Exile

by Taslima Nasrin

  P: Who has sent you?

  TN: Kolkata Police.

  P: Why have they sent you?

  TN: I don’t know. They told me I had to go away to Jaipur for two days.

  P: They have informed our CM that you have an event to attend here.

  TN: There is no event.

  They continued talking among themselves in Rajasthani. Time and again, one of them would come up and ask me about the event details only for me to repeat that there was no event. Each time it agitated them and they would ask me the same questions all over again. The crowd of journalists and cameras outside only added to the growing anxiety among the officers. I would not have known about the cameras had I not switched on the television in the hotel room. The news channels were all talking about me—everything from the hotel I was in to the room number; the latter bit of information even I had not been privy to. I parted the curtains to be met with the sight of a mass of cameras, all relentlessly trained towards my window. I began to tremble. Even after knowing that the fanatics were baying for my blood, how could the media reveal my location on national television? Was the point then to invite the extremists to hunt me down and tear me to pieces on live television? A grand adventure they would be able to telecast throughout the day to soaring ratings and viewership?

  Restless, I began to call various people but not a single officer of the Kolkata Police picked up my calls. The police officers in Jaipur could not understand English or Hindi. Confounded, I began to think of ways I could convince the media outside to stop the live updates of my impending doom. Unable to sleep, my thoughts were interrupted by loud banging on the door at about one at night. Calling out, I realized it was the police.

  P: Open the door!

  TN: No, I won’t. Who are you?

  P: I am a senior police officer. You have to leave our state immediately.

  TN: I can’t understand what you are saying.

  P: Open the door!

  TN: I am sorry. But it’s too late and I won’t open the door. Come and speak to me in the morning.

  P: It can’t be said in the morning. You have to leave right now. It’s the CM’s orders.

  TN: Please call me from the reception and we can talk.

  The senior officer called me from the reception.

  P: You have to check out of the hotel right now.

  TN: Where will I go so late at night?

  P: That is entirely your problem.

  TN: There is no flight to Kolkata now.

  P: We don’t know anything about all that. We just know that you cannot stay in Rajasthan.

  TN: Why not?

  P: It might agitate the Muslims in this state. It might escalate to a law-and-order situation. So the CM has ordered you to leave Rajasthan.

  TN: Have there been problems already?

  P: No, but there might be. It’s just a matter of time.

  TN: So, you are asking me to leave based on something that ‘might be’?

  P: Yes.

  TN: Fine, I will leave the hotel. But not before it’s morning. I will go straight to the airport to catch a flight to Kolkata.

  P: We can’t let this go on till morning. You have to leave before that, before sunrise.

  TN: How long before the sunrise?

  P: You have to leave before five.

  TN: Fine, I will.

  P: Come down to the reception at around five minutes to five. A car will be waiting to take you to the airport.

  Hanging up, I felt relief wash over me. It was best that I left such a much-publicized address as soon as possible. Besides, the incident gave me a perfect reason to fly straight back to Kolkata. I tried sleeping for a while but my brother spent the night awake, sitting on the bed. He has always been a lot like our father; if Dad had to go anywhere in the morning, he always used to stay up and wait for the dawn.

  Walking down to the desk at five in the morning, I was met by a throng of policemen and journalists. Pushing through the jostling crowd, the police managed to get me into the car, and the convoy set off—our car, flanked by a row of police cars, and the media bringing up the rear. After a while, when the car showed no signs of stopping or slowing, it began to seem to me that something was not quite right. The airport was not supposed to be so far away! I tried asking: ‘Why is it taking us so long to reach the airport?’

  The police in the car were large, thug-like men with thick moustaches, some in the front seat and some in the rear, with me and my brother in the middle. Getting no answer to my question, I tried again and again, but each time in vain:

  TN: Why is it taking us so long to reach the airport? The airport isn’t so far away!

  P: We are not going to the airport.

  TN: Then where are we going?

  P: To Delhi.

  TN: But why?

  They remained quiet.

