22 December
‘In response to demands from a few religious fundamentalists, India’s democratic and secular government has placed a writer of international repute under virtual house arrest. Shorn of all cant, that is what the Centre’s treatment of Taslima Nasreen amounts to. She was forced into exile from her native Bangladesh because of the books she had written and it looks as if the UPA government is about to repeat the same gesture by placing intolerable restrictions on her stay in India.
‘She is living under guard in an undisclosed location. She will not be allowed to come out in public or meet people, including her friends. Without quite saying so, the government is clearly sending her a message that she isn’t welcome in India and ought to leave. Earlier, she was turfed out of West Bengal by the state government. It’s not quite clear who’s ahead in the competition to pander to fundamentalist opinion, the Centre or the West Bengal government. Earlier, Left Front Chairman Biman Basu had said that Taslima should leave Kolkata if her stay disturbed the peace, but had to retract the statement later. Now External Affairs Minister Pranab Mukherjee echoes Bose by asking whether it is “desirable” to keep her in Kolkata if that “amounts to killing 10 people”. In other words, if somebody says or writes something and somebody else gets sufficiently provoked to kill 10 people, then it is not the killer’s but the writer’s fault.
‘That is an astounding statement for the foreign minister of a liberal democratic state to make. The Greek philosopher Plato thought that artists were dangerous people and exiled them from his ideal Republic. But such views can hardly be reconciled with modern democracy, which survives on tolerance. Democracy also accords a valuable place to the arts, where boundaries are pushed and new thinking becomes possible. Taslima’s views on women’s rights may seem threatening from the point of view of patriarchal codes governing society. That would explain why the animus towards her is not confined to Muslim conservatives, but includes Congress and Left luminaries.
‘The ministry of external affairs must think through the implications of what it is doing. If it forces Taslima out of the country, India will be placed on the same platform as Bangladesh, which is close to becoming a failed state. At a time when India’s image is ascendant in world affairs the official guardians of that image must not act like weaklings who cave in to every illiberal or fundamentalist threat to this public’s constitutional values.’—Times of India43
Yesterday, there was a protest meeting in Kolkata demanding I be allowed to return to the city. Some have said there were around twenty-five people in the procession and some have reported a thousand. The other side’s meetings have always been well attended. Last year, there had been nearly one lakh people at Siddiqullah’s meeting and apparently there had been around ten to fifteen thousand boys on the road on 21 November. Usually if traffic is not disrupted, and stones are not pelted, no one notices a big rally. Enough words have been spent and enough has been written. Has anything actually happened?
23 December
I get into trouble whether I speak to journalists or not. If I do, people say I do it for publicity. If I don’t, the newspapers and journalists I avoid write whatever they can concoct about me. Today, I read an article in DNA India that when Narendra Modi had been in Delhi a while back, I had met him and requested him to give me asylum in Gujarat. I remember how Mumbai’s Mid-Day had taken a random photo of me off the web, superimposed dark clothes and the Mumbai landscape on to it, and had published a hoax news item that I have stolen into Mumbai in a burqa. Scores of people had believed the news too; just like how normal people believe everything they see in print.
My captors, displeased, have warned me not to play ‘political games’ while I am in India, though I am not sure which games they were referring to. What I do not comprehend is why people keep thinking the worst of me. Is there something in me that gives off this invincible vibe that I can play with something as complicated as politics? Mostly simple, quite laid-back, slightly stupid and a little silly—that’s me! If someone can assume that a person like me can play political games, then they have played these games so much that it has spoilt their sight and everyone now appears as players to them.
The Telegraph has simply been printing lies, citing ‘an official’ as their nebulous source from within the government. It has been reported that I have been driving my caretakers up the wall for a hairdryer, because I cannot do without one after shampooing my hair. Another lie printed on the basis of ‘unofficial sources’! Besides, I have apparently become crazy about eating fish and have been demanding the most exotic varieties which the poor government has been running helter-skelter to arrange for me. With all this and more, the picture that has been presented to the public is that I am living my exiled life not just as a king, but as a despot, driving people insane with my demands. I had asked my captors: ‘An official source would mean that someone from your department is passing this information on. But who could that be!’ My captors had denied it, saying no news could ever have leaked from within the ministry. ‘They make these things up!’
That had left me puzzled. A prestigious newspaper like the Telegraph would keep writing a pack of lies about someone for days? I had later gotten to know from a journalist friend that these articles were written as per instructions from the ministry, with the only stipulation being the use of ‘an official’ as the formless source. That way it gave everyone plausible deniability, and ensured that no one person got singled out as the source of the ‘leak’.
