Split

by Taslima Nasrin

  After one such long drive I returned to my study, switched the fan on and lay back on my chair. A thousand thoughts were still buzzing through my brain like tiny insects. I had so many pieces lying around incomplete, articles I had lost interest in finishing. I could not figure out what would be the point of it all, what would be the point of going on writing. A terrible despair enveloped me. If my writing was not going to succeed in changing anything in society then what was the point of writing any more? Eighty per cent of the people did not know how to read or write. Only the educated got the chance to read what I had to say; besides, I wrote primarily about the problems of the educated middle class, the class I belonged to.

  Consequently, neither physically nor mentally, I could never reach the lives of the poor; all I could do was imagine their lives but I could never become one of them. I had written about Noorjahan because I could identify with her pain. But I had not experienced that pain by living her life and there was a world of difference between the two. Was I using Noorjahan only for my own benefit or was I truly moved by her plight? Why had I written about her? How many women like her could read what I wrote and gather strength from my words? Not even one! So was I then writing only for the educated middle class so they would praise me? Or was I truly invested in what I felt and wanted to share that feeling with others so they could awake and arise and try to do something good? I was not sure what exactly the country needed. Was economic change automatically going to lead to social change, where religion was going to lose primacy and all civic amenities including health and education were going to be rapidly developed? Or did the key lie in a stable and healthy political atmosphere? Or did everything have to start with the eradication of religion? Which of these could get rid of systematic inequalities between men and women, the rich and the poor, the majority and the minority? Was one of them going to be enough, given how intricately connected all three were? Or did one have to fight each battle separately but simultaneously? Unable to think any more I cursed and got off the chair. I wanted tea and I called out to Minu. Even Minu could have been working in a garments factory but I was not letting her because that would have hindered my comfortable life. Or was it because I was trying to save her from the uncertainties that came with such a job?

  Yes, I definitely needed tea.

  While I was sipping tea the five girls arrived. All of them students of Jahangirnagar University, they had come to meet me once before. Simple, sari-clad, pigtailed girls; however, their views were anything but straight and narrow. They had the same thing to say as before—according to them all the things I was trying to achieve by way of women’s rights through my writing, none of it amounted to anything in the long run as long as capitalism remained the dominant mode of production. The solution according to them was joining the Communist Party and becoming an active member. If the party came to power, only then could I hope to bring my dreams to fruition, or so they believed. I did not wish to join any political party, though. Why? Because I barely understood politics. The girls did not agree when I told them that. Tea arrived. It was set before them but the five were much more interested in talking than having tea.

  Why was I writing about secularism and women’s rights separately? Why was I not writing only about communism? With the advent of communism, secularism and women rights were going to be automatic developments. So the problems I was concerned with were superficial ones. I was only writing about certain issues without trying to explore what the core of the problem was. The girls mentioned a host of other social, economic and political problems and claimed that capitalism was at the source of all of it. I coughed and then felt an insane urge to laugh when the five of them asked in unison, ‘What happened?’ I almost replied, ‘It’s this capitalist mode of production!’ While listening to them I could not help but think how beautiful their sentences were. I also noticed the sentences were not from their hearts, they were emerging from their brains as if they had learnt a host of such beautiful sentences by heart. None of them were disagreeing with each other; when one was speaking the other four were nodding in agreement. All five seemed like simple robots to me.

  They gave me tonnes of advice before taking their leave.

  I lounged on the sofa for a long time. Yasmin had changed the TV channel to Zee TV, where Hindi songs were playing. I was staring at the screen, my thoughts miles away. Even when Saju, Lovely and Jaheda came and called and asked how I was, my mind was still wandering. The spell broke on hearing the news they had brought: that Jaheda and Saju had lost their jobs. They had been heading a movement against the owner of their garments factory, something they had been working towards for a long time. To that end they had visited the homes of all the workers, explained to them the benefits they were not getting, made them aware of how the owner was cheating them and inspired thousands of workers to take to the streets in protest. The owner had hired goons to attack the rally, beat up the protesters and break their limbs, while the police had stood by and watched.

  I already knew about the terrible conditions under which they were forced to work: fifteen hours of work, no holidays, not even weekends off, two toilets for 3000 workers with a rule prohibiting its use more than twice, termination of services in case of pregnancy, salary deduction for absence if any of them got ill, and no extra money for the overtime they were made to do. I had written about their troubles but what good was a column! What they urgently needed was the movement they had tried to begin on their own. Expectedly, the owner was happy having dismissed the leaders and crushed their movement, along with their heads and limbs. The government had taken no steps against such heinous crimes and the courts too had refused to let them file a case.

  ‘At least the factory will be shut,’ I said.

  Jaheda corrected me. ‘The factory will reopen tomorrow, aapa.’

  ‘How can they reopen the factory if workers refuse to work?’

  ‘Most workers will accept the terms set by the owner.’

  ‘Not everyone surely!’

  ‘They have already dismissed the ones who won’t. It won’t matter to the owner. There are too many poor people in the country and he will get labour easily. Most are ready to work under any conditions.’