  TN: Why am I being taken to Delhi instead of Kolkata? I want to return to Kolkata. Take me to the airport.

  They still remained quiet.

  Assuming they did not speak English I asked my brother, who spoke the language far better than me, to repeat the questions in Hindi. That didn’t yield a different result however: the men began to speak among themselves in Rajasthani, seemingly having forgotten or resolved to ignore our existence in the car.

  The day had begun to break and the car was speeding down the highway, cutting through the sleepy landscape. The police were occasionally looking back to check if we were being followed. All of a sudden one of the men turned around and spoke in Hindi:

  P: We are going to Delhi because those are our orders.

  TN: Whose orders?

  He fell quiet again.

  TN: I am supposed to go back to Kolkata. Why am I being taken to Delhi?

  P: We don’t know anything.

  TN: Why am I being taken to Kolkata?

  The police remained quiet.

  TN: If we are going to Delhi, then why are we going by car? Why not take a flight?

  After repeating the question nearly five times, we were finally given a monosyllabic answer: ‘Security’.

  Meanwhile, I received a call from Kolkata letting me know that a team of representatives from the Delhi bureau of Star Ananda was in pursuit of our car and my ordeal was being telecast live on their channel. We were sure the car had already left Jaipur—we had been told we were headed to Delhi—but we couldn’t figure out where exactly we were going. Soon I received an agitated phone call from one of the journalists following our car:

  Journalist (J): ‘Didi, where are they taking you?’

  TN: I don’t know! They have told me we are headed towards Delhi but I don’t know why.

  J: This is my phone number, didi. Please keep me updated. We are with you every step of the way, please don’t worry.

  TN: I will take the morning flight to Kolkata. That is what I had discussed with the Rajasthan Police. I am confused as to why they are taking me to Delhi now.

  J: We are here; let’s see where things are headed. Don’t worry, have faith in us. Not just me but thousands of people like me deeply respect you, didi!

  The term of endearment he used and the Bengali language served to calm me down a little. The fact that I was not alone in this ordeal, that there was someone with me every step of the way, went a long way in lessening my anxieties for a while.

  After travelling a fair bit, the car suddenly came to a halt at a desolate parking lot behind a motel. Barring one single officer, the rest of them got out and left, without so much as a word, leaving us to wait. None of them came back, however, and half an hour later a new group of officers came and took their place and we set out on our journey again. A while later, I received another call from the journalist I had spoken to earlier:

  J: ‘Didi, the police have dragged us out of our cars and beaten us up. They have herded all of us inside a motel room and locked us in.’

  TN: What are you saying! This is terrible!

  J: They won’t let us follow you.

  TN: But how ca
n they beat people up?

  J: They thrashed us mercilessly.

  TN: How will you guys get out?

  J: We don’t know. It seems they have told the hotel not to unlock the door.

  Eventually, I tried asking the police again where they were taking me to in Delhi and if there was a place that had been designated. There was only one officer in the group, thick moustache and thug-like demeanour, who could answer questions in Hindi, though it did not seem he was interested in answering any of mine.

  P: No. You have to arrange for the place. We will just escort you to Delhi.

  TN: You will hand me over to the police in Delhi, right? As in, hand me over to a security detail?

  P: We will take you to whichever address you want to go in Delhi. Do you know the name of the hotel?

  TN: But I don’t have an address in Delhi!

  P: What do you not have?

  TN: Address!

  I finally decided to call Mr B, the only high-ranking bureaucrat in the Bengal government I knew. A very busy and influential man, before he could ask anything, I informed him of the entire sequence of events.

  TN: They sent me away from Kolkata. I reached Jaipur last night. Now, early in the morning, they are taking me to Delhi. I have been asking them to let me fly back to Kolkata. I don’t know why I am being sent to Delhi so abruptly. They are saying they haven’t spoken to the Delhi police regarding anything. They are asking me where I want to go.

