhattacharya, along with a copy of his journal Nabamanab (The New Man). Buddhadeb answered both the letters, adding his phone number in the second one. Their ensuing conversation on the telephone had begun with Buddhadeb confessing that things were not looking good. Even without Enamul telling me how the rest of the conversation had gone, it was not difficult to catch the drift of what Enamul was being unable to articulate. Why was I insisting on staying in a place where I had faced only insults? Why had I not already left?

  For a while, I could not come to terms with the fact that it was Enamul who was telling me to leave India. Of course, his reason was that the chief minister of Bengal would never allow me to go back to Kolkata. Bhattacharya had often publicly expressed his wish that I leave. Perhaps I truly should consider it!

  I told Enamul that if one were to observe closely enough, every nation had its flaws. That did not mean the solution was to walk away. Then one would not be able to live anywhere! Tapan Raychaudhuri had given up all his ideals and ethics in the face of power. Enamul has done the same. The former had been in collusion with Mr B while Buddhadeb Bhattacharya has employed the latter.

  Despite such devastating news, the hunger strike in Kolkata has managed to restore some life in me. The State, its politicians, the religious fanatics, the uneducated, the backward, the thief and the rogue—such forces have always spoken against the freedom of expression and they will continue to do so. Similarly, writers, artists and intellectuals have always side
d with truth and freedom. When the opinions of intellectuals begin to resemble the opinions of the government and the fanatics, there is only one thing one can be certain of—that our society has begun to rot.

  I am anxious about the decay that has set in Bengal’s sociopolitical milieu. The hunger strike has managed to allay some of that anxiety.

  22 February

  I was not allowed to meet the French prime minister, but the moment I asked to meet the Swedish ambassador, the request was promptly approved. The ambassador had invited me for lunch, but I did not want to go to the consulate. Once inside the consulate, I would have been under Swedish jurisdiction. What if my captors had refused to bring me back? The ambassador, Lars-Olof Lindgren, made arrangements instead at the Chambers’ Room of the Taj Hotel, much to the delight of my captors. They took an entire suite and laid out an extravagant lunch for us. The reason behind this spectacular display of hospitality was simply to cajole me into leaving India. It was yet another of a series of attempts that my captors have been constantly employing to make me change my decision. Had the ambassador too been coaxed into an arrangement to convince me to go back to Sweden? Otherwise, why should my captors feel the need to make such a festivity out of a simple lunch where other officers and employees of the consulate had also been invited? Thankfully, Lars Lindgren did not attempt to give me any advice whatsoever on my moving back to Sweden. On our way back to the safe house, I could feel my captors, who were hoping for some good news from my side, buzzing with excitement. Realizing that I would not share any information on my own, they simply gave up the pretence and asked: