Split

by Taslima Nasrin

  One day Purabi Basu told me over the telephone, ‘Everyone is writing columns against communal politics. Why aren’t you writing too?’ I felt a tad disconcerted because I had truly not written any columns. Immersed in despair I had been unable to decide what to write and whatever I wished to write had already been written by someone or the other. ‘Purabidi, I haven’t written one. But I am trying to write something a little bigger, something more factual.’ I wanted it to be factual but where was I supposed to find facts! I went to Old Dhaka and somehow managed to find my way to the offices of the newspaper Ekata (Unity) where I found a detailed investigative report on the places communal violence had affected Hindus. Ekata was a paper of the Communist Party and they had published detailed reports of such incidents across Bangladesh. Sambad, Ajker Kagaj, Bhorer Kagaj too had published extensive reports and these were my sources, besides all the violence I had seen with my own eyes in Dhaka and its neighbouring areas.

  In not too many words and with scant descriptions what I finally wrote was a factual account of the state of the Hindu population in Bangladesh. It could not be called a story, nor could it be called a novel. I named it Lajja (Shame). It was almost February and Bengali publishers were all busy printing new books. Altaf Hossain Minu of Pearl Publications had left me an advance and he was certain about getting a book in February. With a lot of hesitation and embarrassment I gave the manuscript of Lajja to the excited Minu who was hoping for another bestseller from me. His face brightened as soon as he got his hands on the manuscript. ‘What is this? A novel, is it?’

  ‘No, not exactly.’

  ‘Then? A collection of stories?’

  ‘No. Not that either.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘It’s a book written against communal politics.’

  ‘A book of essays?’

  ‘No, not exactly essays either.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘It’s nothing great. It’s something I wrote in a lot of hurry. It’s about the persecution of Hindus that happened last December.’

  Minu’s bright face immediately became dark. He was quite obviously disappointed. ‘This won’t work.’

  ‘I know it won’t,’ I replied self-consciously, ‘but print it for the moment since I have nothing else that I am working on right now. I promise you that I will give you a proper novel soon.’

  The promise of a novel managed to mollify Minu. His drooling red tongue sticking out a little he asked, ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Can I expect it by the book fair?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  As he was about to leave with the manuscript of Lajja I could not help but feel sorry for all the losses he was going to suffer because of me. In a desolate voice I said to him again, ‘Don’t place your hopes on this book. This is not the kind of book that does well. Don’t print too many copies either. Print a limited number so that you don’t incur too much loss.’

  Trying to placate me Minu shot back, ‘Be that as it may, since you have written it, I am going to print it. Later I can publish a novel written by you and make up for all the losses.’

  A Forbidden Scent

  I received an invitation to go to Calcutta to read my poems at a convention organized by Abrittilok. Soumitra Mitra came down to Dhaka to personally invite some of the other poets they wanted. It was in my house that he finalized the list of people he wished to call and he went and invited some of them himself. Since he had to leave before he could finish, he left the rest of the invitations with me, giving me the responsibility of making sure it reached the poets concerned. He parted with a provocative admission. ‘You’re the main attraction this time by the way.’ More than being the main attraction anywhere what I was genuinely excited about was the prospect of visiting Calcutta again. I could barely contain my excitement and made secret plans for quick visits to Darjeeling and Santiniketan afterwards, a two-week trip in all. It was not possible to get two weeks of casual leave. As per Dr Rashid’s advice I put in an application for earned leave.

  Goon was not in the country. Kayesh, a disciple of his, had taken him on a trip to America. Asim Saha initially agreed to go, only to back out later for unknown reasons. I went to Shamsur Rahman to get his signatures on the documents for the passport and visa and got his visa and tickets done along with mine. Over an entire week I shopped for my favourite people, jamdani sari and silk kurtas from Bailey Road, books, dried fish from Shantinagar market, sweets from Muktagacha, beautifully hand-embroidered kantha blankets, lovingly packed jars of mango pickle, besides loads and loads of love for Calcutta, much of which I could not stuff into my luggage.

  On the day of the departure I picked up Shamsur Rahman in K’s car on the way to the airport. Such was my excitement that Soumitra Mitra and Abrittilok were merely pretexts; it was as if I was the one who had organized the convention; as if Calcutta was my city and I was taking Rahman there on a visit. At the airport Bilal Chowdhury and the poet Rabiul Hossain were waiting for us. I checked in with my luggage, collected the boarding passes and eagerly went ahead. With the same zeal I extended my passport towards the person at immigration, Shamsur Rahman in front with me and the other poets behind us. We were all looking forward to landing at Dumdum and then heading out to see the city, to Chowringhee, Park Street, College Street, Gariahat or Chitpur, and we could barely wait to meet and catch up with our friends and fellow poets on the other side.

  The person at the counter looked up from my passport and stared at my face for a while. He looked down again at the document, then back up again, before taking out a piece of paper from his pocket and comparing it with the passport he was holding. Abruptly, my passport still in his hand, he turned around and sped off towards the room of a senior immigration officer. He and the senior officer stood at the door of the latter’s office and discussed something under their breath for a while. It was impossible to guess what they were talking about and neither could I understand what problem there had been with my passport. The photo on the passport was mine, the name and address were mine too. What was it they had to be so furtive about?