  Mr B assured me he would find out everything about Rajasthan, why I was being sent off to Delhi and let me know very soon. He never did, unfortunately. Instead, his secretary called to inform me that I should tell the Rajasthan Police officers to drop me off at a police station in Delhi where Mr B’s men would pick me up. ‘Then let them take me to the airport directly. I will catch a flight to Kolkata,’ I said to Mr B’s secretary. ‘This is ridiculous. If they don’t want me to stay in Jaipur for two days, then they might as well just let me get back to Kolkata. Wouldn’t that solve every problem? Now I have to go to Delhi first, and then to Kolkata. Was all this necessary?’ The secretary simply made a non-committal noise. I continued, ‘Is the airport very far from Delhi city? I don’t remember too well. I can catch a flight today itself, can’t I?’

  ‘Reach Delhi first. We will take it from there,’ she replied.

  Yet again, the car stopped en route and the officers left abruptly, this time all of them. They came back a while later, now dressed in plain clothes. As I sat wondering why they had taken their uniforms off, my brother informed me in a hoarse whisper that they had taken off the number plates of the cars too. Turning around on my seat, I realized that at least the car in front and the one behind were also missing their number plates. At the same time, I could overhear two stocky officers telling the others to hide their rifles so that no one could guess they were carrying firearms. This done, they turned towards us menacingly to tell us to switch our mobile phones off. Before I could protest, one of them shouted, ‘You still haven’t switched it off? Do it right now!’ The policeman who was driving glanced back, and I could not figure out if the gaze was predatory, resentful or plain angry.

  The long day passed and yet Delhi was nowhere in sight. Suddenly, glancing at the signposts by the road I realized that we were, in fact, going the other way, away from Delhi. Eventually, the car turned off the main road and took a circuitous route through fields, ditches and farmlands, navigation almost becoming impossible. My throat was already parched from a paralysing fear that had begun to take hold, and I started to suspect that these men were not police officers at all but goons who had kidnapped me. Were these agents of the ISI (Inter-Services Intelligence) or something like that? They had kidnapped me from Jaipur by some clever ruse and were taking me to a jungle in some distant village where they would dump my dead body; I would rot there and no one would ever know—a million such thoughts were racing through my head.

  We had long since turned away from Delhi and it was obviously not possible to find out where we were being taken. The men were talking to each other in Rajasthani, glancing at us from time to time. The driver was still staring at me as if he could eat me alive, also making sure if I was where I was, if the other men were where they should be, if the car following us was fine, and if there was any other vehicle in pursuit. I was convinced by then that these men were my soon-to-be assassins—my phone was switched off, my brother was scared stiff, I was silent, the cars had no plates, and the laughing policemen were not in uniform. There clearly was no point in asking them anything and I could not send a surreptitious text to anyone either. Discussing anything with my brother was already out of the question. Soon we reached a lone, desolate house in the middle of nowhere. Not a single other human being in sight, we were led inside a room and asked to wait. Feeling my blood pressure rising ever so gradually, I stole into the bathroom and made a furtive distress call to an acquaintance of Mr B: ‘I think I have been kidnapped. I’m sure these are Islamic radicals. They have brought me to this abandoned house in the middle of a jungle, far away from Delhi, to kill me. I’m so scared.’ The acquaintance consulted Mr B and informed me after a while that they did not believe I had been kidnapped, and asked me to remain calm. Their words somehow managed to reassure me and I took a deep breath to calm myself. For the past few hours, fear and anxiety had ravaged my nerves. I let go of the breath I seemed to have held back in the car and tried to relax.

  One of the men came back to inform us that a few police officers were on their way from Jaipur to meet me. The mortal fear I had felt at the sight of these men, like a vulture perched on my head and boring into my skull, was no longer there. At dinner, they informed me that they had taken off the number plates and changed their clothes to evade the journalists who had been following us, to ensure that no one could identify the car I was in. They also explained why the plan of taking me directly to Delhi had been altered. I must admit I could not fathom the reason for this degree of secrecy that made it necessary for all this to happen without my knowledge. I have never been good at subterfuge. Besides, linguistic barriers can be a huge impediment to human interactions.

