Once, he had turned up at Chotda’s house to meet me but Chotda had not shown him even the most basic of courtesies. I had been livid with my brother that day. When Chotda alleged that the entire city knew about HSS’s affairs I understood the words were not his own—he was repeating stories heard from a colleague on a flight or from some washed-up tabloid journalist. Neither was there any logic to the claim that the entire city knew. Most people in the city, the ones completely unconcerned about literary circles, did not know who HSS was. Of the rest the ones who were from the literary world respected HSS a great deal. Regardless, I was unable to clear HSS’s name that day and he remained unwelcome at Abakash. Consequently, because of this unjust ban I was even more partial to him. I used to go visit him wherever he would ask me to, be it the Circuit House, or some restaurant, or even on a short trip to Muktagacha. When he was busy making a documentary on Kuddus Boyati by the river, I visited him there too.
My relationship with HSS was built on admiration and affection. He had the sort of benevolence for me that a renowned writer often has for literature enthusiasts who are also amateur poets. This slowly became more personal, especially after he expressed his interest in knowing why I was divorcing R and even came down to Mymensingh because of it. Be it literary or not, irrespective of whatever conversations the two of us were having, he was always the primary speaker. Somehow the role suited him. He could coax even the shy and blushing Yasmin with a ‘hey, how are you, what are you doing, come and sit here’, and tell her numerous stories and give her much advice. The advice even I got—advice on how to write poems, how to make the ear alert to sounds rather than counting the words for the rhyme, and so on. He used to read all my poems and say something or the other about every one of them—the good ones, the ones that could be improved, and words that could sound better instead of the ones I had used. There was no artifice in all this.
When he heard about Yasmin’s disappearance he was as devastated by it as I was and I remember him crying helplessly, much to my surprise. Later, he even visited Yasmin’s new house quite a few times to see her. Once, while I was in Dhaka, he took a young paramour of his to see Yasmin. He spent the whole day canoodling with the young girl, hugging her and kissing her, much to Yasmin’s discomfort. In her new house she had to face uncomfortable questions regarding what her senior male guest was up to inside the room with a nearly underage girl. Both Yasmin and I saw the girl later when HSS’s translation of The Tempest was being performed at the British Council. The three of us, me, Yasmin and the girl, were seated together while HSS was behind us. Every single time I turned back I noticed that his eyes were fixed on the girl instead of the stage. This girl had once tried to commit suicide by leaping to her death off a fifth-floor balcony, such had been her mental anguish. He had brought her out of that state, helped her see life in a new light and inspired her to love again. He had told me all about it.
~
Sometimes he was inundating me with well-meaning advice like a concerned father, sometimes he was protecting me like an older brother, sometimes he was making risqué jokes like a friend and sometimes his eyes were flashing with a sinister lupine smile. Besides one could never be sure if he truly had less-than-noble intentions or not. When he had forced me to sleep in the same room with him in Rangamati and Kaptai it had seemed the Babar Ali inside him had taken over; later I had not been so sure about that. Before we became close there were many instances when I had been in two minds about him. I remember how in a restaurant in Mymensingh, after knowing why I was leaving R he had placed his hand on my back in sympathy. His hand had fallen just over the clasp of my bra and my back had arched almost immediately, involuntarily, attempting to shake off the soft gesture of comfort. It had seemed that Khelaram had come so far only to toy with me. As deeply as I respected him, my apprehensions regarding him were equally acute.
He had written a wonderful article in the newspaper about Shokal and my literary endeavours. The same man had invited me to his house and showed me around the empty place, before taking me to his painting studio and shutting the door behind us as if he had finally managed to get me where he had wanted all along. Cold with fright, I had sidestepped him, unlocked the door and walked out. This was the same man who had called me from London before his heart surgery to let me know that I was the first person back home he was calling. This was the same man who had been so impressed by my poetry that he had written to his publisher in Dhaka to publish my book and had advised NM to get me to write a column in Khabarer Kagaj. Even after all this I was unable to worship this godlike man—it had had more to do with my inability to treat him as a god rather than any uncouth behaviour on his part. Sometimes I felt that all these emotions were nothing more than baseless anxieties and fears and that HSS was as generous and magnanimous as everyone made him out to be. Nevertheless when the time came for his columns to be compiled into a book, he carefully expunged all mention of Taslima Nasrin’s literary talents and all his earlier praise of the Shokal Kabita Parisad from therein. That is another story, though. Let me come back to 1989.
