Split

by Taslima Nasrin

  ‘It’s up there. When they send it back you can have it back.’

  ‘What do you mean up there? With whom?’ I looked up in bewilderment at the stacks of old papers on the ancient wooden racks all around and above us.

  ‘Oh, not there, not up there!’

  ‘Then where?’

  The kurta pyjama–clad man smiled and replied, ‘The home ministry.’

  ‘Oh, the home ministry is up there for you, is it? So who will send it back from up there?’

  ‘The ones up there.’

  Within a couple of days I wore out the soles of my shoes travelling to and fro from the Special Branch office but this was the only answer I ever managed to extract from them. My passport was up there somewhere. Unable to devise any other way of getting my passport back down to me I decided to write an application directly to the home minister requesting to have my passport back. Unsurprisingly, I received no response. Besides, what would have been the point of getting my passport back? I had to get an official ex-Bangladesh leave to be able to go anywhere. I had written to the health department about that and was going there myself every day to inquire. However, the director general was either too busy or unavailable every time I asked to see him. So one day I sat in front of his office for hours till he had no choice but to meet me.

  ‘Yes, what do you want?’ He was perusing me over his glasses.

  ‘A signature.’

  ‘What signature?’

  ‘It’s been some time that I have put in an application for an ex-Bangladesh leave. I want a signature on that.’

  ‘I can’t sign that.’

  It was as if someone had thrown a stone aimed directly at my heart. The pain travelled from my heart up my throat, threatening to spill over from my eyes. There was no way I was going to be able to attend the programme in Calcutta.

  ‘Why can’t you sign?’ I had to ask.

  ‘I can sign only when I receive word from up there.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘From the health ministry.’

  ‘Do other doctors need approval from up there too for you to sign their applications?’

  The director general took off his dark glasses. It was clear I had asked an unsettling question and his voice hardened as he replied. ‘No, no one else requires permission. But you do.’

  ‘Why do only I need permission?’

  He leaned over a piece of paper on his desk and said, ‘You know very well why.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I want to know why there are separate rules for me.’ I kept my gaze fixed on his face hoping for a reply.

  His chin rose a fraction. ‘Then do one thing. Keep asking yourself that question and you will get an answer at some point of time.’

  ‘Why do I need to look for the answer myself? You have made the rules, so you have to tell me why.’

  Pretending to not hear me he looked around at the others sitting in the room and suddenly began a conversation with one of them. ‘How have you been? How’s everything there? It’s so hot isn’t it! Ha ha ha!’

  The ‘Ha ha ha’ had not finished when I asked again, ‘Why is the health ministry not giving me permission? What’s wrong?’

  Turning towards me, his slack jaw suddenly tight, he opened the file in front of him, picked up a copy of my application and said, ‘Whether I sign it or not how does it matter? Your leave is not just a health ministry issue, it’s a mainly a home ministry thing. If we don’t receive clearance from there you won’t get leave.’ The only file on the table was mine and for my life I could not understand why my file should be so important to the department. It was not like he had searched for the file after I entered the room to meet him; it had already been there in front of him. Every doctor of the department had a file to their name which contained papers related to their recruitment and transfer. When he opened the fat file in my name to show me the application, I noticed much to my astonishment copies of some newspapers and magazines inside. Why were they inside my file?

  I kept visiting the health department at Mahakali over the course of the next few days, immediately after finishing my shift at the hospital. After returning home late in the afternoon Mother would take a look at my downcast face and ask, ‘Why do you return so late these days? You only had a couple of biscuits in the morning. I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything today’, before running to the kitchen to get food for me. Somehow I would manage to satisfy my hunger and go to bed, to wait for the next day so I could visit the health department again and receive the same disappointing answer as the day before. To get permission one had to go up there, but when I tried to do so I was not granted entry into any of the places, neither the health ministry nor the home ministry.

  There was a news report in Inquilab alleging I had tried to go abroad with a fake passport, accompanied by a picture of my passport. The report demanded that the government take the strictest steps against me. I did not have my passport, so how did Inquilab manage to get their hands on a photo of it? It clearly meant the newspaper had clout within the home ministry. The home minister Abdul Matil Chowdhury had been a Razakar in 1971 and used to guard the Kanchpur bridge as a member of the Pakistani army during the Liberation War. He was a minister in the same nation against whose independence he had once fought. The Razakar invasion of the administration had begun during the time of Ziaur Rahman and continued till the situation became such that the brave muktijoddhas of yesteryears were left to languish in hospitals for the disabled, while the Razakars were in charge of the ministries and the wealth.