  The man came back to the counter and asked me, ‘Do you work?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Dhaka Medical.’

  ‘Do you have permission to go abroad?’

  ‘Since when does one need permission to go abroad?’

  The man could not tell me whose permission I needed. The only thing he kept repeating ad nauseam was, ‘You can’t go if you don’t have permission.’ We went to the senior officer’s chamber and asked what the matter was but even he could not explain it to us. There were three chairs in front of him on which Shamsur Rahman, Bilal Chowdhury and I were sitting. Rabiul Hossain was standing behind us and the other poets were outside the room. Perhaps the senior officer felt a surge of pity on seeing us; given how many thieves and crimelords he had to allow every day he had been given the thankless task of stopping a group of poets flying to a convention. He pushed the telephone towards us and said if someone from the upper levels of the government was to call and recommend he could allow me to go. There were two phones on the table, one of which was repeatedly ringing and which the man kept picking up and speaking into from time to time. ‘Yes sir, she’s here. Yes sir, she’s sitting right in front of me. Yes sir, we aren’t letting her go. Yes sir.’ Was he speaking about me with the sir at the other end of the line? I was convinced that whoever was on the other end must have given prior orders to stop me.

  Chowdhury and Shamsur Rahman were busy trying to locate a name big enough to get me reprieve. After a tense moment Chowdhury said, ‘The health secretary is my friend. If we can get in touch with him we won’t have to worry.’ But repeated calls to the man went unanswered. Chowdhury tried calling the inspector general but he was indisposed. Shamsur Rahman tried calling a minister friend of his but discovered that the man was
not in Dhaka. There was hardly any time and most passengers except for the delegation of poets had boarded the flight. I was telling myself to calm down and that everything was going to be all right, although I could not quash the uneasiness in my heart. Time was ticking past in its own cruel way, uncaring of our plight. After repeatedly calling a number of people we managed to get hold of the health secretary Imran Noor, who was a poet himself. He was of a suitably high rank and we finally managed to breathe a sigh of relief; the smile that had disappeared from my face reappeared in a flash. Shamsur Rahman explained everything to Noor. ‘We are on our way to Calcutta but they are not letting Taslima go. Please tell them to allow her. If you tell them they will listen.’

  Noor asked to speak to the senior officer. I could not tell if they were talking in code but none of us could make sense of the ensuing conversation. The officer finished speaking and handed the receiver back to Rahman. Imran Noor informed us unequivocally that Taslima Nasrin was not going to be allowed to leave.

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘She needs government permission to leave the country.’

  ‘Can’t you make arrangements for that? If you tell them now won’t it work?’

  ‘No, it won’t.’

  Shamsur Rahman’s face was pale while Chowdhury was sitting with his head lowered on his hands. For a moment the immigration officer’s room seemed to sway ever so slightly in front of my eyes, the walls, the airport and even my hopes feeling the tremors. I was not to be allowed any further. The plane was about to leave and the last call for boarding was urging stray passengers to quickly get to their seats. Lines of despair clearly etched on his face, Chowdhury suggested, ‘Let me stay back. Taslima and I will come in a while.’ Shamsur Rahman would hear none of it and suggested he would stay back with me instead, promising to take the afternoon flight with me after taking care of things. Close to tears at their words I managed to choke out in a tear-soaked voice, ‘Why will any of you wait here for me? Go ahead. I will come in some time.’

  The other poets were getting impatient; some were clearly saddened by the turn of events while others were visibly pleased. None of the other poets with government jobs were being asked for permission; clearly none of them required it except me. Rafiq Azad grabbed hold of Rahman’s hand with a ‘We have to go, the plane’s about to leave’ and dragged him towards boarding. Chowdhury followed them with a ‘Go to Imran Noor’s office right now and see what he wants you to do. Try and come by the afternoon flight, or if that isn’t possible, by an early morning flight tomorrow’.

  Leaving me behind, everyone made their way towards the plane. Shamsur Rahman kept glancing back at me, regret clearly etched on his face. I stood there helplessly by myself and when the last person in the group had gone out of sight I broke down in tears in the middle of the airport. Till then I had not realized that seeing them go away was going to cause me so much pain. A storm arose within me, my carefully laid-out plans shattering like a fragile house of glass. The entire airport heard the sound along with my anguished cry of pain.

  My passport was not returned to me and I was handed a piece of paper and instructed, ‘Go to the Special Branch office with this for your passport.’

  ‘When will they give it back?’

  ‘If you go today you will get it back by the afternoon. If not, definitely by tomorrow morning.’

  My two tagged suitcases had been extracted from the belly of the airplane before departure. Tucking them near my feet I sat in the airport for the longest time. How suddenly all of it had happened; I could not shake off the feeling that it was a nightmare, that such a terrible thing had not just happened with me.