Let’s say this was what the lesser-known, less courageous journalists were doing. The senior ones were by no means lagging behind. Noted journalist Vir Sanghvi has written a scathing indictment.44 I have always put maximum effort in rising above the petty and the immediate, but when people who do not even know me express their judgement about me, they do not usually accord me the same courtesy. Instead, they form their opinions based on their own petty political and social moorings, and the self-serving unscrupulous impulses that guide them and their cohorts. Neither do they ever realize their mistakes, nor do the mistakes ever get rectified. None of them ever get to know the real me, nor do they get to see my real life at close quarters. One can only imagine what unholy joy Vir Sanghvi may have found by writing a pack of hideous lies about me. A helplessly trapped person, living under a dark cloud of uncertainty, under house arrest, who herself has been a subject of political intrigues, is being accused of orchestrating everything to make it to the headlines! Apparently, I do not even have the time to write any more since all my time is being taken up by phone calls to journalists! Once upon a time, the radicals in Bangladesh used to make similar allegations. They would accuse me of doing everything to garner fame, whenever something I had written stung them like a whiplash.
Quite possibly, Sanghvi has heard from Barkha Dutt and Karan Thapar about my calls to them. I had called them for news, to understand which way things were headed. The day the government officials had irrevocably informed me that nothing could be done, that I could not return to Kolkata nor could I live a normal life in Delhi, that I would not be allowed to visit my friends, and that I would have to go out of sight, possibly out of the country, it had seemed the earth had caved in under my feet and my entire world had come crashing down. There was no way I could have stood in combat against the powers that be. I have seen the world abroad and I do not wish to live that life again. With all doors to Bangladesh shut, India had been the final beacon of hope. And now that light has begun to flicker, threatening to go out and plunge my life into darkness. I had called Karan Thapar and Barkha Dutt, people who know and deal with politics far more effectively than I ever will, to take stock of the situation—why was everything happening? Would hundreds of people truly die because of me? Are these claims, regardless of whoever is making them, true?
Karan had wanted to interview me for television but I refused. Instead, I requested him to speak to Manmohan Singh or Sonia Gandhi about the incomprehensible things the government officials were tell
ing me. Karan told me they would not even speak to him about this. That evening I received news from CNN-IBN that a meeting had been held that very day at the ministry of home affairs between the secretary and the Intelligence Bureau (IB). The officials had discussed my situation and come to the conclusion that I would either have to stay in Delhi as dictated by them or leave the country. The news shattered me completely. When asked for a reaction, I told them all that the government officials had said to me and confessed that I was practically under house arrest.
The primary reason behind Vir Sanghvi’s ire is perhaps the fact that I have admitted to the media that I am under house arrest. Hence, a laundry list of complaints. I am getting so much exclusive coverage that I don’t have time to go to the bathroom. I am getting the best security because I am a foreigner, and a huge amount of money is being wasted on me. A group of literary critics from West Bengal have told him I am a bad writer, not that he has read any of my work to find out. I am constantly asking my captors to save me and then talking to the media about them when their backs are turned. How dare I, being a foreigner, say anything against them? I have created these controversies to stay in the newspaper headlines.
I laugh and think to myself, how have I really created controversies? I was living peacefully in Kolkata, without bothering anyone. It’s your government who drove me out, who put me in the headlines! Your government has kept me confined to this house, has forbidden me from meeting anyone, has not let anyone come and see me! You make the headlines, not me! The political terrorism that you have unleashed on me has put me in the headlines! You have made me a pawn in this game between politics and religion. You have thrust your own pawn into the limelight. The victim never wanted to be victimized; she wanted to live with her head held high. You have used something she wrote five years ago to make her a headline. The honourable high court had simply reaffirmed this notoriety by repealing the ridiculous and draconian ban. Your fanatics then pounced on the book, and your secular liberals pounced on me to please them. Your controversies, not mine, have made me into a headline. The readers were perfectly content with my book and it had been in circulation for quite a few years already! No one had had a problem before! You create trouble but you blame me for it. You complain about me being a foreigner and about the money being spent on me!
I was miserable the entire day.
Later in the evening I was informed by a friend that Mr B had instructed Vir Sanghvi to write the article. He had also instructed many other editors and journalists that he no longer wished to see my name in print anywhere.
I don’t know why people blame religious fundamentalism. One should be more wary of the politicians, journalists and intellectuals who do not even spare a glance at victims of intolerance but are always very concerned and sympathetic to the plight of the fanatics.
24 December
I asked to meet Svensson but it was turned down. I asked him to meet my Hindi publisher, Arun Maheshwari, who has taken care of everything thereafter.
Meanwhile, I have been in deep despair, as has become a constant for me it seems. Although a slew of phone calls has managed to lift my mood a bit today. Bibhutibhusan Nandi, Sunando Sanyal and Debabrata Bandyopadhyay called to express their solidarity. One of them even told me to think of Nelson Mandela who had been in jail for nearly two decades. All of them assured me that such circumstances would not continue for long and they asked me to keep writing, reminding me how writing was my one true refuge from everything. As if I did not know that already! But whenever I sit down to write, a feeling of despair settles on me. I keep staring out through the window, drowning in my own sighs.
Sheela Reddy of Outlook magazine called to tell me about the writers and intellectuals who had signed a petition in support of me. She also informed me that Brinda Karat had refused to sign.
Madanjeet Singh, the UNESCO goodwill ambassador, has written a letter to Jyoti Basu, attaching an editorial from Times of India and one of my articles for the Bengali newspaper Ei Samay with it. Mr Singh is a truly remarkable man. I have never had the chance to have a proper conversation with him, and yet he has been doing so much for me!
