A writer in exile, at home in India

I was born on February 21, 1952, the anniversary of the birth of the Bangla language movement that led to the birth of Bangladesh that day. So perhaps my life was marked from its beginning. On February 24, 1974, a long poem of mine appeared in the well-known publication Daily Sambad.

Ten days later, there were big demonstrations by fundamentalists. They burnt the newspaper office and my house in Dhaka. I had abused all the great figures of religion, including Prophet Mohammed, Jesus Christ, Buddha and Sri Krishna.

I sincerely believed this, because of what I saw during the ’71 War: Muslims were killing Muslims, they were raping our women. I asked myself, what is religion? I cannot accept that Islamic people call others kafir. Why did God choose only the Semitic countries? Why not Peru? Why should I, a man born in South Asia, the land of Hinduism and Buddhism, accept the beliefs of warring Arab tribes? I thought I had a right to ask such questions in a democracy. But instead I was sent to jail for six months and suddenly put on a plane to India with 60 paise in my pocket.

‘‘It was I who walked away, not you/All I did was to leave you behind.’

Kolkata sheltered me and gave me love, recognition and protection. I had been a journalist in Dhaka and in Kolkata I wrote for Bengali magazines, studied comparative literature at Jadhavpur University, made love to many women — I had one girlfriend after another! — and all the time, I was without a passport. The finest years of my youth were spent in India. I applied to become an Indian citizen at least 20 times, but nobody answered.

Then I fell in love with a Hindu girl and we both wanted to be married. But her uncle was L.K. Advani, whereas I was a Muslim. I made to leave India in 1985. At least 15 eminent people, like Satyajit Ray, Mahashweta Devi and Mrinal Sen, wrote to Jyoti Basu that I would be a loss to Indian literature. But Rajiv Gandhi did not relent.

‘‘Eyes are two black holes, silence is froth in the wren’s beak…’’

AT the end of ’85, I suddenly met German writer Gunter Grass in Kolkata. It was he who arranged everything for me in Germany and got me a UN passport. I got a job on the Asia section of German radio. Today I have a Welsh girlfriend, Alison Williams, who is a set designer for theatre groups in Berlin.

Even though neo-Nazis broke all my upper teeth one dark night, my life goes on. I have now been in exile for more than 25 years and only got an Indian visa for this trip after a lot of fuss and protest.

‘‘Strangers converge, as do vagabonds…remember, only the unfortunate live!’’

I have met Taslima Nasreen only once at a party in Berlin. We greeted each other politely, that’s all. I had read of her plight and wanted to help, so I wrote six or seven articles in the German press. I have not read anything by her except Nirbachita Kalam (Selected Writings). (Daud merely grimaces when asked if he’s read Lajja).

‘‘Curfew clamps on the horizon/The red oleander’s a burning black…’’

Democracy is threatened in Bangladesh, though the press is free. The Hindu minorities in our country tend to vote for Mujib’s Home League, which came to power in July 1996. But the BNP under Khaleda Zia wants to obliterate the memory of Mujib as the true founder of Bangladesh. They want to position Zia-ur-Rahman instead. The BNP is strongly associated with the ISI, with the Jamaat-e-Islami butchers. This time the Hindu minority is begging, don’t register us as voters. Just spare our lives and property.

Let go of rudraksh beads in the Baltic Sea. Keep flying, dear bird…

HereI am, sitting on the grass, saying critical things to you about your country and you are not bothered, you say calmly, ‘‘That is his point of view’’ because your democracy is strong. I miss all this! I miss people of my own colour, who eat with their hands, who gather impulsively in addas. I miss the atmosphere of Puja. And I cannot bear to hear SD Burman’s song, celebrating the life and culture of my land: Takdum takdum baaje Bangladesher dhol.