Exile

by Taslima Nasrin

  I wasn’t sure what the government was assuming about my departure but I knew I was leaving for health reasons. If there had been no immediate health concerns, I would probably have never left India in a thousand years, even if I would have had to stay as a political prisoner. I would have stayed to protest against the punishment I had endured without having committed any crime; I would have stayed to fight for the freedom of speech. I am aware of how archaic I sound, how my ideals don’t seem to fit in this new world, appearing to be ghostly whispers from the ’40s or the ’50s. So, whenever I make these claims, people stare at me astonished, as if I am hiding some nefarious plans up my sleeve, or other ulterior motives to serve my own ends.

  A crippling weariness had settled over me that day. I had lost. I was doing something I had never believed I would do—I was leaving India. Things had come to such a state that survival had finally taken precedence over which country I wished to live in. Except India and Bangladesh, every other nation had always been foreign for me. I had chosen Sweden simply for medical reasons. Swedish nationals, or anyone living there for that matter, are entitled to the national healthcare scheme; any medical expenses incurred anywhere else in Europe or America are only available to the rich.

  On reaching Sweden, I was met at the airport by Maria and Maj-Britt of the Swedish Pen Club and Cecilia Wikström, a member of the Swedish Parliament. They had already made all the arrangements for my stay, including a grant or scholarship from the department of culture, and an apartment in the city of Uppsala. Svensson was also there to receive me. There was no way I could have stayed with him though, especially when everything between us was beginning to appear flaky and superficial.

  Cecilia drove me to Uppsala. Her behaviour towards me, very cordial and excessively emotional, had begun to grate on my nerves. It was as if she had known me for years already! I was put up at a hotel in the city, and Maj-Britt stayed back with me. I must confess that after living in India, my mental state had been decidedly odd too. There was no security deployed specifically for me but I knew that they were closely monitoring everything. Despite this, I was feeling uneasy without being surrounded by a horde of policemen, although I knew that I was in Uppsala and not in Delhi or Kolkata any more. I have had to stay confined and terrified all the time in India, always having to watch my back. Besides, fundamentalism is now a global concern and there is hardly a nation that can boast of having completely withstood its onslaught! In fact, in Sweden too, an artist had been attacked and eventually forced into hiding because he had superimposed the face of Prophet Muhammad on the photo of a dog.

  Maj-Britt and I went out for dinner that evening, quite reluctantly on my part. I could feel that I was walking awkwardly too, constantly looking around to see if someone had recognized me. Not that I could avoid anything despite my anxiety. The Swedish were evidently happy about me being there. There were people greeting me warmly and someone even came up to me on the road and presented me with flowers. As for me, my sole concern was how they knew who I was.

  Cecilia made arrangements at a hospital in Uppsala for a complete health check-up—eyes, heart, blood pressure, and other possible pressure points. Dutifully, the doctor checked me for everything and finally reassured me that there was nothing wrong. He also decreased the dosage of my blood pressure medicine.

  I had a lot of stuff lying around in Svensson’s house—clothes, computer, etc. Despite moving to Kolkata, I had never managed to clear out all my things from my life in Sweden. I had left the country, and had also left a tonne of things behind. After all, how much can one carry within the twenty-three kilos stipulated by the airline authorities! Everything was still in Svensson’s house and it was quite clear to me that staying at a hotel, while almost a chunk of my life was simply lying around nearby, was simply not feasible. Svensson brought me the router to the hotel room on my second night there, and by the third we set out for his house in Upplands Väsby. My study in Svensson’s house was exactly how I had left it, the popcorn I had spilled still strewn all over the floor. The teacups I had left on the table had been left untouched, except for the tea which had long since dried and left a stain at the bottom. I had known Svensson would never clean my room, even if he was cleaning the rest of the house. He would simply let the room be, abandoned, for a thousand years. Back in the day, whenever I used to clean, I used to clean his study too. Male nature is defined by an inherent affinity towards selfishness.

  I found in the house a sense of familiarity, having lived there before for a long time. I could easily slip into the comfort of belonging. As before, I began spending the larger part of the day in the study. Meanwhile, the scholarship being awarded to me had been formally announced and the news was being widely shared. Svensson’s behaviour was erratic at best and I had increasingly begun spending much of my free time with Maj-Britt. One day, she dragged me to Uppsala to show me the house being given with the scholarship. A pretty house, but it was evident it was not for long-term accommodation. I had no desire to continue living as a stranger’s guest any more. All I wanted, what I had wandered in search of all these years, was a home from where I would never have to move again.

  The house was very near Uppsala University. A very pretty place, there was even a forest-like grove a few yards away. I could not decide what I wanted. Something was keening within me. No, not here! Elsewhere! In another land! Cecilia was trying her best to coax me into accepting the scholarship they were offering me from Uppsala University. Yet, I could not shake off the longing for another land, not there, but elsewhere. Besides, even if I had to stay in Sweden, there was no point in staying in that house. I knew I could stay at Svensson’s and if that did not work out, I could simply rent a place I would not have to leave after six months or a year.

