Split

by Taslima Nasrin

  All my poet friends were busy and none of them had time to see how I was doing or how I was feeling. The National Poetry Festival was under way, so were the book fair and myriad poetry recitals. I asked people about the book fair, only to be met with glowing accounts of how fantastic everything was and lengthy descriptions of events that were happening. Some of the new boys and girls who were reciting my poetry had even made audiobooks of my novels and columns, copies of which they sent to me. My publishers were sending me word on how well my books were doing, with some already on their second or third editions. Sales were so high that many of them were not being able to keep up with the growing demand. They also informed me many visitors were coming to the stalls hoping to meet the author and get her autograph.

  ‘I really want to go,’ I eagerly told them.

  They immediately stuck out their tongue in disapproval and said, ‘Don’t even say that out loud. There is danger everywhere. Besides, the organizers of the fair have also declared that they will not allow you inside.’

  Early in the morning on 21 February I stood on my balcony to watch scores of boys and girls dressed in white, flowers cupped in their palms and ‘Amar bhaier rokte rangano’ on their lips, walking towards the Sahid Minar. I used to march to the Sahid Minar every year to offer flowers. Every poet, artist and writer was usually busy on this day, signing autographs, attending events, reciting poetry and chatting with their admirers or friends over tea. They were meeting friends they had not met for a long time; writers’ conferences were being held on the Biswa Sahitya Parisad and the Bangla Academy grounds. Only I was alone, kept out of everything and not allowed to partake of the joy. With my head pressed against the grille on the window I could see people walking past, singing—as far as the eye could see there was a sea of them. It was amazing how this particular Falgun day never ceased to be anything short of stunning! The flaming red of the flamboyant tree was smeared across everything, the colour mixing with the strains of the tragic song they were singing. The song made me cry and I lay on my bed as if I had been shot through the heart. A hand touched me lightly just then. Mother said softly, ‘I’ll go and place a red rose at the Sahid Minar on your behalf today.’

  There was nothing wrong with falling in love. On and off I could feel the desire to fall in love taking hold of me; I wished if I could lose myself in its turbulence again! Somewhere deep within me this desire stayed hidden, so well that even I did not realize it existed. At times, alone, when I was overcome with despondency I could feel the yearning within me; I would pick it up and pet it tenderly, wishing to shield its defenceless body from the harshness and cruelty of life.

  For a few days the handsome, refined and witty AR had caught my fancy. Having just come out of a broken marriage and with the door to his heart wide open, he had been looking around for a new love and perhaps another shot at marriage. But I liked his company and that was about it. With K too, my relationship was one of simple physical need; I wanted him but I did not need him. As the desire to fall in love again slowly began to hum a new tune in my ear I was suddenly reminded of H from back when I was in college.

  He had been madly in love with me and when he had found out that I did not love him back, that I loved R instead, he had not taken it too well. One day he had run into R and attacked him, actually attacked him, and threatened to murder him if R came near my college in the future! H, the one man who had truly loved me! Suddenly, after so many years, all I desired was to recapture that love again. I had no clue as to H’s whereabouts. Acting on instinct I began looking for him and finally managed to locate a lead. Dr H, previously a student of Mymensingh Medical, was a doctor in a hospital for the disabled in Dhaka. I called the hospital and managed to get through to him and it did not take me long to be convinced that I had the person I was looking for. Unexpected as it was, I invited him to my house and he came to see me one evening. He looked the same to me; nothing about him seemed to have changed at all. However, something was definitely not the same because try as we might we could not go back to the way we had been with each other. I tried speaking without using a direct pronoun for some time but the entire conversation soon became stilted. Much to my surprise, H told me about his wife and two children. Why was I surprised? Had I expected him to wait for me all these years? As deluded as it might sound, that was exactly what I had hope.

  ‘I told your bhabi that I am going to meet an old college friend . . .’

  ‘My bhabi?’ I was astonished. When had he managed to meet Geeta or Hasina?

  Smiling shyly, H replied, ‘My wife.’

  ‘Oh!’ I had a bland smile plastered on my face as he spoke about his job and his new family. Looking around the house, his eyes wide with surprise, he asked, ‘Have you bought this place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Must have cost you a pretty penny. Will I ever be able to afford a house?’

  ‘Why not? Of course you will be able to!’

  ‘No. Whatever I earn is spent on food. I live in my father’s house, that’s the only saving grace.’

  ‘But what’s wrong with that? Is it necessary that you have to have your own house?’

  ‘I’m sure you have a car too.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘You have made quite a bit of money.’

  ‘No, nothing much. Besides, does money bring happiness? Isn’t happiness the most important thing? They are not mutually inclusive.’

  ‘Your bhabi is a very nice girl. I am very happy with her. So I guess you can say that.’

  ‘Was it a love marriage?’

  ‘No, an arranged one.’

  ‘Is your wife a doctor too?’

  ‘No. She has done her BA.’

  ‘Does she work?’

  ‘No, she’s a housewife.’ He took out a photo of her and their children from his wallet and showed it to me.

