Split

by Taslima Nasrin

  Around the time Golam Azam was released, the people’s court of the Ghatak Dalal Nirmul Committee was vandalized, mikes were torn off and the police beat back the crowd with sticks, injuring numerous innocent people. It seemed the country did not belong to us any more—we who were trying to hold on to the ideals represented by Rafiq, Salam, Barkat and Jabbar, the martyrs of the Language Movement in 1952, and the numerous muktijoddhas who had fought for the independence of Bangladesh. The country was gradually becoming Golam Azam’s and spinning out of control. The enemies of freedom defaced lines by Rabindranath, Jibanananda Das and Nazrul written on the wall beside the Sahid Minar, darkening the slogan ‘Banglar Hindu, Banglar Bouddho, Banglar Krishtan, Banglar Mussalman, Amra Sobai Bangali’ (Hindus of Bengal, Buddhists of Bengal, Christians of Bengal, Muslims of Bengal, we are all Bengali). It seemed there was much more destruction in store for us, and I could not help but wish we went deaf or blind before anything else happened.

  ~

  To protest the fatwas declared on women in the various villages the Mahila Parisad took out a protest rally. The women sat down on the road in front of the Press Club holding placards with slogans of the Parisad, while their leaders took to the stage and gave powerful speeches naming all the women on whom random fatwas had been declared. Not a single person mentioned my name. The Mahila Sangram Parisad was the biggest women’s rights organization in the country. Even though Sufia Kamal was its titular head it was Maleka Begum who ran things. Begum was a writer on women’s issues, had written quite a few books on the subject and was a long-time women’s rights activist. She could be described as one among the few feminist leaders of the country.

  One day she paid me a sudden visit. I was so overwhelmed that I almost hugged her in joy! Back in the day when I had just begun writing columns we had run into each other a few times and she had always encouraged me with ‘You are writing so well, keep at it, keep writing’. Her husband Motiur Rahman had been the editor of the Communist Party’s paper Ekata before becoming the editor of Bhorer Kagaj. Both were renowned socialist leaders and I used to admire them no end but on many occasions some incidents concerning them had been nothing short of shocking. After winning the Ananda Puraskar when I had gone to Maleka Begum’s house to share my happiness with her she had acerbically remarked, ‘It’s common knowledge how easy awards are to come by when you are on good terms with Sunil.’ She had not been happy with my win, had been convinced that since I was not fit for such an award on my own merit Sunil Gangopadhyay must have pulled strings on my behalf. I had felt terribly alone all of a sudden and walked out of her house in silence.

  The Ananda Puraskar had been a double-edged sword; it had cut a swathe through a large chunk of my well-wishers, slashing the number almost down to zero. On another occasion, seeing her at a demonstration at the court with her group demanding the death penalty for Khuku, I had been too stunned to fathom what Maleka Begum was after. After the papers had published details of Khuku’s ‘illicit’ relationship with Munir everyone had turned against the woman and demanded her death. Instead of standing by Khuku the representatives of the Mahila Parisad had gone and vocally demanded capital punishment for her. The same Maleka Begum was at my house!

  ‘I’ve come to see you. How are you?’

  I smiled weakly. Surely she could guess how I was.

  ‘I thought I should drop by once. With all that is happening around the country I am so worried about you. The mullahs are going way too far.’

  ‘Yes. Who knows what will happen to this country.’

  Suddenly she began to laugh. I was staring at her in astonishment. Composing herself, she said, ‘I have been associated with the women’s movement for thirty years, and it’s you whose name spreads across the world as a feminist activist.’

  Embarrassed by my own fame I did not know where to look. As if becoming famous was the worst and most shameful thing I could have done. I would have been happiest had I been able to deny my fame. It was my fault that everyone knew my name.

  Maleka Begum was a very intelligent woman, or else how could she have known what was in my heart! ‘No, it’s not your fault. It’s the mullahs who are making you famous.’ Laughing again she continued, ‘In fact you should thank them.’

