In New York, I was staying at Yasmin’s place, though her daughter Bhalobasa was not too happy with the arrangement. She had become a strange and stubborn person over the years, devoid of any common sense whatsoever. She was doing bizarre things such as slitting her wrists, complaining about her looks, and grumbling and ranting about why she did not have a boyfriend. Like I had done before, I suggested taking her to a psychiatrist, but Yasmin was deeply offended by my suggestions. She argued that her daughter was not mentally unstable; hence, she did not need psychiatric help. Just like she had been obsessed with anal fissures after having suffered from it for years, her daughter was her latest obsession. The daughter was thus the queen of the house, her parents waiting on her hand and foot, and so went on the role play in their house. Unable to tolerate the noxious atmosphere, I began searching for a place of my own. Not that finding an apartment in New York was an easy task! A credit history was one of the primary requirements, which I did not have, along with proof of annual income, with the stipulation being that I would not be able to rent a house unless the annual figure was 100,000 dollars. Despite all these conditions, I still managed to find a place near the absent twin towers, by the Hudson, thanks to a maverick guarantor who assured me that he would take care of the stipulations should I fail to fulfil them. To be able to find a person like that in New York was in itself a huge achievement. Strange are the ways of the world! The person I had initially approached to be my guarantor, someone who had known me for years and who could have vouched for my reliability, had backed out while the person who finally agreed was a complete stranger.
The arrangement put in place by the Government of India was running unhindered. My residence permit was being renewed every six months, but with the implicit condition that I would not actually stay in India. Of course, no one else really knew about the arrangement, and I was forbidden from revealing it to anyone. Consequently, I kept paying the rent of the abandoned house in Kolkata for quite some time. Eventually, forced to confront the realization that I would not be able to return to Kolkata, I wrote to my friends asking them to send me the things I had left behind. The government had already offered to pack everything on my behalf and bring the lot to Delhi to be put in a storage locker. I had refused, as I didn’t like the idea of all my things being dumped in a room. Wishing to relieve the government of yet another responsibility pertaining to me, I instructed my friends to pack it all up and post it to me, and paid for the entire transaction myself. A few extra pieces of furniture had already been stored in Delhi; I got those back too after nearly two years and the government did not even charge me for it.
My brother visited me in Delhi during one such visit for visa renewal, and I asked him to get Minu from Kolkata. She was flown to Delhi to meet me, and before leaving, I made sure my brother took her back home with him to Shantinagar in Dhaka. Truth be told, it’s not that I had a choice in the matter. I had tried my best to have her kept in Delhi, had spoken to cat lovers and animal rights organizations alike, but in vain. Someone had even told me they could keep her caged for the six months I would be away! So, Minu had to fly again, this time leaving India. Being a cat, she had to endure the entire journey in a cage! People have grown so used to the invisible cages they inhabit that their presence makes no difference to them after a while. Animals, however, never wish to be caged. Yet again, I had to leave everything behind, bid my farewell to India, and set off for the unknown.
The prime minister of India had once replied to the letter Madanjeet Singh had written to him. It had been a wonderful letter, and I am not sure if any other prime minister of any other nation of the subcontinent could have ever written something like that:
Dear Shri Madanjeet Singh,
I read your letter with great interest. Let me share with you that many of us here share the sense of anguish you feel at Taslima Nasreen’s plight. It is most unfortunate that someone like her should be the target of extremist elements. Actions of this kind, though by a small minority, tend to undermine our secular credentials and damage our image as an inclusive society.
You may rest assured, however, that we shall never deviate from our age-old traditions and principles. Right through the ages we have offered sanctuary and a home to anyone who has sought our help. We have always shown compassion to those who have been persecuted. His holiness the Dalai Lama is one shining example. We are unhappy at the turn of events in the case of Ms. Taslima Nasreen, but in her case also we have honoured our ancient pledge. I can’t say how pleased I am that you have offered her a place to stay in Paris, till such time as she finds it convenient to return to India.
Taslima has been a victim of the politics of hate that a small section of extremists within our country are now pursuing. Her preference was to stay in Kolkata, but the West Bengal Government apprehended that this might lead to a law and order situation in the State. I cannot say whether this apprehension is valid, but we nevertheless welcomed her here in Delhi. Taslima misses being in Kolkata, however.
It is not correct to say that while in Delhi she was kept in solitary confinement in a small room. Certain restrictions on her movements had to be imposed based on perceptions of the threat to her personal security. Otherwise she had relative freedom of movement. The restrictions that were imposed, no doubt, weighed heavily on her mind, and I can understand her predicament. External Affairs Minister Mr. Pranab Mukherjee, and senior officials did meet her from time to time to assuage many of her concerns.
She left for Sweden on her own volition, and not because we asked her. She will always be welcome in India as our guest. Her personal security, however, remains a matter of concern and we will need to take precautions to ensure her protection as long as she is our guest. We can try and see whether she could go back to Kolkata where she feels comfortable, but for this we would need the cooperation of the West Bengal Government.