  I could see the awareness in Jaheda’s eyes, her hands clenching into fists and her teeth gnashing in anger. After their secret nightly meetings with the workers Jaheda and her group would come over to my house and I would hurriedly arrange for food for the hungry lot. Over dinner they would describe to me how things were going and how much longer they had to wait. Jaheda and Saju had lost their jobs some time ago. Lovely was still employed but it was not certain how long that was going to last. Despite their experience in working in garment mills, Jaheda and Saju had not gotten a job elsewhere. I heard everything they had to say. At one point I got up, tore out the last remaining leaf from my chequebook, wrote a cheque for the last 4000 taka remaining in my account and handed it to Jaheda.

  ‘What’s the money for?’

  ‘Buy a sewing machine. Work from home and try and earn for now.’

  I had been to Jaheda’s small shanty in the slums of Pallavi. The room had enough space for a bed and a small table. Sitting on that bed I had heard the stories of their fight for survival. Jaheda had moved to the city from the village to earn a living. Having been educated only till class eight there had been nothing else for her to do other than working in a garments factory. Saju used to like studying and had even passed his matriculation exam. But without any money there had been no way for him to go to college and so he too had taken up a job in the factory. As for Lovely, after the death of her parents she had joined the factory in order to support her family. Saju and Jaheda had been living together for the past couple of years and they had a child too. Since both of them spent most of the day outside and there was no one to take care of the baby they had sent the child to be brought up by Jaheda’s mother in the village. Saju would proudly declare, ‘We live together. Marriage is an unreasonable arrangement!’r />
  ‘Don’t you face trouble living together without marrying?’

  ‘No, living together is not a problem for the rich and the poor. It’s only a problem for the middle class,’ Saju had told me.

  I could not help but agree with him. It was the middle class that had issues with such an arrangement. They were the ones who had the most shame, the most fear and the most superstitions.

  Since Saju was interested in studies he would read whichever paper or journal he could get his hands on. That was how he had come across my writing. Reading my columns every week was a must for him and he would make Jaheda and Lovely read them too. Then one day he had brought Jaheda to meet me, who in turn had brought Lovely, and through them other workers of the factory had found their way to my place. Their company gave me courage and I enjoyed spending time with them far more than I did with the girls from Jahangirpur University. Their resilience and daring was what astounded me the most. They would travel from one place to another hanging from the door of the bus, or if they did not have money then they walked mile after mile, uncaring of the scorching noon sun or the uncertainty of the night.

  They knew nothing about capitalism or socialism but they were aware of their rights, they knew how to work hard and they were prepared to do everything necessary to earn every last farthing of what they deserved. Their poverty had failed to break them and no conspiracies or attacks were going to succeed in pushing them back. Perhaps there were many things they did not know but they weren’t stupid. They had enthusiasm and they could not afford to be afraid or overwhelmed. They could not afford to live by the differences observed in society between the sexes and among various religious affiliations. They did not follow the path travelled by others but chose to fashion their own, and every moment was a new fight for them—a fight for food, clothes or survival. I was infamous for being rebellious but I was acutely aware that even ten Taslimas like me were nothing in comparison to the rebel that Jaheda was, or the sheer courage she displayed. I was not as proud of my own achievements as I was of Jaheda’s.

  As soon as they left with the cheque a thought struck me—did I just douse the fire burning within them a little with my gesture? Was my money only going to calm them down? Were they not going to talk to any of the workers any more about how the factory owner was exploiting them? Were they no longer going to organize to fight for workers’ rights? Henceforth were they only going to sew clothes in their new sewing machine and think about how to turn things around for themselves, just the two of them? Did I just turn Saju and Jaheda away from a collective struggle for their rights? A chill set in my bones at the thought.

  ~

  The year was almost over. Things were usually very hectic around this time and I was either writing tirelessly or proofreading finished pieces. February was just around the corner. February meant the book fair and publishers going mad over new books they wished to release. Kakali Prakashani was about to bring out a compilation of my columns titled Chhoto Chhoto Dukkho Kotha (Slight Stories of Sorrow). Selim Ahmed of Kakali had kept my request and published Phyan Dao (Famine!), a collection of old poems about the famine of 1950 that I had compiled from journals and newspapers of the time and edited. Nikhil Sarkar was the inspiration behind the project. He had asked three people to work on three books: Bilal Chowdhury was tasked with compiling short stories about the famine, I was asked to work on poetry and Sarkar had taken upon himself the responsibility of compiling a book on images of the famine. To that effect he gathered paintings on the famine by artists of the time and also wrote a long essay on the same. The volume was titled Dai (Responsibility) and was published by a small publication house called Punashcha. Despite being well aware that Phyan Dao was not going to sell well Selim Ahmed had honoured my request and published it, perhaps out of hope that in the near future his faith was going to be rewarded. So I had to make sure to give him a new book to publish at the book fair. Pearl Publications was not as lucky and I could only give them Lajja Ebong Onyanyo (Lajja and Others), not an original work, but a collection of what other authors had written about Lajja. Minu of Pearl Publications was justifiably upset.