  Trying to dispel my discomfort I stood up from the chair saying, ‘You must have tea. Let me go and ask them to make some.’

  After finishing the tea she said, ‘Taslima, at such a time we can support you and fight on your behalf, only if you join our organization.’

  ‘Your organization? You want me to join the Parisad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After a moment of strained silence I replied, ‘Maleka aapa, are you saying unless I join the Parisad you can’t protest the fatwa against me or the movement that the mullahs have begun? You fight for women, I write on behalf of women . . .’

  ‘It’s just that you’re a little controversial.’

  ‘So what? Don’t speak up for me if you don’t wish to, but can’t you even protest an injustice?’

  After some time Maleka Begum excused herself and got up to leave. She had understood that I was not going to join the Mahila Parisad just to get their support. Despite that, on her way out she offered me time to reconsider. I had read many of Maleka Begum’s books but not once had it seemed to me that she was someone who could make compromises easily or be starkly irrational under trying circumstances.

  ~

  I received an invitation from Reporters Sans Frontières and Arte TV of France to visit Paris to attend a television special on the freedom of the press. I had only read about Paris and heard about it from others; never had I dreamt that I would one day get an opportunity to go there. I informed the organizers that I would be unable to attend since I did not have a passport. It had been a year and a half since they had taken it away and chances were slim that they were going to give it back to me any time soon. But to my immense surprise my passport was returned to me. After the news of the fatwa spread around the world it was the most surprising thing that happened to me.

  Around the time when protests were being held abroad in support of my freedom of expression and my rights as a citizen, an officer from the American consulate named Andrew came to meet me one day. He asked me a bunch of questions regarding how my passport was taken away, when, by whom, and then left just as suddenly as he had arrived. Then on another occasion he visited me again to speak about the passport. Barely two weeks after that Andrew called me and asked me to pick up my passport from the passport office. Never had I seen this sort of magic before and I could not help but wonder how the US consulate had managed to achieve something I had failed at accomplishing in a year and a half! I was ecstatic on getting my passport back, not because I could go abroad but because my rights as a citizen had finally been restored to me.

  ~

  The fatwa was creating a lot of uproar everywhere. Editorials were being written in well-known foreign papers on the issue, writers, journalists and scholars were protesting and members of women’s groups, human rights organizations and writers’ associations were eager to offer me their help. This fatwa managed to make me a known name the world over, but the other fatwa that no one got to know about was the one declared on Mother from the pir’s house.

  The place had been Mother’s refuge. For years she had gone there to listen to stories of Allah and forget about her own troubles. Ever since Hasina had taken up the reins of the family Mother had effectively been reduced to an extra person in Abakash. After I moved to Shantibag she would visit me to forget her sorrows, not that she managed to find that elusive happiness in my company either. So even from Dhaka she would often go off to the pir’s house. After Bhalobasha was born Yasmin had spent a few months in Abakash with her infant daughter and then moved to Dhaka. In order to take care of the child Mother had moved too. However, after settling in, Mother had realized that besides the lack of space for so many people the commotion of a baby in the house was not letting me write or sleep. So she
had decided to return to Mymensingh.

  Of course, the other reason behind her decision to return was a desire to save my money. Whether it was Yasmin taking care of the expenses or I, certain overheads had to be met and raising a baby was not cheap. After Suhrid was born he had been Mother’s responsibility and the same had been the case for Bhalobasha. Mother had assumed that the way Father had helped out with Suhrid—with pure milk and chicken soup for the baby—would also happen with Bhalobasha. She was not completely unnecessary at Abakash despite the reins of the family having passed to someone else, she had a granddaughter to raise and she was still going to be accorded some respect—all these were things she had assumed. But her status as an unimportant and peripheral member of the family had not changed. The way a grandson had been important to Father had not been reflected in his attitude towards Bhalobasha. As for Hasina, effectively the new matriarch of the family, no one was more important to her than her two children—in fact, other children were only an inconvenience. Her husband’s and her daughter-in-law’s behaviour used to drive Mother to the pir’s fairly often.

