Split

by Taslima Nasrin

‘You didn’t say anything?’

  ‘I did! I asked him why he wanted to ban Lajja, if there was anything objectionable in it, and he said yes. I argued that it was just facts, facts you didn’t make up. But he said, “Be that as it may, even if a few Hindus were slapped around or abused somewhere, or a few fences caught fire, is it right to report such things? These bloody malauns36 will get encouraged.”’

  Nahid lit a cigarette and extended one towards me.

  ‘No, I don’t want to smoke.’

  ‘Oh boss, take one. You’re anxious. This will help.’

  No one at home liked Nahid, especially because she smoked. Not that I was very fond of cigarettes myself, but Nahid usually insisted on lighting one up while sitting in my room and then coax me to take a few drags. Even when I hated her calling me ‘boss’ she insisted on using the term. Nahid was a very brave girl and I have always liked brave girls. She would set off for her house in Narayangunje at odd hours, that too by bus. I would ask her, ‘Doesn’t it scare you, Nahid?’ ‘Boss, talking about fear doesn’t suit you. Why should I be afraid? If someone tries anything’—her hands would clench into fists—‘I will lay them out flat.’ The sixth finger on her right hand, unable to fit inside the fist, would usually flail helplessly. Nahid never wore saris, preferring kurta-pyjamas and stoles instead, and sandals. This was a must for her, as was the lack of make-up on her face. Whenever she had time she would come over to my place and say, ‘Boss, is there any work? Tell me, I’ll do it for you.’ If there was work she would help, or else she would simply hang out and start singing loudly.

  As promised, Lajja was eventually banned. The home minister cackled and declared, ‘I’ll ban the rest of her books too.’ The enemy of our country’s freedom was also in charge of our lives and a writer’s freedom to write what she wished to and her freedom of expression were being crushed under his corpulent ass.

  I had thought a simple resignation from my government job would be enough to free me from government ire too, and give me a chance to write freely and in peace. Obviously, even that was too much to ask! Despite becoming a non-governmental entity the administration maintained a strict watch over my movements and my activities. One day two officers from the Special Branch turned up at my place in Shantinagar. At first I did not want to open the door, but when they began banging on it and shouting, ‘Open up, we’re from the police’, I had to relent. Holding my fear at bay I opened the door and the two men marched in boldly, as if they were at some bosom friend’s place. They went from room to room, switched on the fan in the living room, pulled the curtains on the windows aside and settled themselves comfortably on the sofa. One of them had a faint smile on his face while the other’s brows were severely crinkled.

  Mr Brow spoke first. ‘Do you have a copy of Lajja?’

  It seemed someone had poured a glass of cold water on me. Of course I had a copy of the book! But since it was illegal they could arrest me if I told them I had one. For a moment I was unable to decide whether I should lie or tell them the truth.

  Instead I asked, ‘Why? Why do you want to know?’

  Mr Brow said again, ‘I need a copy.’

  ‘It’s illegal to possess a copy of the book!’ I was facing Mr Brow while Mr Faint Smile was to my right.

  ‘Do you have a copy of the book?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you telling the truth?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  My answer did not betray what I was feeling inside and my eyes were fixed on their feet. If they were to walk into my study they were obviously going to find the copy of the book. I had answered their question without even pausing to think about what was going to happen if they did. If only Mother had heard our conversation and managed to hide the book somewhere! As I made a move to get up from the chair Mr Brow stopped me, ‘Where are you going? Sit.’ I had to sit down with a ton of discomfort and distaste weighing on me. A niggling fear too settled somewhere deep inside my gut.

  The middle-aged Mr Faint Smile intervened. ‘Why is your book still being sold in the market?’

  ‘My publishers are not selling it. Neither do they have any copies any more. The police took away everything.’

  ‘But it’s still being sold! Why?’

  Gravely, I answered, ‘How do I know why or how it’s still being sold?’

  ‘You are supposed to know!’

  My jaw tightening, I replied, ‘I have written the book. I am the author. But I am not responsible for selling it. Go ask the ones who are selling it why they are still selling it.’

  The tiny sliver of fear within me vanished entirely, leaving only the discomfort and distaste behind.

  Mr Brow began, ‘Phera . . .’

  Pouncing upon the word immediately Mr Faint Smile asked, ‘Why did you write Phera?’

  ‘What do you mean why did I write it? I wrote it because I wanted to.’

  Phera (The Return) was a long story I had written recently. Dulendra Bhowmick had asked for a new novel for the special Puja issue of Patrika (The Journal), but when I could not develop a novel I had written a long story, actually a novella, which was published as a novel in the journal instead. Phera had already been published as a book in Bangladesh but was yet to be published in West Bengal. I could send my books for publication as soon as I finished them because the Bengali font I used for writing on my computer was the one that the publishers in Bangladesh used too. So once I gave them copies of my writing in a diskette they simply had to send it straight off to the press and there was no need to compose and proofread it further. For Ananda Publishers everything had to be done from scratch since they did not use the same font. Phera was about a young girl from East Bengal, who had been sent to West Bengal for her own safety, returning to her homeland after three decades. The novella was a description of everything she witnesses during her visit. The police wanted to know why I had written it and I could tell they were not happy with my answer.

