The AIMIM leaders from Hyderabad were specially invited for a public meeting at Esplanade in Kolkata. There, in broad daylight, they decided upon the price on my head. When the public demanded to know how much the prize money should be, a leader from the pulpit declared it would be five lakh rupees. Immediately, one of the delegates from Hyderabad corrected him: ‘Unlimited!’ The leaders on stage cheered along with the jubilant cries of the hundreds of people who had gathered, and passed the fatwa unanimously. This entire scene transpired right in front of many senior police officers who were present at the meeting. The radicals came, declared their verdict with complete impunity, and left. Not a single ripple appeared anywhere. Isn’t it a truly charmed life they live in India?
There were two things I especially noticed after returning from Hyderabad. Stringent security measures had been adopted for me, including more policemen at the front gate. Anyone wishing to see me was asked to leave their details behind with the security before being granted access. The other thing that became increasingly clear was that they had strict orders not to allow me to go out of the house. If I wanted to go anywhere, I would be told that it required permission from their senior officer. Then this senior officer would be called, but the permission would never arrive. After this had gone on for a few days, it became clear that I had been placed under house arrest. Friends were allowed to visit me but I was not allowed to go out—not to the market, to see a friend or even visit an ailing well-wisher. This was, of course, all new for me and I simply assumed that it would return to normal in a few days. But as days passed, that possibility seemed to diminish. Meanwhile, I had been invited to Taiwan for a poetry festival and I needed to go to the travel agency to make arrangements for my trip. Not that I really had to go to the agency myself, it could easily have been solved over email. However, just to see the city, to breathe in the outside air, to taste freedom again, I wanted to go out. I know how precious freedom is; I know its taste, its fragrance and its touch well. It has a primal call, one that makes the blood boil over; much like the raging untameable sea. However, I also realized another simple thing. Letting me go to the travel agency was a clear indication that while I was free to fly off to wherever I wished, my movements at home would never be free.
The police who were on guard were regularly given tea and food from the house. I would get biscuits for them, mishti doi and other sweets from Mithai, various snacks and munchies, home-made noodles, mango or orange shakes, and tea. I made sure they were well-tended to and treated like guests; I left books and magazines for them to read, bought two fans for the summer, besides chairs and myriad other things. Sometimes, they would come into the living room to watch cricket matches on TV; one of them even began taking his afternoon siesta on the sofa after lunch. Two of the men, Sankar and Tapan, had become like family I suppose. The posting at my house was supposedly regarded as a lucrative one among the policemen, many of them furiously competing for it. They would be devastated when transferred and requests would pour in for glowing letters of recommendation.
Just to understand whether the government had altered its stance on the matter, I began making requests for permission to go out, every week and a half or so. On one such forlorn afternoon, I informed Sankar I wanted to go out. ‘Where do you want to go?’ It struck me how much things had changed all of a sudden. They never used to be so blunt; I would usually get into the car and tell them where I wanted to go.
Surprised, I composed myself and calmly replied: ‘Behala. I wish to visit Dipankar da.’ Sankar and Tapan had somehow integrated themselves into my life. They had welcomed me into their home too, had invited me to dinner, and had even begun treating my home as their own. I realized that all of these comfortable certainties had been upturned, all relationships, codes, faith had been compromised irrevocably. All that remained was an enormous question mark that lay hanging over me like a pall, growing and becoming more sinister every day. Sankar left the room silently, leaving me to wait and wonder. After about half an hour or so, he came back only to inform me rather robotically:
Sankar (S): You don’t have permission to go there.
Taslima Nasrin (TN) : And why not?
S: I don’t know.
TN: But you should! Why will I not be permitted to go to Behala today?
S: I told the officer-in-charge. He informed our senior officer. The senior officer called back after a while to say it can’t be allowed.
TN: Why? Why can’t it be allowed?
S: He did not tell us why.
TN: Why didn’t he? Please ask him. Tell him I am very curious to know the reason why it can’t be allowed.
Yet again, Sankar left the room silently, this time not returning either as a man or as a robot to inform me about the reason.
A few days later, I had to urgently go to Salt Lake to visit Shibnarayan Ray who was unwell. The senior officer’s decree, however, arrived soon enough:
Senior Officer (SO): No, that’s not possible.
TN: Why not?
SO: Because Salt Lake is outside our jurisdiction.
TN: But I have visited Salt Lake before! Jurisdiction has never been an issue!
The men remained silent, a peculiar mix of expressions on their faces—fear, anxiety and a certain amount of uncertainty.
I had not visited Birati in sometime, it was imperative that I go. Yet again, the same order: ‘Not Possible.’ One senior officer informs his senior who passes the request on to yet another senior; and thus the wheels of judgement keep turning. Next, I informed them that I wanted to go to Howrah:
SO: No, not possible.
TN: This is within Kolkata, isn’t it? So, what is the problem now?
SO: We haven’t been informed.
TN: Who will go to the market? Should I starve?
SO: We don’t know. All we know is that we can’t let you go out.
TN: I can’t even go to the market by myself any more?
SO: We have orders; it can’t be allowed.