Of all the bad things that happened in 1989, Yasmin’s disappearance was perhaps the most devastating. I went into severe depression and began craving a change of scene—just to get away to a completely unknown place. I loved Mymensingh but at that moment it seemed to me the city was my mortal foe. No other city could have seemed so empty—I could not bear the sight of an abandoned Gitabitan slowly gathering dust on the harmonium, or her clothes, her favorite knick-knacks and the books of poetry lying around. So I left the city for some time. Soon after, I found myself sitting dejected by the Sitalkha, MHI right by my side. I had known MHI for long; we had been in touch through letters since the time of Senjuti. He used to write beautiful romantic letters, soaked in touching words of love and devotion. Not just me, he used to write such letters to many other women.
Once while in Tangail for a programme he had met Mukti and fallen in love with her, especially after hearing her sing Tagore’s ‘Amar mukti aloi aloi’ (My freedom is written in the light). Mukti used to be an amateur poet. Their relationship had lasted for quite some time, that is, until the day it ended. I had even written a soppy story of star-crossed love called ‘Nikosito Prem’ (A Tried and Tested Love) for the magazine Sandhani (The Seeker), with MHI, Mukti and a third fictional character called Lima. Many who read the story assumed that Lima was a manifestation of me. Had I not based the character on me? Yes, I had. At such a young age I must admit I used to have romantic fantasies regarding MHI, like any other curious girl interested in a romantic boy. R used to be friends with MHI; he became even better friends with Mukti eventually. When we were still together I remember meeting MHI at the book fair and we would end up having a cursory conversation. MHI had later gotten married to a simple homely girl while I had relinquished all my domestic dreams and broken out of the family cage to live as a free bird—hurt, tired, alone, with nowhere to go, but free nonetheless.
MHI used to tell me about this magical kingdom across the seven seas. My only desire was to go away, somewhere far away, although I had no idea how far would actually be far enough. Thinking of the only place in the world that could be called heaven on earth and not wishing to look at this scorched, tired world around me for a moment longer, I turned to MHI and suggested, ‘Let’s go to Kashmir.’ He agreed immediately. ‘Yes. Let’s go!’ Throwing a cool glance at the unruffled waters of the Sitalkha, MHI told me, ‘We’d need almost thirty to thirty-five thousand for this by the way.’ I did not have so much money. My monthly salary was 2000 taka and all my savings had been spent in publishing my book. So I borrowed the money that would allow me to lose myself and find that faraway place, to try and forget my pain and be free. Chotda was there at the airport to see me off.
Everyone at home knew that I was going to India alone to meet my friend Atashi in Calcutta, and that the two of us were planning a trip. I told the actual truth to no one; that would have been a disaster. If they knew I was going with
a friend called MHI, that I was going to lose myself in an unknown land, they would have immediately put me in chains and locked me away. It was fine if I was going around with another man as long as movement was limited to within the country. Crossing the border with a strange man would have been an entirely different matter. One could argue that if we were allowed to sit beside each other by the Sitalkha then what was so wrong with doing the same by the Ganga? There was a difference because the Sitalkha and the Ganga were not the same things. With the Sitalkha there had been the reassurance that irrespective of whether I was swimming in the river or up to something else, I was going to be home at night. With the Ganga there was no guarantee where the night would lead me. Everyone was afraid of the night and so was I, which is why I insisted on two separate rooms for the two of us in the hotel at Calcutta. The same in Delhi, and then again in Agra. The two of us got busy sightseeing or generally strolling about like tourists, visiting the Victoria Memorial Hall, the Red Fort, the India Gate or the Taj Mahal. During one such sojourn, while out on a walk holding hands in the balmy afternoon air, I was struck with the abrupt realization that I was in love with MHI. Perhaps it was because I loved him that I had taken off my own gold chain and hung it around his neck in the Rajdhani Express. I was in love and if someone was going to ask me to leap off the Himalayas, I would probably have done so. I wanted to tell MHI all my stories of pain and joy, I wanted to look into his eyes, kiss him lightly on his eyelids and tell him that I loved him. Obviously, I could not do that and even before I could say anything, something happened that changed our equation irrevocably.