  ‘Give me something original.’

  ‘Where can I get you something original?’

  I had been busy working on Koraner Naari and reading the Bible, the Vedas and the Quran for it. I had not managed to finish the novel Aamar Meyebela (My Girlhood) that I was writing. Obviously I could not give him something incomplete to publish! In the end I suggested Minu collect four old novellas of mine and publish them together as Chaar Konya (Four Women). It managed to mollify him to some extent but he still made sure to remind me that I had not given him a new book to publish. I also gave the responsibility of the books Khoka had published earlier to various other publishers. Dukkhobati Meye (The Girl Who Feels the Blues), a book of short stories, went to Maola Brothers who had been after me for the longest time for a book. I did not wish to disappoint anyone, I wanted to publish with everyone who approached me, but that was hardly possible.

  The Gyankosh publisher was a very affable man to whom I had given the reprint rights of Nirbachito Kolam; despite it being an old work he was elated. With the others I had to make do with promises for the moment. I felt especially bad seeing the pitiful look Mezbauddin Ahmed of Ankur Prakashani gave me. He told me all about how he had paid an advance to MHI nearly five years ago for a novel but MHI was yet to give him anything in return. He used to publish a weekly journal called Samikkhan where I was a regular columnist, which is how we had met initially. He had asked me for a book as soon as he had launched his publishing house. In the end I managed to pacify him with a temporary fix—I suggested he collect the debates written for or against me in Samikkhan and compile them into a book. When asked whether I had no books at all, I told him I did—Koraner Naari. Most publishers recoiled in shock at the very mention of the name and none of them had the courage to take up the challenge.

  Faced with publishers clamouring for my work I could not help but be reminded of the old days when there used to be one writer and one publisher working on a book through the various stages of production, a labour of love. I was reminded of the excitement of my initial years with Khoka, which had been far more beautiful than the busy times I was living in. I was frequently reminded of Khoka too, the person who had been my closest confidant during some of my most difficult times. But when better days had finally arrived I had everyone except him in my life. I had never expected that my relationship with Khoka would ever turn sour but it had happened and I must say the fault had been entirely his.

  One day he had suddenly grabbed hold of my hand and cried, ‘Don’t you understand anything? Don’t you see how much I love you?’ I had been too dumbstruck to respond to something like that. I had experienced many humiliating, insulting and disgusting scenes in life but I had never imagined even in my wildest dreams that I would face something like that with Khoka. Feeling dizzy I had snatched my hand away, moved away from him and asked him to leave. After throwing him out I had wept my heart out, like how people cry, rage and feel empty when their dreams shatter. Khoka had never gotten in touch with me ever again. A few months before this incident when his wife had begun suspecting there was something going on between the two of us he had requested me to go to his house and explain the truth of our relationship to her. To allay her fears I had done that too. Ever since that incident his wife would come over to my place often, with him or on her own, and we spent hours chatting over food. Even the newspapers had gotten the two of us married on numerous occasions and Banglabazar Patrika had even insulted Khoka in its pages. No amount of gossip had managed to cause a dent in our relationship. In the end he had done that all by himself.

  My old life, one of exhilaration, no longer existed. Samar Majumdar and Dhrubo Esh had done great work with covers back then and I was fortunate to have followed their work closely. I used to visit Samar at his Elephant Road residence to see him at work. Dhrubo Esh used to live in the Art College hostel and he wo
uld stay up late into the night making sketches to accompany the poems on every page. With Samar I used to compare our ideas to understand what the final result was going to look like. If it did not make sense we moved to the next and then to another tirelessly. Racing against deadlines, I would go around town trying to locate Dhrubo, to suggest alterations like adding a splash of colour here or something else there. However, I no longer cared who was doing the cover or how it was coming along. The more my world was expanding the more my movements were getting restricted. Even if I wanted to I could no longer hope for the same passion and enthusiasm that had been distinctive of my earlier days.

  ~

  February brought with it the festivities. There were events planned through the month—the book fair, the National Poetry Festival, poetry readings and recitals, music fairs and drama festivals. Writers, artists as well as readers waited the entire year eagerly for this one month. Once I used to wait for February too. But I was sitting at home, not having been invited anywhere since I was not allowed to go anywhere in the first place. No one had called me to their event and I was not welcome even as a member of the general audience. Poets were finishing one event and moving to the next, riding the festive wave from one joy to another, while I was locked away in a dark room. Everyone was out and about, the events scheduled to last from afternoon till midnight. I was well aware that if I were to go to the book fair there would be a crowd of people around me in the blink of an eye, with half wanting to kill me on the spot and the other half wishing to touch my feet. One group would approach me with knives and the other with books for me to sign. Even then I wanted to run to the fair, to join the celebrations outside without letting the fear of death hold me back. If I had to die so be it but I still wanted to go. But there were invisible shackles on my feet and they would not let me.