Arun Maheshwari has told me that his writers have come together to protest. Some friends from Kolkata want to come to Delhi to start a hunger strike but I have firmly asked them not to. They help nothing, these things. In a country of a billion people, unless at least a million people are seen walking in a procession, the grievances and hunger strikes of a handful are tantamount to nothing.
I was in a good mood the entire day but it got spoilt at night. The English translation of my article ‘Nirbasito Bahire Ontore’ (Banished Within and Without) has been published by the Statesman without the date I had mentioned at the end. Instead, they have added an editorial comment about the article being an expression of my annoyance at the Delhi government’s shenanigans. I am equally annoyed at the Statesman’s shenanigans! For some reason, they have convinced themselves that the readers will not read the piece if the date is mentioned. Does history mean nothing then?
Tui Nishiddho, Tui Kotha Koish Na (Don’t Speak, You Are Forbidden) is a collection of my writings that has just recently been published. The first article had been written way back in 1993 and the last is as recent as this year. The rest were written at various points of time while in Europe or on a visit to Kolkata, whenever I have thought of home. Without mentioning any of the dates, the publishers had wished to give the impression that the entire thing was written in the past year; that I simply happened to end up in Delhi and sent them the manuscript from here. Is this anything else except fraud? I cannot tolerate this sort of dishonesty at all.
There is a big, round moon in the sky tonight. Is it the full moon? Even if it is, how does it matter? Would I be able to bathe in the moonlight and dance with someone ever again? One can perhaps watch the moon from one’s room too, listlessly. The moon, after so many days! Both of us, the moon and I, are so alone. Amidst this cloying, swirling darkness, we stay awake together.
25 December
They took me back to that house again today, to meet Svensson, and to meet Asesh and Muna. Asesh and Muna have come down from Kolkata to see me, a suitcase full of things sent from home in tow. Since no one is allowed to visit the safe house, my captors had arranged for them to meet me in that house and hand over the things to me. They were picked up from the hotel and taken through circuitous alleys and dingy by-lanes before being brought there, just like everyone who was to be taken to that secret house. Besides, Asesh and Muna had been allowed to meet me simply because of the suitcase. Though, in the end none of that even matters because the final decision rests with the people who are acting as liaisons with my captors, without whose approval even my captors cannot do anything. If the latter had the power to take a decision for me, they would have long since sent me back to Kolkata.
There was an ornamental tree and various related paraphernalia for decorations, as gifts for Svensson courtesy of the Government of India. There was also a gala lunch, followed by chocolate cake, again thanks to the government. Even the book I gifted him was arranged by them. I never told them to make these arrangements. I had just requested them to let Svensson spend Christmas with me. Svensson is not a religious person, but I have seen him always celebrate Christmas. Decorating a tree and giving gifts to each other is more than a set of religious rituals, it’s perhaps a bigger social event.
Asesh and Muna had a train to catch for Kolkata and they left soon. I kept staring at their departing figures, thinking about the home I had left behind in the city. Unlike them, I have no way of going back. Kolkata is accessible to everyone—animals, humans, criminals, everyone—but me.
However, the biggest Christmas gift was delivered on television. A friend called from Kolkata to tell me that Jyoti Basu has publicly welcomed me to Kolkata, and that it was being telecast on all the TV channels. To be fair though, immediately after welcoming me, he also made it clear that all arrangements for my security would have to be th
e Centre’s responsibility, just as the other leading communist leaders like Buddhadeb Bhattacharya, Biman Basu and Sitaram Yechury had often pointed out previously. Nevertheless, hearing Jyoti Basu say ‘welcome’ and ‘I have heard the poor girl is depressed’ touched my heart. Whatever he said after that was obviously politically motivated, meant to shift the entire onus on to the central government. How can an atheist make statements to the effect that whatever I have written in Dwikhandito might hurt the religious sentiments of the Muslims? Can only Hindus, Buddhists, Christians and Jews then be atheists? Do only they have the right to be critical of religious dogma, and not Muslims, because Islamic fundamentalists cannot tolerate any critical interventions? A backward, abject community cannot be reformed through customs and traditions alone; they have to be brought back to life, made aware of their situation, through intermittent shocks. Unless that happens, how can they ever hope to take stock of how much they have regressed! Besides, to be truthful, I have never written out of a desire to lead Muslim society out of the Dark Ages. I write what I believe in, I write about my convictions. When I write I am not preoccupied with thoughts of a particular community or a particular gender. I see people as human, and not as components of warring communities. If one can manage to shed all moorings of religion, community and superstitions, it is perfectly possible to view everyone as equal.
My captors came back in the evening, signalling my return to the safe house—the place where I hide away from prying eyes, not for the sake of security but for reasons which are entirely political. I understand that politics but I cannot come to terms with it. On our way back, my captors gave me just one piece of information—I will not be able to meet Ram Mirchandani because my appeal has yet again been turned down. Who turns these appeals down is something my captors never tell me, and nor have I ever asked them. They had once told me that they simply pass my requests on to the higher authorities, and obediently follow any instructions that are sent back.
Exile Page 18