Tucked away in Jammu, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the world, MHI made love to me, his touch shaking me to my very core. On a princely houseboat floating on the Dal Lake in Srinagar, basking in the welcome warmth of the roaring fireplace, I found myself drowning in my love for him. My relationship with R had ended long back. I had not realized how much I had missed a man’s touch. Wrapped in MHI’s embrace, covered in the pristine white sheets he pulled over us, I felt myself come alive again. Reservations long ingrained in me—that sex was forbidden with anyone other than my husband—were tossed aside in the stormy winds blowing in from the Shalimar Gardens. There was no one dearer to me than MHI at that moment, so much so that I almost forgot the life he already had back in Bangladesh. I was reminded of it with a rude jolt after returning to Calcutta when MHI had to go to Treasure Island to buy clothes, jewellery and gifts for his wife and child. That he had a world of his own where I was not welcome became clearer when he told me that he had made an appointment to go visit Sunil Gangopadhyay by himself, leaving me to relive the feelings of soul-crushing emptiness I had experienced after Yasmin’s disappearance.
The flight from Calcutta to Dhaka took half an hour. The half hour was almost up and MHI was still not telling me when we were going to meet again and where, or when we were going to be together again. He was not telling me that he loved me either. In fact, he was saying nothing. He looked happy, content at the prospect of returning home to his family. Desperate and unwilling to let him hear me sigh, a helpless woman trapped by love yet again, I placed my hand on his, hoping against hope that my touch would convey the pain wrenching my gut. Surprised, MHI turned towards me. ‘What is it? Why are you behaving like that?’
I was looking at him, all my vulnerability reflected in my gaze.
Drawing his brows together as if he had comprehended what I was trying to convey, MHI reassured me, ‘Oh, are you afraid? Is this your first time on an airplane? Don’t worry, it happens.’
Slowly I moved my hand away from his.
Back in the city MHI took a baby taxi to his house in Old Dhaka while I made my way to Nayapaltan. When he was about to leave it would have been impossible for anyone to tell that he had spent the past several days with me. It seemed as if he had simply run into me while walking on the road, an old acquaintance and nothing more.
The book fair had started in the meantime. One day, from a distance, I spied MHI wandering in the fair grounds with his wife in tow; she was wearing the sari he had bought for her from Treasure Island. I was far away from them, completely out of place in such a happy image, best relegated to the shadows.
~
Not that this managed to completely cure my obsession with him all at once. There was still a bit of it left somewhere deep inside me. A few days later MHI met me at the Mouchak crossroads and took me to his friend’s house. He did not have much time that day for anything except sex—he did not have time to spend the day talking about love, nor did he have time to cast a fleeting glance at my feelings for him. That day I finally tore all my rosy fantasies of love to shreds and let them be washed away by my tears.
Thus We Are Swept Away
Mahakali School was not too far from Abakash and every Friday Yasmin would walk to the school for her classes. On holidays music classes were conducted there by Anandadhwani; all the students would join in and sing Rabindrasangeet at the top of their voices. Young or old, five or seventy-five, no one was refused entry. I was absolutely delighted to see Yasmin singing such beautiful Rabindrasangeet. And how beautifully she had learnt to recite poems! I had taught her but she had long surpassed me. She was the best at the Shokal Kabita Parisad when it came to recitation and I was proud of her. I had a dream for her future—she was going to become a great singer and I was going to send her to Santiniketan for better training. I nurtured this dream carefully—a beautiful blue lake and my hopes gliding on it like a swan.