India’s glorious traditions of welcoming people irrespective of caste and creed, community and religion will continue, whatever be the odds. The atmosphere of hate being perpetrated by a small segment within the country will not prevent us from persisting with this tradition. We recognize Taslima Nasreen’s right to remain in a country of her choice, viz., India in this case. She should also have the option to choose whichever city of the state she chooses.
I hope you would try to make her understand this. You should also try to persuade her to realize that whatever was done while she was in India was dictated by the necessity to ensure her safety and security.
With regards,
Yours sincerely
Manmohan Singh
It had been a proud moment, receiving the letter. It had instantly revived in me the enduring dream of being able to live permanently in India, if not in Bangladesh. Despite the letter, I was still not allowed to stay in Delhi for two more years.
In February 2010, the French-German television channel Arte started filming a television documentary based on me. I had to fly to Delhi to renew my residence permit yet again. I found the crew already waiting there ahead of me; they were apparently spending a million euros for a sixty-minute film. For quite some time, they were to become my shadows, trailing me across the globe—from Lyon, to Delhi, to New York. Simultaneously, they were to visit Kolkata, Dhaka and Mymensingh, places I could no longer go to, to look for my lost memories. They were perhaps waiting till the decision on my residence permit was made official, hoping that my request would be denied and they would get the prime opportunity of capturing on film the historic moment of my final departure from India. A part of this feeling may also have fed on my ever-present anxieties regarding the same every time I visited Delhi.
The residence permit was extended, but this time the order came along with a letter. It stated unequivocally that since five years had passed, this was the last extension of my visa. I would get no further visas from the Government of India, and henceforth should I wish to visit, I would have to apply for a visa in the Indian consulates abroad. I don’t believe I have ever r
ead anything more quietly devastating than that. For the first time in two years, there had been no imperious instructions along with the order, I had not been asked to go away immediately either. Unable to react, unable to think of what could be done, or where I would go, I turned to every Indian I knew for help, only to be met with blank faces of incomprehension. Apparently, not too many people except me were familiar with residence permits, extensions and immigration law.
In March, an article of mine sparked off a riot in Karnataka. The English weekly Outlook had published my article on the burqa, written in 2006, that too without my permission. Some people alleged that this riot too had been politically motivated, particularly by the Congress which was trying to use the communal tension to cause trouble for the ruling BJP. As it is, I have always been a convenient target for such controversies; it has been easy to put fatwas on my head as there would be no one to raise a hue and cry, or organize protest marches and vigils. In the article I had written that women should not have to wear the burqa even if the Quran told them to do so. The proponents of the burqa took to the streets in anger, with the TV channels airing footage of a mob of nearly 15,000 people marching in protest, with the madness soon spreading from one city to the next. Shops, truck and buses were set ablaze. The images were terrifying, shooting my already erratic blood pressure up, and freezing my limbs in abject horror. I was nearly certain that soon another fundamentalist group would come in search of me to murder me. At the very least, I would not be allowed to stay in India ever again. Switching all the lights and the television off, I simply went to bed unable to bear the anxiety any longer and certain that my heart would give in any moment. I also informed Pallav Bhattacharya of PTI that I had not given my consent to the magazine to publish anything.
The home minister’s statement, however, managed to make everything better. In an address to the media he declared: ‘Taslima bears no responsibility for this riot. The editors of the journal had published the article without her consent. This whole thing has been set up by them.’ The office of the weekly was vandalized by an angry mob. Though a part of me was relieved that I had been absolved of all blame, I could not help but be anxious about the direction the debate on freedom of expression was taking in this country. The editors had not been guilty of anything except an infringement of copyright. Why would there be no freedom to express a different opinion? Wasn’t the blame to be squarely laid on the intolerant rogues who were rioting on the streets and burning buses?
I flew off to Melbourne to attend the Global Atheist Convention. There, amidst a crowd of fellow agnostics and apostates, in a space where I was comfortable after a long time, I spoke about the Karnataka riots. The convention had nearly 2500 delegates attending from various places in Europe, America and Australia. Renowned people like Richard Dawkins, P.Z. Myers and A.C. Grayling were scheduled to speak. Among all the delegates, my speech was the only one to receive a standing ovation, an honour that ought to have lightened my mood. Yet, I refused all requests for interviews, and did not answer any of the emails I received. Instead, I simply strolled around on my own in Melbourne, watching people, or running off to see racing penguins. An old friend from school, Mamata, flew down from Sydney but we never managed to meet, lost as I was in my own world.
I refused all subsequent invitations for conventions and such. I cancelled a trip to Denmark even after the tickets had been bought. Instead, I stayed mostly at home, playing with my cat. I could feel that there was no more drive left in me to live out of a suitcase. All I wanted was a home, and that had been impossible to find.
