Then Benoir grabbed her by the throat, ‘You miserable creature, I’ll kill you.’
Nila could hardly breathe. She used all her strength to unclasp his fingers. Benoir pushed her down on the floor. She fell face-down and he kicked her with his hard boots. He picked up the meat cleaver and raised it on her chest. Nila went cold with fear. She closed her eyes and listened to her heart beat. The knife fell bluntly against her back.
‘I won’t dirty my hands by killing a worm like you. You’ll rot here by yourself.’
Benoir walked out. Nila’s French lover walked out, her handsome man with his blue eyes, blonde hair walked out. She lay on the floor for a long time. She could hear nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat. Her whole body ached. When she got up, she did four things.
One, she took in deep breaths in the pure air. She stood at the window and looked out at the greens, reds and yellows of nature, at the festival of flowers beneath the blue of the sky, the white of the clouds. Nila had never seen such a pretty autumn before, had never seen nature in such gorgeous costumes. Was this her own country? Nila knew this land, decked up in such a beautiful autumn, was not her own land.
Two, she called Danielle and said she needed to get an abortion done and asked if she could help in any way. Danielle said, ‘Certainly. So, what happened?’
‘Nothing much. I fell into the trap of love and came out of it myself.’
‘I knew it,’ Danielle said in an I-told-you-so tone of voice and added, ‘I warned you earlier. I told you not to waste your time on this man.’
Nila said, ‘Danielle, time is never wasted. This time was spent in acquiring wisdom and I needed it. Or I would have spent my life under a misconception. I feel men, of whichever country, whatever society, are all the same.’
Danielle was bursting with curiosity. ‘So what are your plans? Are you going back?’
Nila asked, ‘Where?’
‘Where else? To your own land?’
‘Do I have a land of my own? If your own land spells shelter, security, peace and joy, India is not my own land.’
Danielle said, ‘Then stay here. Didn’t you once say everyone has two motherlands, one his own and the other France?’
‘Danielle, do women ever have a land of their own or a motherland? I really don’t think so.’
It was in Paris that Simone de Beauvoir had fought for abortion in the fifties. She had rented a small house in the sixth arrondissement and helped women abort illegally. Her battle resulted in the legalization of abortion. Nila felt happy that she was going to enjoy the fruits of that revolution in the same city.
Three, she called Mojammel and asked him how Modibo was doing, whether he had a phone number and where did he live? Mojammel told her the little he knew about Modibo. Finally he said Modibo was desperately seeking a French woman to make her fall in love with him and marry him, so that he could get permission to live here. The good news was that Modibo had found a French girl.
Nearly four thousand years ago the fair Aryans came from Central Asia and drove the dark Dravidians further to the south of India. They sang in praise of the fair, who were better and the dark worse, the fair were the masters and the dark the slaves, fair was greater, the higher caste, that was their society, their faith. It was a conviction embedded deep in their blood. Two hundred years of British rule had strengthened that belief: white was better, more learned, the masters. Nila’s blood had also carried that belief, every brain cell felt it and even if she tried to shake it all away, a little bit remained somewhere. She knew it wasn’t easy getting rid of that tiny bit, but she was happy to have achieved it finally.
Four, she called Morounis and asked her to send someone to help her get the house in order.
A Philipino girl, Marilu, who charged fifty francs an hour, came to her house that same evening. She put the broken junk into large bags and threw it in the garbage outside. It took her about three hours to get the work done.
Then Nila made Marilu sit down and heard the story of her life.
Marilu had come from the Philippines to this city six years ago. She had other relatives in this city and they were the ones who had helped her come here. She was a student in the university of Manila. Her subject was sociology. She quit her studies, her homeland and came to France. Since then she had worked as a cleaning lady and earned money. Many of her relatives worked in garment factories. Marilu was learning tailoring in Sandani, at her relative’s place. Very soon she’d get into a factory too.
Nila asked, ‘Can I get a small, cheap room in Sandani to rent?’
‘Sure.’
But Marilu warned Nila that Sandani was not a good locality.
‘How bad is it?’
‘People are unemployed, there’s robbery, theft, drugs, murder; it is chock full of black people.’
‘Look at my skin—is it very white? In a way it’s black. Is it only the unemployed people who rob and steal? Those who have jobs, get fat salaries, don’t they steal? So what if it is chock full of black people. Don’t the white people do drugs? Murder? Tell me, is there a good place on this earth? Where would you say there is total safety? Aren’t there addicts in Manila? Robbers, murderers? There is poverty, sorrow and superstition there, as it is here. This country has racism, so does India. Women are raped in Calcutta, and it’s the same here. This Rue de Vouyere, where only white people stay, do you think murders never happen here? Of course they do. One could have happened just today!’
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in Bengali by Ananda Publishers Pvt. Ltd 2001
First published in English by Penguin Books India 2002
Copyright © Taslima Nasrin 2001
This translation copyright © Penguin Books India 2002
Picture courtesy TACFAB
Cover photograph by Ashish Chawla
Cover design by Kavita Dutta
All rights reserved
ISBN 978-01-4302-810-9
This digital edition published in 2013.
e-ISBN: 978-93-5118-004-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the auther’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Nasrin, Taslima, French Lover
French Lover Page 31