  We set off for Delhi quite peacefully, accompanied by four officers. One of them, fortuitously, turned out to be Bengali and I spent much of the journey talking to him, learning a lot of things I had previously not been aware of—especially about the BJP-led government in Rajasthan and its female CM, Vasundhara Raje.

  The car finally came to a stop in front of the Rajasthan House in Delhi. Despite the security precautions taken to avoid the journalists, there was still a sea of cameras we had to wade through as I was escorted out of the car and taken to a suite on the first floor of the building. There I was to stay the night, before being moved to a safe house the day after, or so Mr B told me over the phone. He also informed me that someone was already on their way with clothes, etc.

  TN: Why clothes?

  B: Won’t you need some? Have you got any with you?

  TN: No, I just have my laptop.

  B: You will be provided clothes and anything else you might need. The officers will reach you shortly. They will take care of you.

  TN: But I am supposed to return to Kolkata. I don’t need clothes or anything else; I can return tomorrow if that’s all right. I can pass this one night in what I have.

  B: No, you can’t come back to Kolkata right now. You will be taken to another house tomorrow. We have made all the arrangements.

  TN: Another house?

  B: Yes, a safe house.

  TN: But . . .

  B: Stay there. The food and everything else will be good, I assume. There won’t be any problems, and call me if you need anything.

  TN: Fine.

  The food was indeed good. All of us sat down for dinner in the drawing room of the suite booked for me.

  The next morning, a couple of central government officers arrived as promised, some old and some young. It became apparent soon enough that the officers from Jaipur were not taking very kin
dly to the new arrivals, picking fights and skirmishes constantly. My brother had immersed himself in television, especially the Bengali news channels where constant news updates of me were being telecast, and burning questions were being asked about my well-being and whereabouts. I was asked by Mr B’s officers to stay strictly away from the media, warning me of the possible dangers if I revealed anything to the journalists. On the other hand, the officers from Jaipur had drawn me aside to tell me to talk to at least a select few journalists from the many who had been camping outside my doors for over a day. Dazed and confused, pulled in two directions by two opposing demands, I decided to stick to what Mr B’s officers had asked me to do, simply because of his involvement.

  The officers from Jaipur had initially told me that they would go back to Rajasthan the next day, after my departure for the safe house. The next day, however, the officers from Delhi came and informed me that it would take them another day to find a suitable safe house. Forced to stay behind, the entire set-up around me too—the police, the journalists stationed outside, my brother parked in front of the TV—fell into a simple routine. While most of the news telecasts were primarily discussing my plight and how I had been driven out of Kolkata, Star Ananda had apparently sent a team to Bangladesh, to interview my family and relatives back in Mymensingh. My brother, already overwhelmed, looked equally elated and saddened on seeing his wife and children after such a long ordeal.

  The central government officers, meanwhile, had been persistent in their warnings against interacting with the media, just as their Jaipur counterparts were trying to make me do the opposite. At one point, taking advantage of the former’s absence, the latter had allowed a photographer to enter my room under the guise of an official photographer for the Rajasthan House. I have later seen in newspapers the photos he took. Similarly, without even asking me, they allowed Barkha Dutt of NDTV inside my room in the dead of night—knowing fully well that I had refused all the other journalists without a word, had stopped taking phone calls or listening to people’s requests. Shocked at the sudden intrusion of a journalist and a camera in my room, I firmly stood my ground and refused to give in. Needless to say, the officers from Jaipur were surprised that I could not recognize Dutt, one of India’s most well-known journalists. To be honest, I did not recognize her, just as I had not known who Karan Thapar was before meeting him. When Karan had initially asked for an interview, I had bluntly refused and he had had to travel to Kolkata instead. Not even during the interview had I realized I was talking to someone renowned. It was not until later, after I had heard more about him, read his columns for the Hindustan Times and seen his show The Devil’s Advocate on CNN-IBN that I had gathered how famous he was.