  After the passing of Pir Besharatullah the mantle had passed to his son Musa. But even Musa could not live to enjoy the life of a pir for long and died of heart disease abruptly, passing the responsibility on to Besharatullah’s grandson, Fajli khala’s son Mohammad. It was Mohammad who issued a fatwa on Mother that was supported by all the other members of the house. The fatwa: Mother was not allowed to enter the pir’s house any more. Her crime? She had given birth to a kaffir named Taslima Nasrin and was yet to cut all familial ties with her. These were her crimes and she was given a choice: cast me aside or cut ties with the pir’s house.

  Mother took Fajli khala aside and inquired, ‘Fajli, how can I cut ties with my own daughter? Is that even possible?’

  ‘You have cut ties with her, borobu! Your daughter is a kaffir. You can’t have relations with a kaffir! Then you will be a kaffir too.’

  ‘You are calling me a kaffir?’

  ‘Children are nothing but illusions in this world. In the end you have to return to Allah. For the sake of blood if you accept a kaffir as a daughter then let me tell you Allah won’t forgive you. It’s in the Quran, if you keep relations with them I will cast you to the fires of dokhaj.’

  ‘Nasrin is very kind to people. She is so generous. She writes against offences and injustices committed against women. She helps so many poor girls with money. Will she not get Allah’s forgiveness?’

  Fajli khala’s voice hardened. ‘No. There is no forgiveness. She will go to hell. She does not believe in Allah. Borobu, you know very well she has written horrible things about the Quran. She has said the Quran was written by men. That our Prophet was a libertine. That Allah doesn’t exist. Astaghfirullah!’

  ‘Fajli, your brother doesn’t give me any money. He keeps driving me away from Mymensingh time and again. If I don’t go to Nasrin where will I go?’

  ‘What do I know of that! The simple thing is, if you want to continue coming to this house then even glancing at a kaffir’s face is forbidden. And if you maintain relations with a kaffir then this house is forbidden.’

  Unable to bear it any more Mother broke down in tears. She wept and lamented, but none of it made any difference to Fajli khala. She was thrown out of the pir’s house and was asked never to go anywhere near it again.

  This and That

  Mother moved to Dhaka with Bhalobasha. Since Yasmin kept nine-to-five hours, the child was mostly Mother’s responsibility. Bhalobasha—Srotosshini Bhalobasha. I had chosen the name although Milan had been none too happy about it at first.

  ‘How is that even a name? I have never heard of a name like Bhalobasha.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘People will laugh.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Once she grows up boys will tease her.’

  ‘So what?’

  Milan’s mother had chosen Mosammat Afisa Khatun and had Yasmin not changed her mind at the last minute that would have stuck. Almost waging a rebellion in favour of my choice she had managed to get her way in the end. Everyone adoringly called the cherubic girl Bhalobasha. The sight of her tottering about the house on her tiny feet gladdened my heart. She would climb on to my lap, press a key on the computer and erase my writing. But I could feel no anger towards her; for Bhalobasha I only ever felt love.

  ~

  Mother’s nomadic life did not quite find the stability she had expected in the Shantinagar apartment. She wanted stability but there was no one to give it to her. At Abakash she had to live by Father’s rules and at Shantinagar she had to live by mine. Trapped in the middle she continued to drift like she always had. She did not like Nahid. The foremost reason for that was that Nahid smoked and was getting me to smoke too; on top of that Mother was convinced Nahid was not a trustworthy friend. I usually told her off and asked her to not say such things against Nahid, and Mother would dip out of sight and cry. I had given her instructions that Nahid could come and go as she pleased and that she should never be disrespected. To be fair, no one had ever shown any disrespect to Nahid in my house, but it was Nahid who always looked for opportunities to tell me how none of my family members had shown her any courtesy, how it had taken them a long time to let her in, or how they had not given her anything to eat or shown her disdain in some way.