  K went to a friend’s office in Bijoynagar on most mornings. I called and managed to get through to him and asked him to come to the airport. Instead of returning home we went straight to the secretariat to meet Imran Noor. Noor took me to a separate room, sat across from me and told me quite clearly that it was not within his power to help me. Although he could not clearly say why that was so. Instead he suggested that I apply for an ex-Bangladesh leave in order to be allowed to go to Calcutta. I was not even aware that such a stipulation existed; I had always seen doctors go out of the country without any hitches and none of them had ever had to apply for such a leave. These legal hoops were obviously uniquely for my benefit. I had no problems with following laws, however, and I rushed to Dhaka Medical immediately to get an application attested by the authorities, and then to the health department to submit it. The director of the department took a look at the application, read it and asked me to come back the next day. When asked if he could sign it the very same day he refused and said he could not. Despite my best efforts to explain to him how important it was for me he said it was not possible.

  I returned home. Soumitra Mitra called to check if I was taking the afternoon flight and I told him I was not.

  ‘Tomorrow then?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  The next morning I went back to the special passport office in Malibag but they refused to hand my passport back to me again. At the health department too I was informed that there had been no movement on the ex-Bangladesh leave application and I had to return home exhausted and dejected. Soumitra Mitra was calling repeatedly from Calcutta to find out what was happening with my trip. He told me everyone was looking forward to seeing me and there would be a scandal if I was absent. Obviously it was going to be a scandal but what was I supposed to do? They were not returning my passport! This continued the next day, and the day after; neither was my passport returned to me, nor was I granted leave. Eventually I was forced to cancel my trip to Calcutta. After the poets came back I asked them how the convention had gone, which poets had read poems, everything about Calcutta and how things were in Nandan, Rabindra Sadan and Sisir Mancha. They answered all my questions but no matter what they said it failed to soothe the ache in my heart.

  ~

  The book fair started in due course. The previous year the Taslima Nasrin Suppression Committee had taken out a protest march and burnt my books, so the organizers asked me to stay away. Many poets and writers were scheduled to make an appearance and I was the only one asked to sit at home alone. I did not want to stay away and in my lively imagination I kept floating off to the fair on an imaginary magic carpet. In the end my overpowering desire forced me to break out of my self-imposed exile; I resolve to head out to the fair come what may. There was nothing for me to be scared of, I had not done anything wrong and if every other person had the right to go to the fair so did I. Why did I have to sacrifice my basic freedoms to appease the draconian demands of the authorities?

  When I informed Khusro of my decision he said he was also going to invite two of his friends. Going alone was out of the question and we decided to go in a large group. Sahidul Haque Khan, bald, lanky, bespectacled and with the distinct air of a philosopher around him, stepped forward and volunteered to take care of my security. Khan worked in television and as a result spoke a lot, but he always spoke beautifully. He had once invited me to his programme and though I had turned down the offer to appear on television I had accepted the Natyasabha prize they had conferred upon me. Eventually we had developed a warm friendship. After meeting at my house, Khusro and Sahidul too had developed a rapport. Khusro had a noble heart and he was already ready to go the extra mile for his friends. He had met Alamgir, a journalist at Ittefaq, at my house and in only a few days he had taken the young man on as a partner in his business. If I ever needed a car to go somewhere, even if he was too busy to come himself, he always made sure to have a car sent over for me. One day he had sprung a surprise and brought me a new computer.

  Khusro was a rich man but he was not like most other rich men in Bangladesh. I had seen many a muktijoddha living a life of luxury, having made decent profits for themselves, with scant concern about the jackals and vultures preying on the majority of the people. Khusro had been a muktijoddha too and he had never sold his ideals to anyone. He was always ready to contribute t
o the cause of those still fighting in favour of a liberated Bangladesh; leaders of the Awami League used to visit him and sit for hours for contributions to the party fund and he never turned anyone away empty-handed.

  Flanked by Khusro and Sahidul Haque on either side I set off for the book fair, elated and terrified in equal measure. There was going to be no roaming around the fairgrounds. My well-wishers decided that I was going to sit in one stall for some time, soak in as much of the fair as possible and then return with my guards. No sooner did I enter the Pearl Publications stall than Minu yelled in delight. Many people were apparently buying my book and many were returning again and again hoping to get my autograph. For an instant, faced with the brightly lit fairground, the festive air generated by the meeting of writers and their readers, the music drifting in the air and the strains of poetry being recited, I almost forgot that I was not safe there. Instead, it felt as if I had as much freedom as any other writer to stay and roam the grounds.

  If the place where the most civilized, the most educated, the nicest, the most honest, the most decent and the most free-spirited literary and cultural personalities assembled was not safe enough then where else would I have been safe? A mosque was not safe for me, nor was the home of someone staunchly conservative, nor a dark alley, an empty road, a terrorist’s hideout, a den of drunks, some religious event, a Jamaat congregation or literally a villain’s lair. Except the confines of my own home, if there was one other safe place for me to be in, it was the book fair. It was a familiar place, close to my heart, something that was in my blood and in every beat of my heart, a balm after a long spell of pain and a refuge that welcomed me with open arms to rest in its embrace after every gruelling year.