TN: Why?
SO: We don’t know why.
TN: It is your senior officer’s decision?
SO: Yes.
It seemed to me the decision had, in fact, come from higher up.
These changes were visible elsewhere too. Some professors of Allahabad University had invited me to a seminar. They had been trying for quite a few years and I had only just accepted, much to their elation. As soon as the news of the Hyderabad incident broke, they wrote a letter informing me that the event had been cancelled. Of course, the letter did not bother to mention a reason—I guess they assumed I would understand why. What they were perhaps unaware of is that although I understood rather well the real reasons behind the tantrums thrown by the fundamentalists, I have never managed to understand why academics, authors, cultural luminaries, the government and its politicians, all cower and bow in response. Rather, perhaps I do understand but have never managed to accept it.
As if one fatwa had not been enough for life to become unbearable, another was issued by popular singer Kabir Suman, the erstwhile Suman Chattopadhyay. He appeared on television with a copy of my book and read out all the damaging things I had written against the Prophet. He did not stop there but went on to read out the relevant page numbers, ending with a fervent endorsement of the new fatwa. Truth be told, Suman has perhaps become so zealously Islamic only after having converted to Islam. As the saying goes, neo-Muslims are nearly always a tad more radicalized than the most ardent fundamentalist. If I am to be absolutely honest, I did not fear the threats made against me by the Islamic radicals as much as the fatwa issued by Kabir Suman. He repeatedly claimed that I had written heinous things against his Prophet—this was the same angry, fearsome Suman who had always been known to be an atheist, who had written songs insulting God. I do not believe Suman has any faith whatsoever in Islam or the Prophet. His politics has always been communal.
I remember how I spent that night—the first time I felt such fear that I bolted all the doors and windows shut,
but still failed to get any sleep. The only true fatwa that had been issued against me had been by Suman and not the radicalized Islamic groups of Kolkata. The latter could never prove their allegations, could never clearly state where and how I had insulted Islam. Suman, on the other hand, had faced the camera armed with my book, read sections out to the audience, explained to them the insulting things I had written in the pages of Dwikhandito. That night, any radical pro-Islamic activist could have resolved to kill me for my crimes, even at the cost of their own lives. Who had been responsible for that? It had not been a zealot. Instead, it had been a renowned artist with a reputation for being progressive and liberal.
These memories seem too fantastic at times, almost suffocating, making me crave for a breath of free air. The people I had expected to find beside me when I was under fire were the ones who turned against me. In fact, they stunned me with further attacks, leaving me completely and utterly alone. I could feel the ground slip from beneath me; people who had found nothing wrong with my writing or my ideology had become my biggest critics. Even those who were known to be stringent detractors of religion seemed to have a problem with my point of view.
I could feel invisible shackles on my feet as I walked—the imaginary sounds were a constant reminder of where and how far I was allowed to go. I was never someone who could turn a blind eye to a wrong, and here I was under house arrest without having committed a crime! A hundred nerve endings were screaming for rebellion, not letting me rest, making me pace to and fro in the beloved house which had begun to resemble a beautiful prison. Those who came to visit would hear about my predicament, make all the appropriate sounds of pity, and then be on their way. Perhaps there was truly nothing they could have done; and if they could have, they were not sure if they should.
One day, wishing to test how far the restrictions had been extended, I informed the police that I wished to meet Jyoti Basu. The request was immediately conveyed to the higher authorities. For all intents and purposes, there had been no real need for me to meet Jyoti Basu; he had simply been the only person in the city who I could wish to visit and perhaps not have the request turned down. The former chief minister of West Bengal was also one of the founding members of the CPI(M) and had been with the party since its inception, besides having served a nearly twenty-three-year term as chief minister. A remarkable individual, he agreed immediately when I requested the meeting. The thought never occurred to him that he should refuse, given that his party had orchestrated the ban of my book, and then had placed me under house arrest instead of being on my side after I was attacked in Hyderabad. Nor did he inquire why I wanted to meet him or what I wished to speak about.
I did not have to wait long for the incumbent CM’s approval either. The news arrived soon enough, bringing a smiling Sankar in its stride. They were all fond of me, these men; my incarceration a difficult situation for them too. Regular government employees, none of them had any stake in the government’s decrees, nor any clout to alter them.
I bought a huge bouquet of flowers, a lot of sweets and mishti doi from Mithai, and set off for Indira Bhavan. Having repeatedly fallen prey to enforced captivity, these small spells of freedom had become a source of exhilaration. On reaching Indira Bhavan, we were informed by Jaikrishna, Basu’s closest aide, that the latter would not eat any of the sweets, so it would be unnecessary to unload them from the car. They could have been given away to guests I suppose, but faced with Jaikrishna’s stern cautiousness I did not wish to argue. I was taken inside and asked to wait. Soon enough he arrived, wearing a green lungi and a white kurta, the familiar mysterious and inscrutable smile on his lips. Despite my awe, our conversation went smoothly, almost lulling me into believing for a moment that I could speak so easily to someone of his stature. As it is, I have never been particularly adept at conversing with politicians, because I understand so little of politics. I have never consciously tried to chat up a renowned public personality, only sharing information or satisfying curiosities when someone has voluntarily expressed interest in me. This is not because of any arrogance on my part, but simply reticence. I have always felt it best to express one’s admiration from afar rather than insinuate oneself into someone’s busy life. At the same time, there have been instances when, despite my reservations, I have had to break my self-imposed rules—when figures like François Mitterrand, Jacques Chirac, Lionel Jospin or Simone Veil have wished to meet me, or when I have been summoned by the greats, Günter Grass and Allen Ginsberg.
