(These poems were written
while Taslima was forced to live in confinement in an undisclosed location in
PRISONERS POEMS
The room in which I am forced . . .
The
room in which I now live has a closed window,
A
window that I cannot open at will.
The
window’s covered with a heavy curtain that I cannot move at will.
I
live in a room now,
Where
I cannot open the door at will, cannot cross the threshold.
I
live in a room, where the only other living inhabitants are
Two
sickly lizards on the wall. No man or any creature resembling a man is allowed
here.
I
live in a room where I find it a great strain to breathe.
There’s
no sound around, but for banging your head against the wall.
Nobody
else in the world watches, expect the couple of lizards.
They
watch with eyes wide open, who knows if they feel the pain—Maybe they feel it.
Do
they too cry, when I cry?
I
live in a room where I don’t want to live,
A
room where I am forced to live,
A
room where democracy forces me to live for days unending,
In
a room in the dark, in incertitude, with a threat hanging,
In
pain, breathing with difficulty, democracy forces me to live,
In
a room where secularism drains me away of life, drop by drop.
In
a room my dear
I
do not know if all those over busy men or creatures that look like men will
have a couple of seconds to spare to turn to
The
lifeless lump that comes out of the room some day,
A
rotten, greasy lump, a lump of bones.
Will
death be release? It’s death perhaps that sets one free,
Free
at last to cross the threshold.
The
lizards will stare away the whole day,
Maybe
they too will feel sad.
Someone
will bury me, maybe a government man,
Wrapped
in the flag of democracy, in the soil of my dear
I’ll
find a home there at last, with no threshold to cross,
I’ll find a home there where breathing will be easy.
-----
Time
I’m
no longer annoyed when I wake up at three in the night,
If
you don’t have a good night’s sleep, the day doesn’t go well, people say.
How
does it matter if the day doesn’t go well!
Night
and day, they’re all the same for me.
Day,
like day, sits at a distance, night acts like night.
When
it’s time to sleep, it’s lying awake, curled up, face pressed in.
All
this night and day, all this time, I’ve nothing to do with them.
When
life and death become the same, there’s nothing to do about it anyway.
Now,
with all my pleading, I can’t separate life from death,
For
the time being, I cannot lift death from life casually and put it away
somewhere.
-----
Terror
Soldiers,
rifles in hand, stalk about, all around.
I
stand in their midst, unarmed.
The
soldiers don’t know me, they stare at the unarmed woman from time to time, with
a strange look.
Nobody
knows why I’m suddenly here.
A
dirty body, grimy clothes, depressed unkempt hair,
I
don’t have shackles on me, but they are somewhere still,
They
can sense it, they can feel it, I won’t be able to take a step in any direction
if I so desired.
In
their eyeballs I can see a dreadful cognizance.
The
rifles, they know, are meant to strike terror
The
bayonets, the boots, are meant to strike terror.
They’d
be hurt awfully, if they can’t strike terror.
I
do not have the legal right to hurt anyone.
They
could inform their superiors that this one refuses to be terrorized,
And
tries to snap her chains relentlessly.
The
superiors would certainly order me to be hanged.
Once
the day and time for the hanging is fixed,
They’d
feed me on fish curry, hilsa and shrimps.
Then
if I say, I won’t eat!
If
I don’t let out a sigh on the gallows!
If
I have the guts not to be terrorized even when they’ve put the noose on!
-----
Can’t I have a homeland to call my own?
Am
I so dangerous a criminal, so vicious an enemy of humanity,
Such
a traitor to my country that I can’t have a homeland to call my own?
So
that my land will snatch away from the rest of my life my homeland?
Blindly
from the northern to the southern hemisphere,
Through
mountains and oceans and rows and rows of trees,
Blindly
in the heavens, in the moon, in the mists and in sunshine,
Blindly
groping through grass and creepers and shrubs, earth and mankind, I have gone
Searching
for my homeland.
Once
I had exhausted the world, I touched the shores
Of
my homeland to exhaust my span of life,
Only
to have the sense of security of an utterly exhausted thirsty soul
Brutally
uprooted, and you throw away the little water cupped in my hand,
And
sentence me to death, what name can I have for you, land?
You
stand on my chest like an enormous mountain,
You
stamp on my throat with your legs in boots,
You
have gouged out my eyes,
You
have drawn my tongue out and snapped it into pieces,
You
have lashed and bloodied my body, broken both my legs,
You
have pulverized my toes, prized open my skull to squash my brain,
You
have arrested me, so that I die,
Yet
I call you my homeland, call you with infinite love.
I’ve
uttered a few home truths, hence I am a traitor to my homeland.
I’m
a traitor because you’ve chosen to walk shoulder to shoulder with liars in
procession.
You’ve
warned me with raised fingers to give a damn to humanity,
And
whatever else I may have or not, I can’t have a homeland to call my own.
My
land, you dug into my heart and hacked out of my life my own homeland.
-----
Interned
Think
of me, if you’re ever interned,
If
your legs are ever chained.
If
ever someone goes away
Having
locked the room in which you are
From
outside, not within, think of me.
There’s
nobody anywhere around can hear you,
Your
mouth stuck, your lips stitched tight,
You
want to speak, you can’t.
Or
you’re speaking, but nobody can hear you,
Or
hearing, but only dismissively,
Think
of me.
Just
as you’d desire so madly that someone opened the door,
Free
you from all your chains and stitches,
So
has I desired too.
A
month passed by, nobody came this way.
They’d
thought who knows what might happen if the door was opened.
Think
of me.