At the end of the day, I returned to New York, to my apartment on the twenty-third floor with its ‘million-dollar view’. One entire wall of the apartment was made of glass, opening out to a panoramic view of the sky and the Hudson beneath it, all the shades of the sky and each and every current of the river visible. It was a truly safe house, symbolizing a range of future possibilities when the fellowship would have run its course—a possible teaching job at Connecticut, teaching in various universities as a Woodrow Wilson Fellow, being involved in a Broadway musical or an event at the Lincoln Center, or getting acquainted with the feminist circles of the city. Despite all these possibilities and so much more, I finally made the decision to leave everything behind and move back to India. I knew I would have to abandon my makeshift family in New York, Robert Quinn of New York University, old friend Allen Smith, Meredith Tax and so many others, besides this beautiful city itself. Yet, I was firm in my resolve that I would not bow down to the draconian diktats of the Government of India. If the government was admittedly all-powerful, then why would I have to apply for a visa at a consulate in another country? I was tired of this back and forth, this constant indecision regarding where I truly belonged. That is how I had already spent a large chunk of my life, drifting from here to there, searching for one fixed address.
My visa was to expire in August and I resolved that I would get it renewed in India. I knew if my visa expired, I would never get another one again. I was especially wary because this had happened twice before—once in Bangladesh and then again in Bengal—when I had believed the assurances that I would be able to come back ‘after a few months when everything had calmed down’. Some farewells are meant to be permanent.
A few authors from abroad had issued a statement regarding my right to live in India, requesting the government to seriously consider my appeal. Due to my travels, I had run out of pages on my passport and had gone to the Swedish Embassy for a fresh one. There I heard that a group of representatives from a number of embassies were about to be sent as an envoy to the home ministry with an appeal to allow me to live in Delhi. The news warmed my heart. Later, when people remarked how it had all been God’s grace that had come to my aid, I had corrected them and stated that it had been the grace of good people still left in this world that had helped me in my hour of need. There were still some people left in the world who believed in the freedom of expression, or so I came to believe that day. What else could explain the incredible outcome of the entire episode? Thanks to the kindness of some unknown individuals who had decided to rebel against the unfairness of the treatment being meted out to me, I was given a visa for an entire year, to be renewed annually. I must confess to having been overwhelmed that day by my gratitude for such progressive and humanist individuals. I had been aware that since I had no rights as a citizen of India, if they did not renew my visa, I would have to silently accept the cruel decision. I was not special, not by any stretch of the imagination. The only strength I could boast of was my writing, although combating patriarchy through that had always been considered an archaic approach. As it is, most men and women have a less-than-kind reaction to feminism, having been socialized to naturally assume that equality between men and women is an accomplished project, and that usually only uneducated barbarians misbehave with women.
By the time I received an unconditional approval to stay in India, near the end of 2010, I had already become a prohibited name in the literary circles of the subcontinent. Bangladesh had stopped publishing my work nearly seventeen years earlier. West Bengal had caught on only recently, and no journals were publishing my writings any more. Dainik Statesman had long since stopped my weekly column, despite it being very popular. Other newspapers and journals—Anandabazar, Desh, Pratidin, and its Sunday supplement Robbar—too had fallen in line. Rituparno Ghosh, the editor of Robbar, had started a weekly column of mine with a lot of ceremony, but that too stopped after only one week. I had later been informed that the instructions to cancel it had come from ‘above’. For a while, I had started writing in a Hindi journal from Delhi, Jansatta, but the riots in Karnataka pulled the curtains down on that. Clearly, everyone was receiving orders from ‘above’ to make sure my books did not sell and that my voice was no longer heard. Not that this was because no one was interested in reading my writing any more, or because my books were no longer selling! In fact, newspaper sales would increase when there was an article by me an
d my books would consistently be on bestseller lists!
BAG Films from Mumbai stopped production of their adaptation of French Lover, despite having acquired the rights. Renowned film director Mahesh Bhatt announced with a lot of fanfare that he would be writing my biopic, but he too fell silent subsequently. Even a company like UTV had to stop production on a film about me for unknown reasons. In Kolkata, the telecast of the Bengali TV serial based on my story was stopped despite having finished shooting nearly 100 episodes. Similarly, three directors from Kolkata had to shelve their upcoming productions based on my life and my novels, in spite of having signed the contract. It was clear that there was a shadow that had been cast over me. A sinister darkness was slowly creeping towards me and it sent a chill down my spine; I began to fear that after it was done devouring everything else, it would come for me.
Most of my friends too cut off their ties with me, leaving me completely alone in this vast country. I could not help but wonder if any author had ever been so summarily excommunicated by their own people. Perhaps Galileo had been, 400 years ago. It was difficult to come to terms with the fact that this was happening to me in twenty-first-century India.
Besides, I was not entirely happy about settling down in Delhi either. I was sure that unless I managed to return to my language and my cultural roots, I would not find peace. It was no longer a question of being able to live there, since I was not sure if I would live in Bengal again. It was a matter of principle. It was a matter of being entitled to certain rights, to my right to speak and express my opinions. If I could not win back the right to go back to the places the fundamentalists had succeeded in driving me out of, then it was as if we had conceded victory to the forces of intolerance. This was far bigger than me, for the greater good, even though I was the only one to have waged war. There was but one goal—no other person in the world should have to face prohibition and exile for having exercised their freedom of expression.
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