Not that a relationship of any sort has ever developed with any of them! I have met them, had sterling conversations, and received much warmth and welcome. The farewell, however, has usually been a permanent one. I have always been rather tardy when it comes to keeping in touch with people. The important people too, quite expectedly, don’t come around the second time. Seven years earlier, that was exactly how I had met Jyoti Basu. I had never expressed any interest to anyone about it, but all of a sudden I had been informed that he wished to meet me—in fact, even the date had been set! Undoubtedly a well-wisher, perhaps having thought excessively highly of me, had arranged for it. Nonetheless, I had been beset with worry about what to say to such a great personality; I was unsure of my worth, completely ignorant about anything political. Despite all my apprehensions, Jyoti Basu had visited me with his wife, and had spoken to me as if I had been known to them for a lifetime. Only a truly great man could have spoken to a complete stranger with such warmth and openness, and I remember thinking he was someone I could meet again. Not that we had spoken about ethics or politics! Instead, he had regaled me with these amazing stories, fragments of joy and sorrow, episodes from his childhood and teenage years.
After my book was banned by the Government of West Bengal, an undemocratic act violating the freedom of speech and expression, I had assumed Jyoti Basu would be in favour of the ban, in solidarity with his political party. However, much to my surprise, he had spoken out against the ban. I have never felt the need to touch someone’s feet to show respect, and neither had I done so with him. However, every time I had met him, I had tried to express my immense admiration and respect for him in my own faltering way. He had perhaps never been aware of how great a gesture it had been on his part to have gone against his party’s dictates—it gave us, those of us who had been fighting for the right to speak and express ourselves freely, immense courage and fortitude. He had many detractors, there were many who called him arrogant. Perhaps he had been truly so. Nevertheless, when I heard his comments against the ban, I do not remember thinking him to be arrogant. Instead, I remember finding him intelligent and wise. No other communist leader had spoken even a word against the decisions of the party, regardless of their personal viewpoint or the fairness of the decree. That perhaps had been the saddest thing of all, to have to renounce one’s agency and common sense in order to be part of a mindless political organization. Despite there being no place for organized religion within the ranks of communism, the powerful Marxists ruling West Bengal banned my book because I had hurt religious sentiments, thereby firmly planting the flag of divisive communal politics on the pyre of democratic rights. The victory had been so definitive for the fundamentalists that it had enabled them to march in violent protest and set prices on my head in public.
At a time when I had been a pariah for the communist leaders of West Bengal, when I had just become a banned name, a problem that could unsettle the Muslim vote bank, Jyoti Basu had met me. In turn, I had never complained about anyone to him. We had simply sat and talked, him narrating tales of his village in Bangladesh, family and friends, and his childhood and adolescent years. He had told me stories about the Partition, the ensuing communal violence, the Bangladesh Liberation War, and finally Independence. He had talked to me about my writing and its historical relevance.
Except Jyoti Basu though, as the days passed, I was not allowed to meet anyone else in India. They let me go abroad however, first to the poetry festival in Taipei and then to Paris. I could also feel
, each time, that my return was less than welcome. In Kolkata there was no change in my solitary, confined life, making me wish I could demand to know how much longer they were planning to keep me in captivity. There was no one to answer my questions though, leaving me to writhe in the dark, invisible shackles on my feet. There is this curious thing about shackles—the only people who know their story are the ones wearing them or the ones who put them on.
Conversations
He came to meet me one sudden September evening when, trapped in my own home and forbidden from looking at the world outside, it felt as if moss was about to cover my skin, and my soul seemed like the desolate, overgrown yard of a haunted house. Prasun Mukherjee, the commissioner of Kolkata Police (shortened to CP just as Buddhadeb Bhattacharya was the CM). I had been warned in advance by Vineet Goel, director general of special branch of Kolkata Police, that the CP wished to see me, and he arrived within ten minutes of the call. I was obviously taken aback that such an important man was visiting me, and try as I might I could not figure out a satisfactory reason for the visit. So, I assumed it was a routine one since I was so important to them and they were giving me such fantastic round-the-clock security. Two other senior police officials had previously visited me to make sure I was not worried and to assure me of the security arrangements. One of them, the rather handsome Shamim Ahmed, had told me in passing, ‘The people who attacked you in Hyderabad are not the sort one should trifle with. All of them are highly educated people with degrees from foreign universities; they speak such fluent English that you would often think they are not Indian.’ His reverence and admiration for them had been quite palpable; apparently the men had been from the famed Owaisi family of Hyderabad.
Exile Page 6