Yasmin knew everything, of course. I was ready to do anything to ensure a bright future for her, be it at the cost of my own life. Since there was not much work at the family planning office, I used to spend most of my time at home with Yasmin as my constant companion and best friend. Not just at home, I needed her with me even when I had to go somewhere—to roam the city, to visit Suhrid in Dhaka if Mymensingh was becoming too intolerable or even to socialize within the literary and cultural circles on certain occasions. Obviously, there were boundaries too in this relationship, lines neither of us ever crossed. Like I never told her why I had left R and neither did she ever tell me why she often got late returning home. In order to live a healthy life both of us had resolved that there was no space for anything illicit between us. However, perhaps Yasmin’s definition of illicit had been different. Why else would she lie about being at her friend Rinku’s on getting late because she had stopped to chat with two boys from her class? There was nothing wrong with talking to boys, of course; she used to lie to me out of fear that I would be displeased with her or judge her or misinterpret what was happening. Not that I ever told her not to talk to any of her male friends. They used to come to Abakash to chat and spend time with her and sometimes I too would join in.
Despite being so close, Yasmin was never able to overcome this awkwardness between the two of us. She used to love me and fear me in equal measure. So I never realized that she had gradually grown very tired of meeting my friends, reciting the poems I asked her to recite, singing the songs I liked to hear and trying to get used to my idea of what life was. I never realized that she had begun to suffer from a crisis of identity and neither did I grasp the fact that no matter how inconsequential my social status and fame was to me, I was still making my own decisions while she had to depend on me for everything. Her independence had begun to erode, resulting in a feeling of loneliness that I never noticed. I did not understand that I was inadvertently parading my beauty, my maturity and my aesthetically organized life constantly in front of her, a life where I was the queen and she had been dragged into it and made to play the part of a pawn. I loved the pawn, make no mistake, and I gave her what I felt she needed quite generously. But I failed to sense her isolation. She understood that I did not wish for her to just finish her studies, get married and become a good housewife like other women around her. I wished for her to be her own person, to have a life defined entirely by her own choices and tastes—she knew all that and yet she suffered from low self-
esteem and this too I was blind to. We were so close, we shared the same bed, but I never saw her wounds. I was trying to build a beautiful life for her, notwithstanding Father’s cruelty, my brother’s and his wife’s selfishness and Mother’s indifference, but I did not realize in time that the project was doomed.
One night she did not come back home. We waited for her till late but she did not return. Unable to hold out for much longer I went to see all her friends in the city in search of her. I even went to her acquaintances and to our relatives, but there was simply no sign of her anywhere. Mother and I spent a sleepless night, watching Father pace up and down the room, the same question plaguing all of us: where could she have gone? She had gone to college like the other days. Even if she ever got late, she usually came back home by afternoon. A full day had passed, dawn was about to break, but there was no sign of Yasmin. I was terrified. Mother had spread out the prayer mat on the floor and was reading one namaz after another, begging Allah to ensure her daughter’s safety no matter where she was. Early in the morning I went out and sat near the black main gate of Abakash waiting for her. The second day also passed without any sign of her. Father kept calling from his chamber to ask about her while Mother had gone to the mazar of the old pir to pray for a miracle. I was having trouble breathing from the anxiety and I could not go on trying to think of new places to go look for her. Late in the night of the second day we finally received news of her whereabouts via Jahangir, her friend who used to live on Ishan Chakraborty Road. She was in Sankipara, in her friend Milan’s house. Dada and I set off immediately to bring her back. We found her at Milan’s house curled up on the bed, her face buried between her curled up knees. Unable to understand what was happening to her I ran to her and took hold of her hand. Wrenching it from my grasp, she cried, ‘No, don’t touch me!’
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