  Mr Brow continued, ‘Who asked you to write Phera?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone must have told you to write such a story. Who was it?’

  ‘My publishers keep telling me to write. But the names, the plot, all of these are solely my decisions. That I write on my own.’

  ‘Phera could not have emerged from your head. Someone must have told you.’

  ‘No, no one asked me to write it. As I said, I decide what I want to write.’

  ‘Do you know any of the characters in the book? As in, do you know a woman called Kalyani?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why did you write about a Hindu woman named Kalyani returning from Calcutta to see her old house and land?’

  ‘So strange! It’s a story!’

  ‘So you made it up? Nothing like that happened?’

  ‘Authors imagine their plots, don’t they?’

  ‘But there has to be a connection to reality. Isn’t there one? Or can anyone imagine anything bizarre and write it?’

  Mr Faint Smile asked, ‘Has the novella been published in Calcutta?’

  ‘Not as a book.’

  ‘Then how?’

  ‘As a long story in a magazine.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Patrika.’

  ‘As in, what is the name of the magazine?’

  ‘Patrika.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean the magazine is called Patrika.’

  ‘Hmm. Do you have a copy?’

  I was burning with rage. All I wished to do was throw the two men out. The loo blowing in from outside was only fanning the flames.

  Mr Brow probed, ‘Do you have a copy?’

  ‘No.’ My reply was rather forceful.

  ‘Why do you write about Hindus despite being a Muslim?’

  ‘I was born in a Muslim family. I don’t believe in religion.’

  I said this with enough force and the moment I uttered the words I could feel the weight of the remaining distaste and discomfort being lifted off
me too. As if I was finally breathing in the fresh air after being inside a locked vault for the longest time.

  Mr Brow asked, ‘You don’t believe in Islam?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you believe in any other religion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Hinduism?’

  ‘No.’

  Mr Faint Smile interrupted, ‘Then why do you write on behalf of the Hindus so much?’

  ‘Because they are human beings. I don’t see religion, I see human beings. If someone is being oppressed for no reason I try to stand by them. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.’

  Slamming the door on their departing backs I turned around to find Mother standing in one corner, her face pale. ‘Why did you tell them you don’t believe in religion? Now they will create even more trouble for you.’

  ‘Let them,’ I said and walked away.

  Mother pulled out my copy of Lajja from underneath three layers of mattresses, tore it to bits, and while disposing it in the garbage bin in the kitchen declared, ‘There’s no need to keep such a book. Who knows when they will arrest us and take us away saying we have the book!’

  I had a copy of Lajja in my computer so I did not feel too bad about the book being destroyed. It was good in a way. At least I would be safe from attacks. They let me be but not entirely. Mr Faint Smile often called to ask about me and how I was doing. Once, during such a conversation he made sure to let me know that he only wanted the best for me. During that very conversation he asked, ‘Did you, in a recent interview to Aajkaal, say that religion should be abolished and marriage should be abolished too?’

  ‘Yes, I did. So?’ I replied tersely.

  ‘The home ministry has ordered an investigation.’

  I sighed and hung up. They were investigating even the statements and interviews I was giving, basically in a quest to create a boundary for whatever I wished to say or write. There was going to be an investigation every time I overstepped. Files were going to be opened in the ministry and they were going to gorge on information and grow fat day by day. The police were constantly keeping a close eye on me in the meantime, so much so that it became impossible for me to try and differentiate between a normal person and a policeman in civil clothes. But even if I failed to grasp their presence I was told by many others that sleuths were always hanging around my house. However, what it was they wanted or what they got was entirely beyond me.

  I had assumed moving from Shantibag to Shantinagar would bring me a measure of peace. But the sleuths followed me like shadows wherever I went. If it was only the police it would not have been so difficult, but no sooner than I moved into the new place that an entirely novel set of troubles began. Every few days someone or the other would turn up at my door demanding a donation for some committee. I was not interested in being part of any committees so there was no question of any donation but the other owner members informed me that it was something I had scant choice in.

  There were four huge buildings within the complex, each building ten floors tall, comprising forty apartments and 160 families in total. That was quite the number and a committee was necessary in this case to ensure everything required to maintain such a large community was taken care of. So that there were no robberies the committee was supposed to ensure there was round-the-clock security and that all the guards were being paid their salaries regularly. It was also supposed to maintain other services like get the elevator repaired on time, employ a gardener, make sure the guards wrote down the names and addresses of drivers coming from outside or driving them away if required, keep the corridors clean, get someone to take out the garbage, ensure salaries of all monthly employees, install and maintain dish antennas, maintain the apartments and get repairs and paint jobs done as and when required. In fact, there was no end to the amount of work that needed to be done.