  ‘Your wife is very beautiful!’

  Laughing, he replied, ‘She was even more beautiful. After having the kids . . .’

  H did not look at me with love any more. Neither did he talk about the past. In fact, the more I tried returning to the past the more he stayed firmly rooted in the present, where his wife and two children were. No trace of his old love for me remained and I brushed my yearnings aside silently.

  Still smiling shyly, he said, ‘If I ask something of you, will you do it for me?’

  ‘What is it?’ I was eager to know, certain he was going to tell me that he still felt something for me deep within his heart.

  ‘I know you can do it, if you wish to.’ The shy sweet smile was fixed on his lips.

  ‘What is it? I have to hear it first!’ My heart was beginning to beat faster. Something stirred in the quietness and a wave passed over the calm waters.

  H’s smile turned awkward. ‘Make some arrangements for me to go to America.’

  The wave died and the stillness returned with force. His words had come as a huge surprise and a very bitter one at that.

  ‘Me? Send you to America? How can I do that?’ I asked dispassionately.

  ‘You can. You have so many connections abroad. If you want you can do anything. In this country you can’t make money even if you are a doctor. If I can go to America my luck will surely change.’

  Even though I insisted I held no such power to send him anywhere H would not listen. He was convinced that I was someone immensely influential. Just like before Mother sat him down to a lavish dinner. Even she had once harboured dreams regarding me and him. While eating H casually remarked, ‘My wife is a great cook too, khalamma!’ She did not seem too happy hearing about the wife either. I had not told a soul about what was in my heart but Mother had somehow peered inside my heart and figured out my secret. On his way out H finally said, ‘See if you can do something for this brother of yours.’

  My lover had morphed into my brother! Such was fate!

  I sat by myself on the dark balcony and stared at the starry sky for a long time. I felt terribly alone. The house was full of peopl
e, every one of them my relatives, my kin, and yet it seemed there was no one more alone than I. Twelve years had passed but like a stubborn adolescent girl I had tried to rekindle an old love story. Twelve years was a really long time. My loneliness was whispering to me, ‘You are a foolish girl. You have spent your entire youth running after glittery things, things that were not even gold to begin with.’

  I wished H all the happiness with his wife and children. It always made me happy whenever married men showed fidelity towards their wives. This was perhaps why my relationship with K often caused me a lot of discomfort. I had even said to him on occasion, ‘Don’t come to me any more. Live happily with your wife. There’s no reason for you to go to another woman.’ K came nonetheless, even if only once a week, even if for only an hour. K’s wife called me one day. ‘How can you keep seeing my husband? Aren’t you ashamed? You write about women, don’t you! Then how can you destroy another woman’s life?’ For an instant I was speechless and could find nothing to say to her allegations. Then, my voice dry, I said to her decisively, ‘Speak to your husband, sort it out with him. Tell him never to come see me again.’

  All my friends and well-wishers were either much older than me or much younger. I had no friends my age. Besides, it was not as if only people from the literary world were my friends. Be it a hardened garment trader like Yahya Khan or a consummate poet like Nirmalendu Goon, I had friends from all walks of life. Yahya Khan at least had some acquaintance with the literary world since he was an amateur poet too. Khusro on the other hand was a businessman through and through and had nothing to do with literature. Neither did Dr Rashid, but I could talk to him for hours about anything under the sun. I was not in touch with any of my friends from school or college.

  I had heard from Jhunu khala that my school friend Sara was a Bengali teacher at Bhikharunnesa School. Since then I had been excited at the prospect of reconnecting with her. One day Sara came over to my house; we sat across each other and spoke for a long time but it was a conversation entirely devoid of life. I had so many wonderful memories with Sara from childhood but as we spoke I realized there was nothing left for us to talk about any more. We spoke about our other friends, we spoke about her husband and her children and then realized there was nothing else for us to do but sit awkwardly in silence the rest of the time.

  Papri from Vidyamoyee had visited me in Shantibag once and with her too there had been nothing to talk about. Our lives were too different, while I had no husband or children all of them were married. They were working, taking care of the children, leading busy lives and it was no longer possible to keep in touch with an old friend, especially one who was still single. Obviously there was a hint of apprehension there, a suspicion that their friend might get involved with their husbands! Married people preferred to stay in touch with other married people.

  I was not aware where all my doctor friends were or what they were doing either. While I was sure many were still in Dhaka I never ran into any of them. Perhaps we would have managed to stay in touch if I had remained a practising doctor in an established hospital. But there was no hospital to go to any more. Sometimes I could not help but wonder who exactly had drifted apart from whom. Had they drifted apart or had I? Or was it that time had simply come between us? That was what life was all about, a constant irrevocable progression towards the new.