  Cecilia had latched on like a leech by then. She called me over to her place one day, extending the invitation to my friends too. I confess that she had initially come across as a nice girl, intelligent, hard-working and sincere. That is how the impression would have remained had Cecilia not tried to corner me into attending a press conference. I had told them in advance that I would not speak to the press. I did not want to announce to the entire world where I was. A press conference to publicize the scholarship would have been akin to posting my whereabouts for the public. I knew it would not take too long for someone to find the house and I could not afford to take the risk. Cecilia, however, was not to be convinced. She tried explaining to me how no one would get to know that the inaugural scholarship of Uppsala University was being awarded to me, that the city of Uppsala would henceforth always side with oppressed artists and writers, and fight for the freedom of speech. One day in her apartment, having yet again failed to convince me about the press conference, she left in a huff telling me she had to get to a meeting. I found out the truth about the meeting the next day only when, on opening the morning newspaper, I read the news of the press conference where Cecilia Wikström had announced the scholarship, being awarded to me by Uppsala University, to the world. Such a curious thing is the lure of fame! Such is the lust for power that one can stoop to any depths to be able to rise in the eyes of the world! That very moment, I bid goodbye to Cecilia from my life.

  I went instead to the south of France, to visit Madanjeet Singh. Singh’s house was right by the sea, with the mountains behind and the Mediterranean spread out in front. In between, on a hillock, Singh’s palatial home was situated. The vast blue sea was visible from the bedroom windows, and one could hear the song of the breakers on the coast. White sailboats could be seen on the surface of the sea, birds flying over them under a vast blue sky. However, much more impressive than the beauty of the surroundings was the man himself, Madanjeet Singh, an octogenarian and an atheist through and through. At eighty, he had acquired 200 million dollars which he had unhesitatingly donated to the cause of South Asia. The amount was to be distributed as scholarships to South Asian students studying in various universities abroad, to ensure that students from diverse linguistic,
social and cultural backgrounds have a chance of pursuing higher education and to foster interpersonal bonds among them. Madanjeet Singh is a dreamer, much like I am. A sincere and humane individual, the world would be a far better place if there were a few more like him. He had written to every important person of his acquaintance, including the prime minister of India, demanding I be freed from house arrest and allowed to go back to Kolkata. He had urged them not to give in to the demands of fanatics, although I am not certain how many had paid heed to his advice. Once a diplomat for India, Singh is a painter and has also written many books, and continues to write. I have always listened to him with rapt attention, and not a single thing I have ever heard him say has been meaningless.

  Meanwhile, a lot of other things were happening one after another. I was to be awarded the Simone de Beauvoir Prize and the award was going to be handed over in Paris by the human rights minister of the ministry of external affairs. There were a series of interviews scheduled with French journalists. This is usually a common feature in Europe. For instance, whenever a book is about to be launched, the publishers usually organize interviews with the writer on TV, radio, newspapers and weeklies. Not that it happens with everyone since the media shows interest only in someone of renown. The publishers there had hurriedly put together a book whose title, roughly translated from French, meant From My Prison. While under house arrest in Delhi, the publishers had requested me to write something or send them something already written. I had tried explaining to them that I had only a few poems, and some small pieces here and there. The publishers, however, had been adamant that they would be happy with whatever I wanted to send. I had countered that I was already writing my autobiography and would send that across once I was done. Yet, they had kept insisting that they would like to put together a short collection at the very least. Two poems and a few personal reflections did not a book make! It was a sort of fraud one often committed with the reader which I have always had a problem with. Back in the day, Lajja had been published amidst swirling rumours of an impending prohibition. The readers had surely read the book and been unable to fathom what all the fuss had been about! The books which actually had fatwas hanging over them were either never published, or no one bothered with the fatwa once they were.

  Everyone had a copy of the new book and I was attending one interview after another the entire day. A full-page article was published in Le Monde. Mark Johnston, a film-maker from Canada, had arrived to film a documentary on freedom of speech—Empire of the Word was going to be narrated by Alberto Manguel, the author of A History of Reading. The radio interviews would begin early in the morning, followed by journalists who would start coming in at ten. By the time I returned from the TV interviews, it was late in the night. The inaugural Simone de Beauvoir Prize was awarded to me at a gala event in the ministry of external affairs. I was not the only recipient of the first edition, with the other winner, the Dutch feminist writer and politician Ayaan Hirsi Ali, having already received her prize.

  I was then invited to Paris to receive an honorary citizenship conferred on me by the Paris City Council. At the town hall, or as they say hôtel de ville, the mayor, amidst expensive gifts and earnest words, tried to assure me that the citizenship was not in name alone but they sincerely wished I would choose to stay in Paris. After he had finished tabulating the reasons why I ought to be made a citizen of Paris, each of the 180 representatives of various political parties had stood up in unison to applaud and endorse his comments.