  Usually Mother bore the brunt of my anger after such conversations. However, one day it was Nahid who I got annoyed with. One night Neepa and her mother came by the house to complain about Nahid. After the two of them had met at my house Nahid and Neepa had become friends and Nahid spent the night at Neepa’s on occasion. The last time she had stayed over, while sleeping on the same bed at night, Nahid had repeatedly touched Neepa in the dark and had at one point tried to take her clothes off. After hearing about the whole incident Neepa’s mother had come to ask me to tell Nahid never to set foot in their house again. This was not reason enough to be suspicious of Nahid or to be angry with her. Nahid was possibly homosexual, something I had been unaware of. Nahid had never told me, she had chosen to conceal it. She had every right to conceal personal information and there was nothing wrong with that.

  What sparked my suspicion, though, was an article about my relationship with K that came out in the papers. Such pieces were hardly surprising given how everyone knew about the two of us. But the article described an incident where I had hit K and he had left my house with his shirt torn. Not this exact incident but something quite similar had actually happened and Nahid had been a witness to it. There had been no one else at home at that point of time who could have taken the story to the papers. The moment I read the story I lost all faith in Nahid. She was no longer welcome at home. She tried everything to get in touch with me but failed to change my mind.

  It was fine if they were writing about my personal life in the papers. That was a regular thing for them and it barely made any difference to me any more. The yellow press was usually adept at mixing one kernel of truth with several fragments from various lies to concoct salacious stories about my personal life. In the beginning I used to get upset and angry, or at least worried, but eventually I could only spare a passing glance at such stories. I had accepted Nahid as a friend but I did not want her to remain in my life as a spy. She could have written about me herself or spoken to a journalist—I would not have minded the ensuing criticism. But why hide it from me? As soon as I realized that she was saying one set of things to me and a completely contrary set of things to other people, I also realized that no matter what else, she could not be my friend. I did not like people who changed their statements depending on who they were talking to, and neither did I want such people coming to my house.

  When I let Gauri Rani Das stay at my house, Mother warned me, ‘Letting a perfect stranger live here, is that wise?’ I snapped at her and asked her to be quiet. ‘You don’t have to worry about who I am going to allow in this house. It’s my house.’ Even to my ears my voice sounded like Father’s.
Father too used to remind me at least twice a day that Abakash was his house. Gauri Rani Das was a gang rape survivor and I had written a column in the newspaper in her support asking for suitable punishment for the accused. Somehow word about me had reached Gauri Rani and she came to my house for shelter. She had filed a case against the rapists and needed a place to stay in Dhaka and it was impossible for me to turn the helpless woman away. So I asked her to stay and eat at my house for as long as she needed to; if she required financial assistance for the case that too she could ask without hesitation.

  Gauri Rani moved into my house and was given a queen’s welcome. In a week or two, Mother complained about a smell in the house that refused to lessen no matter what was done. According to her the smell was coming off Gauri Rani and I shouted at her for being mean and narrow-minded and asked her to shut up. Then one day I realized that the smell was indeed coming off Gauri Rani and even after she would take baths the stench remained. I had sensed the smell before too but had never expected that Mother’s deduction could be so accurate. Although the stench continued to grow stronger it was impossible for me to ask Gauri to leave. Instead I made arrangements to have her clothes washed, which Minu did with her nose covered. But the smell remained, disappearing only the day Gauri left.

  ‘Organize a huge dinner, my friends are coming over.’

  ‘Cooking’s done! But there are seven more people joining us. Seven girls from the garment mills are coming to eat at home.’

  ‘You’ll have to leave for a while. Someone is coming from Calcutta and will stay here for five days.’

  ‘We need to get some alcohol. My poet friends want to drink.’

  ‘There will be loud music. Very loud, as loud as my heart desires.’

  ‘Don’t make any noise. It disturbs my writing.’

  ‘There’s a party going on till two in the night! Who cares! This is my house, this will go on all night if need be.’