  Nonetheless, it felt nice to reminisce about the old days and dream about recapturing that time again. Although I never imagined going back to exactly as I was, I wished to go back to the person I had been all those years ago, a younger me from a younger time. Of course, reminiscing about the past and carrying the past along like a burden were entirely different things. Abakash had been such a dear place but I no longer spent too much time there. Something always seemed missing and I would keep wondering what it was. Was it my childhood that was missing? Or were people different? Perhaps they had changed just like everything else had. Whatever it was, the passing of time was an irrefutable truth. Things that were lost were usually lost forever while we inexorably marched towards our future, growing up and growing old in the process. Our time was very brief and the very thought was enough to make me want to scream about the injustice of it all. But there was no one who I could share my anxieties with. Life to me represented different things at different points of time—sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly, at times tolerable and mostly not. Most of the time though I was so absorbed in the bounties life had to offer that all I could do was clutch them with every ounce of strength I had.

  ~

  I could hear the drums. A procession to mark Poila Boishakh celebrations was making its way down the road. Boys in dhotis were beating the drums while girls in traditionally draped saris were dancing with pitchers tucked at their hips. People were marching down the road holding aloft giant paper elephants, horses, tigers and bears, many wearing masks resembling characters from fairy tales. Under the banyan trees of Ramna Park the performers of Chayanot had gathered since morning. Music permeated the air; amidst strains of ‘Baandh bhenge dao’ (Break these barriers down) sung in chorus people were bidding farewell to the past year and welcoming the new. All of Dhaka was at Ramna or its neighbouring areas. People had spread nakshi katha on the grass and were fanning themselves with palm leaf fans while gorging on munchies, listening to Fakir Alamgir singing songs of freedom at Suhrawardy Udyan. Earlier Poila Boishakh eve would pass in long addas while watching the stage being constructed for Fakir Alamgir. There were only two days in the entire year that I considered as festivals: Poila Boishakh and 21 February. I had no Eid, Shab-e-Baraat, Shab-e-Qadr, Fateha Doaz Daham, Fateha Yazdaham, or Milad-un-Nabi. In fact, no sooner had I developed a sense of reason than I had stopped attending religious events. But unlike others I was no longer allowed to be part of either Poila Boishakh or 21 February, or go for any of the musical programmes.

  Sanjida Khatun’s Chayanot was performing Rabindrasangeet at Ramna. There were fairs all around—handicrafts, Bengali books, music and dance, and the air was heady with the aroma of revelry. I was all by myself at home, old and redundant and consigned to my loneliness, no longer allowed the right to welcome the new with the others. Misery had me in its thrall.

  In the afternoon Mother peeked into my room, pursed her lips and said, ‘The Poila Boishakh fairs this year aren’t any good.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Chumki’s mother from the other apartment. She’d gone. There were hardly any people.’

  Some time later she came back to the room with ginger tea and dry-roasted puffed rice, a smile of contentment playing on her lips.

  ‘Chayanot is performing, did she say anything?’ I looked at her eagerly.

  Without looking me in the eye Mother responded, ‘Who goes to listen to music in this horrid heat? Might as well stay at home and listen to music.’ She turned around and left in a hurry, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as if she was hiding something. Was she lying to me to ease my pain of not being able to go to the fair? For a moment I contemplated calling Chumki’s mother in the apartment next door and asking her whether the Poila Boishakh fairs were truly no good. Munching on the puffed rice between sips of tea I could hear the song ‘Charidike dekho chahi hriday prashari, khudro dukkho shob tuchcho maani’ (Look around you with an open heart and cast aside the trivial sorrows) that Mother had put on.

  I let it be. The fair probably wasn’t any good after all.

  Notes

  1. Vidyamoyee Government Girls High School is a school for girls in Mymensingh, Bangladesh.

  2. Ananda Mohan College is a university college in Mymensingh, Bangladesh. It is one of the old educational institutions in the country.

  3. Hussain Muhammad Ershad was a Bangladeshi politician who served as the tenth President of Bangladesh. He seized power as the head of the army during a bloodless coup against President Abdus Sattar on 24 April 1982 by imposing martial law.

  4. Ziaur Rahman was a Bangladeshi politician and army general who declared the in
dependence of Bangladesh on behalf of its first interim head of state, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman. He later served as the seventh President of Bangladesh from 21 April 1977 until his assassination on 30 May 1981.

  5. Golam (or Ghulam) Azam was a Bangladeshi politician convicted of war crimes. During the Bangladesh Liberation War in 1971, he led the Bangladesh Jamaat-e-Islami, which opposed the independence of Bangladesh, and together with the Pakistani military establishment, perpetrated the 1971 genocide and was instrumental in the killing of Bengali intellectuals. He led the party until the year 2000.

  6. The Bangladesh Jamaat-e-Islami, or Jamaat for short, is the largest Islamist political party in Bangladesh. On 1 August 2013 the Bangladesh Supreme Court declared the registration of the Bangladesh Jamaat-e-Islami illegal, ruling the party unfit to contest national elections.

  7. 25 March marks the beginning of the Bangladesh Liberation War after the Pakistani military junta based in West Pakistan launched Operation Searchlight against the people of East Pakistan on the night of 25 March 1971, during which time there was a systematic execution-style purge of nationalist Bengali civilians, students, intelligentsia, religious minorities and armed personnel.