  Irene arrived from Belgium to see me. I could clearly gauge how much she had changed after Steve’s54 passing, both her obsessiveness and her dependence on psychiatric drugs having increased manifold. From the moment she arrived, the complaints began—about her financial troubles, about age, how she had been unable to sell Steve’s records, and mostly against the person in Ghent whose house she was living in. The relentless onslaught of her misery soon began to grow tiresome. I could not help but remember how horribly she had behaved with Steve’s friends and even me, how she had not allowed anyone to visit the dying man, treating him as property. She had found Steve’s illness intolerable and used to misbehave with him in retaliation. Such an indomitable woman was now a mere husk of her old self.

  Behaving almost like a petulant child, she insisted she accompany me to the dinner being hosted by the mayor in my honour. I did not refuse her, and her joy at having witnessed the conferring of the citizenship was palpable that evening. I have always had a soft spot for her, and I could not help feeling sorry for her. I have forgiven Irene far too many times; she has been well aware of it and she has often apologized too, and I have been with her through many difficulties. It pains me a great deal to see her having to take medication in order to function in society, to keep calm, and to steer clear of thoughts of suicide.

  Soon after, I received another invitation from Paris—for a gala event in honour of every recipient of human rights awards from the Government of France. At one such dinner, I was left star-struck by the legendary French celluloid icon Catherine Deneuve who I have always admired and considered the most beautiful leading lady in the history of cinema. Her films from the ’70s and ’80s have, in particular, always held immense fascination for me. I was invited to become a board member for the PPR Corporate Foundation for Women’s Dignity and Rights, a foundation established by Pinault-Printemps-Redoute (PPR) to aid women in securing social justice and safeguarding their rights. With renowned personalities like Stella McCartney, Waris Dirie and many others involved, we were all committed to working for the betterment of oppressed and battered women, especially from Asian, African and Latin American countries.

  It was around this time that something happened to remind me that my circumstances continued to remain dire. I had gone back to Delhi before the expiry of my Indian residence permit and they had allowed me to stay at a friend’s empty house, surrounded by hundreds of police officers. However, soon after, my permit was renewed for six months and I was packed off to Europe again. It was as if the only way I was going to be formally allowed to stay in India was if I promised that I would not actually stay for long. I was asked to give my acquiescence in writing, which I did; I had no other choice. This became a pattern. Six months later, I went back again and the same thing was repeated. The permit was extended and I was forced to leave within three days. I had one primary concern—where was I to live if they were not going to let me go back to India, to Kolkata? It was not possible to spend my life moving from Svensson’s house in Sweden to Yasmin’s in New York and to someone else’s after that! I could have lived at Svensson’s but I knew it could not be for long. The French had made me an honorary citizen of Paris and the mayor too had requested me to live there. My friends had told me the French government had a lot of property to spare, though judging by the number of homeless people I had seen in Paris, I could not help but remain sceptical of my prospects. Not just Le Monde but other journals too had featured articles about my homelessness after I had been forced to leave India. Eventually, I was offered a six-month scholarship by Bertrand Delanoë, the mayor of Paris, along with a small apartment in the artists’ quarter and a monthly stipend. The house, beside the Seine and almost in the heart of Paris, excited my friends much more than me. We even had a housewarming party where some of my littérateur friends came over for dinner and we ended up spending a fantastic evening. I never managed to stay in the house for too long though; I was soon given a fellowship from New York University and I left for New York.

  Although I was based in New York, I was spending much more time travelling to various countries for various events—the International Literary Festival in Sweden, a seminar against censorship held at Bilbao in Spain, or a poetry festival in San Francisco where the Beat poets used to read their poems, especially in iconic locations like North Beach, the legendary City Lights Bookstore and Vesuvio Café. Besides, there were other poetry festivals in Italy and Luxembourg, a symposium in Amsterdam on free thought, and a seminar on social ju
stice held in Vienna. Something or the other was always there to demand my attention—be it the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Sakharov Prize given by the European Parliament, or an honorary doctorate from Louvain Université, Belgium. There was no way left for me to quietly sit by myself for a while and simply write. At the same time, the hectic schedule was helping me evade the tedium of being confined to a room.

  I was nevertheless not invited to the seminar on freedom of expression being held in New York. Instead of a writer who had been treated viciously for her stance on the same, who had been forced to leave a democratic country like India on account of her beliefs, they invited numerous unknown authors with absolutely no stake in the issue. Did the American Pen Club, the organizers of the event, not know about me? Were they not aware that I was in New York? I was sure they were perfectly aware, like the rest of the world, of the ordeal I had been through—the fatwas, the house arrest, the humiliating send-off from Kolkata, the months spent in Delhi and the eventual departure from India. How could they have not been aware of all this with a chairperson like Salman Rushdie at the helm? So, was it because of him that I had not been invited to speak at the seminar? Was it because of my article for the German journal Der Spiegel so many years ago where I had argued that Rushdie should not have given in to the demands of extremists? I knew Rushdie had been angered by my comments, but I could never have guessed that he would hold such a grudge!