  Zahirul Islam, the owner of Eastern Housing Estate, was not going to take care of all this; having sold off all the flats in the complex his job was done. The ones who had bought the flats and were going to be living there were the ones responsible for their smooth running. A handful of enthusiastic homeowners had come together to form the committee with elections scheduled every year to elect a new board of members. The aforementioned duties were not the only things the committee had to take care of; there were elaborate future plans too. There was going to be a laundry, a bakery and other shops adjacent to the garage downstairs. What I gathered in the end was that the committee was meant to serve all the needs of the one hundred and sixty families living inside the complex. Silently I accepted their stipulation of a contribution of 1200 taka per month and even went to the committee office one day to get acquainted with the secretary, Shafeeq Ahmed.

  Before I could introduce myself he exclaimed, ‘I know you!’

  ‘Have you seen me anywhere?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t but I keep seeing your photos in the newspapers and all. This is the first time I have seen you up close, though!’ Throughout the exchange a congenial smile remained fixed on my lips that held a stray shadow of apprehension at bay. I generally did not have to introduce myself anywhere any more and I was not sure if that was a good thing or not! In my heart I knew very well that it was not a good thing at all.

  I had to refuse the next demand of the committee straight away. It was impossible for me to give them money to build a mosque. I told them no one from my house was going to go to the mosque and there was no way I was giving any money for it. However, all my protests fell on deaf ears and Shafeeq Ahmed himself came to talk to me. A simple man of average size in a white shirt, black pants and black shoes, Shafeeq Ahmed was a harmless, decent man. He owned a pen company and, perhaps because he was a business owner, had a lot of time to spare which he gave to the committee. He had been a muktijoddha too and he told me he quite liked some of my writing, especially when I wrote about the country’s struggle for independence.

  ‘Everyone is paying for the mosque, you should too. The mosque is being built, it needs money to be completed.’

  ‘What is the need for a mosque inside the complex? There are many mosques in this locality. Those who want to read the namaz can go to those mosques.’

  ‘But there was always a plan to build a mosque inside the premises!’

  ‘You need money to build anything else, you can ask for it. But I will not give any money for construction of a mosque.’

  ‘How will it harm you, paying for it?’

  ‘How does it benefit me?’

  ‘Even if there is none! It’s meant for everyone. All of us have to live here together, don’t we? Everyone’s paid, except you.’

  ‘Your mosque will not get held up if I don’t pay. If you want to build it, please go ahead, I can’t stop you. But I have no faith in mosques and I will not pay for one either.’

  Shafeeq Ahmed finished his tea and left without a word.

  Not that this brought me peace. The committee wished to organize a Milaad Mehfil and wanted contributions for it. I told them right at the door that I was not going to go to the Mehfil and neither was I going to pay for it. Then they came with a demand for contributions to an iftar party. I told them I did not want to eat the iftari, so I was not going to pay. A Shab-e-Baraat programme too I similarly refused to pay for. At the same time I did not hesitate to pay whatever sum they asked of me for organizing 21 February and Victory Day celebrations.

  ~

  Two weeks after our conversation about the mosque I received a phone call from Shafeeq Ahmed. He asked me, ‘Who is K?’

  ‘K? Why? K is my friend.’

  ‘Does he come over to your place often?’

  ‘Yes, he does. Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘There’s talk.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the committee.’

  ‘What talk?’

  ‘They are saying you have an illicit relationship with K.’

  I laughed out loud. ‘What is our relationship, whether it’s illicit or n
ot, is this within the committee’s jurisdiction? What gives the committee any right to try and enter my bedroom?’

  ‘I am not saying all this. I am simply letting you know as a well-wisher. This is all Zubair Hussain’s doing. He is the chief engineer of Eastern Housing, he has an apartment in Building 2. He’s also the president of the committee.’

  ‘He can do whatever he wants. He can say whatever he wishes to. I don’t care.’

  ‘You might receive a letter.’

  ‘What letter?’

  ‘To ask you to refrain from doing anything illicit in the apartment.’

  ‘Whatever I do in my house is my personal matter.’ I hung up. I had no desire to talk about this any more.

  A few nights later I received another call. Shafeeq Ahmed informed me that the president was hell-bent on taking action against me. He also had the support of a number of people. Ahmed also informed me that it was within the committee’s rights to assess if anything illicit was going on anywhere and take appropriate action.

  ‘What are you implying by illicit?’

  ‘For instance, if the owner of the house uses it for prostitution. It happens quite often. What if an owner is letting a prostitute and her client use the place and making money out of it? The committee then has to evict the person.’

  ‘How will you evict the person? They are the owners of the flat.’

  ‘It’s a rule. They are obliged to sell the house and leave.’

  ‘I am not running any prostitution rings in my house. Why does he wish to take action against me?’

  ‘They think you are doing something illicit. I am merely a well-wisher, don’t misunderstand me. Tell K not to come over any more.’

  I protested immediately. ‘No, I will not do that. K is unimportant here. It is entirely my decision who will come to my house, who will stay over, who can come in and who can leave. It’s not something the committee can decide. This is my last word on the matter. This is the minimum freedom guaranteed to a human being and I am not going to give this freedom up.’

  ‘They will send a letter.’

  ‘Let them.’

  ‘First warning. Then a second warning. Then a third. And then an eviction notice.’