  A sliver of unease crept up my spine and settled right under my skin. Inquilab knew very well the passport was not a fake. They could perhaps ask why I had chosen to mention journalism as my profession. But everything else—my name, my father’s name, my height, address, age, even the black mole over my left eye—was mentioned in the passport and none of the details were false. In fact my choice of profession was not a lie either. I was a journalist too and since it was something I preferred over being a doctor I had chosen to mention it instead. While demanding punishment for me the people at Inquilab did not stop at the fake passport story only; much more space was expended on excerpts from my writing about religion, the two Bengals, and various other things I had written on the communal nature of the government. Since I had a habit of writing disparagingly about such things it was deemed the moral duty of the government to announce exemplary punishment at the earliest and vindicate the nation and its people. The people at Inquilab were also helpful enough to suggest what the exemplary punishment ought to be: hanging. Inquilab was Maulana Mannan’s newspaper, the same Mannan who had been a known Pakistani sympathizer back in 1971 and who had over time reinvented himself as a media mogul. My feelings of uneasiness would not let me rest. They dug inside through my skin and spread to my heart, my lungs, my blood and every cell in my brain.

  I could not stop going back to the health department again and again despite there being no news regarding the approval of my ex-Bangladesh leave. On one occasion the director general told me quite decisively: ‘You won’t get leave.’

  ‘Why won’t I?’

  ‘Because things are being written against you in Inquilab, that’s why.’

  I failed to fathom if it was the paper Inquilab that was making all the decisions of the ministry. Any decisions pertaining to me could only be taken by the health department. As a doctor if I had failed to adhere to any of the rules of the department then whatever punishment I deserved could only be pronounced by the department and not by Inquilab. Nevertheless, I did not need the ex-Bangladesh leave any more. The programme I was scheduled to attend in Calcutta was over and my fellow poets were all back home.

  ~

  In order to get my passport back, in order to earn back my rights as a citizen, I went back to the Special Branch office in Malibag again. I found Abdus Sattar, the official who had informed me about my passport being ‘up there’, reading a book. He had a red pen in his hand with which he was underlining sentences f
rom the book. In one corner of the table there was a stack of every book I had ever written. Seeing me he did not bother to keep the book he was reading aside. Nonetheless, I pulled up a chair, sat down and asked, ‘What about the passport? Has it come back from up there?’

  Without getting into the ‘up there’ business he replied, ‘The investigation is on.’

  ‘What investigation?’

  ‘I have received orders to read all your books. And note all the places where you have written offensive things.’

  ‘How are my books related to my passport?’

  A ghost of a smile appeared on the corner of his lips before disappearing in a flash. No answer was forthcoming. A while later he said, ‘You have gone too far with religion!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have written so much nonsense. Why do you write such things?’

  ‘I write what I believe. But how is my writing related to me not getting my passport back? They can’t be related, can they?’

  Abdus Sattar did not bother to answer my question but I did receive an answer at the health department. The director general smiled sweetly at me and exclaimed, ‘Ah, the great writer is here! Come, sit down!’ Ignoring his jibe I took the chair he offered.

  He was still smiling. ‘I read your columns in the newspapers.’

  The only thing I could say to that was a soft ‘Oh.’

  ‘So how do you write?’

  ‘As in? Previously I used to write by hand. Now I write on a computer.’

  ‘That’s good, you write on a computer now. You don’t just write columns, you write books too, right?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Did you take permission from the government?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All this writing that you do, these columns in the newspapers, do you write without the government’s permission?’

  A furrow was beginning to crease my forehead. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing! ‘Does one need the government’s permission to write?’

  ‘Of course! You are a government employee, how can you write stuff without government permission! You can write if you want to, but at home. You need the government’s approval to get anything published.’

  ‘Is this a rule?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘But there are so many writers who write in magazines or write books, they aren’t taking permission!’

  ‘How do you know they aren’t?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, they are.’

  As a piece of long-nursed hurt broke off and reached my lips I found myself asking, ‘Can you tell me how one can take permission for such things?’

  ‘Whatever you want to publish, you have to first submit it to the government for approval. When the government says, “Yes, we permit you to print this”, only then can you get it published. Very simple.’

  ‘Is this rule only for me?’

  The director general threw me an unfazed smile and said, ‘No, why should it be only for you? This rule is for everyone.’

  ‘If I publish without permission what will happen?’

  ‘Then you are breaking the law. You must know what happens when someone breaks the law.’

  I could well understand that he had been instructed to tell me all this from ‘up there’. He was merely relaying their decision to me. Light-headed and not wanting to speak to him any longer, I walked out of his office, took a rickshaw from the Mahakali crossing and headed home. Once home I did not wish to speak to anyone. I refused the food Mother brought me and took to the bed, to lie there and stare out of the window. Just beyond the window clouds were floating past, headed to some unknown destination. Wasn’t flying around without an address such a wonderful way to be? Or did they too hanker for a home somewhere? Suddenly agitated, I got up from the bed, unable to calm my pounding heart. I began to pace from one room to the other restlessly, went to the balcony to stand and stare, though I barely saw anything. Everything seemed empty, as if there was nothing except the vast sky overhead and me underneath it all by myself. I wanted to scream and cry but the tears would not come. Even though no one else noticed what I was going through, Mother did.

  ‘Nasrin, what’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something’s definitely happened. Tell me what it is.’

  ‘Don’t irritate me. Nothing’s happened.’ My voice was harsh.

  Mother went quiet.

  She handed me a glass of lemonade which I drank in one gulp before going back to the bed and curling up like a dog. Mother sat beside me and put a hand on my head. Passing her fingers through my hair, drawing patterns as she went, she asked softly, ‘Why are you so restless? If you are sleepy then sleep for a while.’

  I sighed and answered in a forlorn voice, ‘Ma, I might have to stop writing.’

  ‘Why would you have to do that?’

  ‘They have issued an order. And they have figured out this new rule. I can’t write if I wish to keep my job.’

  ‘I have told you so many times to not write about religion. You were writing about oppression of women, wasn’t that good enough? Why did you have to criticize religion? You never listen to me. What will you do now? Tell them you will not write against religion any more, or anything against the government.’

  I was sleepy. Mother’s words seemed like they were coming from far away.

  ~

  I had two clear choices in front of me—writing or my government job. I had to choose any one, so I chose my writing. Without telling a soul, without consulting anyone, while still in the employment of the best medical college hospital in the country, I did something outrageous. I drew a sheet paper and wrote on it:

  Respected Director General,

  Health Department, Bangladesh

  Janaab,

  It is my humble request that I, Taslima Nasrin, consciously and of my own volition, wish to resign from my post as a medical officer in the anaesthesia department of the Dhaka Medical College hospital. Please accept my resignation and oblige. I hope you will accept my resignation at the earliest and free me from stifling government employment.

  I finished my resignation letter, signed it and personally delivered it to the health department office. Of course, tendering one’s resignation was only half of it; one had to make sure it was accepted too. Despite going to the office again and again I failed to get any piece of paper that certified that my resignation letter had been officially accepted. With the certified acknowledgement I could prove that I was not a government employee any more and demand they give me back my passport.

  Father was devastated by the news of my resignation, convinced that his daughter had finally lost her mind and everyone else at home too thought the same. Whoever heard what I had done was shocked into silence, as were most of my friends. And in all fairness, it was a ridiculous thing to do! A government job was not easy to come by, and once you were a government employee, losing the job was as difficult. People were willing to pay lakhs as a bribe even for a government job of 500 taka. Even if you were absent for months on end, for years for that matter, no matter how slack you were in your job, a government job was a permanent thing. It was the biggest security anyone could hope for and here I was tossing away such a job, that too of a first-class gazetted officer, on a whim! Without pausing to think twice that was exactly what I did.

  Meanwhile, I chanced upon a report in the papers announcing the recruitment of a new doctor in my old post at the Dhaka Medical College hospital. Obviously, it was good news since it meant they had accepted my resignation. They had let me go, which was the only thing that could explain why they had declared my post vacant. If I was not occupying that post, then where was I? I had not been transferred, so the only way a doctor’s post could be vacant was if I died. I was dead to them, which could only happen if they had let me go. Then why were they not telling me, ‘Here, we release you, you are now free from all our plotting and scheming and the filth, and all the ne
farious and devious complications!’

  I did not receive any letter to that effect and neither did I get the salary owed to me for my final few months at the hospital. To get the money I went and petitioned at the revenue office, but to no avail. I also sent a copy of my resignation letter submitted to the health department, along with the newspaper report about the new doctor hired to fill my vacant post at Dhaka Medical College, to the home minister, with a fresh application for the return of my passport. I was no longer a government employee, I was a completely non-governmental citizen. At long last my profession was exactly what it said on my passport. So it was only fair they returned it to me. Nevertheless, not a word arrived from the ministry about any of my requests. I wanted my passport back not because I wished to go abroad but because it was my constitutional right as a citizen. I wanted it back because they had violated my right and taken it from me unlawfully and even more unlawfully they were not giving it back even after I had left my job. There was no one to hear my outrage, though. Seeing no other way I went to the passport office to apply for a fresh passport but even that request was turned down.

  ~

  One day, some time before the government banned Lajja, Nahid, the law student, told me she knew someone, a supporter of the Jamaat who was also close to the bigwigs in the government, who could arrange for her to meet the home minister at his house at around eight in the evening. Nahid requested him to arrange the meeting for her hoping it would be the perfect opportunity for her to talk to the minister directly about my passport. It all sounded good on paper. Nahid set off for the meeting with a copy of the application I had written, only to come back in about two hours with despair etched all over her face.

  ‘Boss, he tossed aside your application.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, and he said, this woman writes against religion. She writes horrible things against Allah. Not only will I not give her back her passport, I will also ban Lajja.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes, he said it, and then he laughed loudly.’