When
it hurts you hard, think that’s how I felt too.
Even
if one moves with caution at every step,
One
can still get interned just like that, anyone, even you,
Then
you and I are all the same, with not he least difference,
Then
you are like me, waiting too for a man,
The
darkness closes in, no man comes.
-----
For
some years now, I have been standing quite close to death, almost face to face,
Standing
dumb before my mother, my father, some dear people,
For
some years now.
For
some years now I do not know exactly whether I’m dead or alive,
For
some years now the distinction between living and death
Has
gone on reducing till it’s a thread now
Waving
in emptiness.
For
some years now the being that inhabits me within and without
Has
been a horrible, dumb creature,
The
last leaf long gone from its tree,
Spring
gone forever from its life.
If
I die tonight, don’t speak a word,
Only
bury an epitaph under a shiuli tree
somewhere,
An
epitaph I’ve written over some years now,
An
epitaph neatly written in white on a white sheet.
-----
India
(to Sumit Chakrabarty)
My
history, carved into two by daggers of animosity and hatred, running
breathlessly towards uncertain possibilities,
with
the terrible crack at the core,
History
bloodstained, history turned death.
It
is this
Has
enriched me with culture
And
powerful dreams.
This
My
history away from my life,
My
homeland from my dream.
But
why should I let it drain me dry only because it so desires?
Hasn’t
Who
place their hands today on my tired shoulders,
On
the abandoned shoulders of this helpless, orphaned soul?
These
hands, longer than the land, stretched beyond space and time,
Gives
me warmly cherished security against all worldly cruelties.
Madanjeet
Singh, Mahasweta Devi, Muchukund Dube—they are my homeland today,
Their
hearts my true country.
-----
Away
from home,
Away
from my dear cat, my books and papers, my friends,
Away
from my life,
With
my face and head covered in a quilt stinking of uncertainty,
Lying
for days on end
Lying
one knows not where,
With
the heart gnawed and clawed viciously.
Then
when the heart stops, the inevitable CCU,
To
draw life somehow back from the edge,
Back
to throbbing, the heart would like to return, the sick body seeks home,
To
return to the cat, to friends, to the cherished touch.
The
mind journeys from CCU to CCU . . . !
Who
cares to listen to the heart!
Picked
up from the CCU, she is told,
In
a voice severely sombre, that shakes you to the core,
Go
to some other country, leave this land.
Where
can I go? I’ve no other place to go,
When
I die, bury me in this soil,
You
can then tear up the soil to find my roots.
Who
cares to look into anything?
Who
cares to be miserable at a human being washed away in her own tears screaming
for help?
From
the CCU into exile,
They
flung me once again like dirt into darkness,
They
had washed their hands clean, the distinguished authorities,
I stood before them, with bowed head, and folded hands.
----
No Man’s Land
If
your homeland does not give you home,
Then
tell me what land in the world will give you home.
After
all, all the lands are more or less the same kind,
The
rulers have the same appearance, the same character.
When
they seek to persecute you, they do it the same way.
They
pierce you with needles with the same glee.
They
sit stony-faced before your crying, dancing all the while within.
They
may have different names, but even in the dark you’ll know them,
Their
loudness, their whispers, their footsteps will betray them,
When
they rush in the direction the wind takes,
The
wind will tell you who they are.
Rulers
are rulers after all.
The
harder you try to persuade yourself that no homeland belongs to people, to
those who love it,
The
more you persuade someone that it’s yours,
That
you have cast it in your heart,
That
you have mapped it with the brush of your labour and dreams,
Where
will you go when the rulers drive you out?
What
land opens its doors to shelter one who’s been driven out?
How
can you think of any land offering you home?
You
are nobody now,
Maybe
not even human.
Whatever
else is there for you to lose?
Drag
the world into the open and tell it,
Let
it give you a spot there to stand, to give you a home there,
From
now on let the bit of unwanted piece of earth be yours
That remains as no one’s once the borders of a land
close.
Sujal Bhattacharya translate these poems
The Safe House
I’m compelled to live in such a house
Where I’m forbidden to say ’I like it not’
Though I feel aghast to live in here.
Such a safe house I live in
Where I’m destined to live and suffer
But cannot weep.
I must avoid eye contact with others
Lest I should expose my pains inconclusive.
In this house everyday at dawn
My longings are slaying and before evening descends
The pallid corpses are buried on its courtyard.
My deep sighs break the silence of the safe house
All other sounds are inconspicuous within and without the house.
Every night I go to bed trepidation,
And with the same feelings I wake up,
While awake, I subject my own shadow to a monologue.
I’m caught unawares by the invasion of a venomous snake,
Hurtling wrath and loathing, squirms all over my body
And hiss: Be off transcending boundaries
Hush-hush escape to a far off quaint land
Towards the impassable mountains.
While creeping around the shadow, the serpent demands:
Get lost forever.
Friends, do pray for me
For my safe exit, from the safe house,
Pray for my lucky sojourn,
Once in safety in an unsafe house.
-----
We
Last night a house lizard sprang up from nowhere and landed on me. Then it
squirmed along the upper part of my being and came towards my shoulder. After
getting past my shoulder, it scaled towards my head and hid itself into the
bush of my hairs. From there, it kept gawking for a couple of hours at a second
lizard and at dawn, sliding down by my ear, it ultimately remained squatting on
my spine. The second one was lying prostrate on my right leg, around two inches
below my knee. Throughout the night, none of them budged a little from their
positions. Having failed to remove them, I did what I normally do. I kept lying
with my eyes first closed. Silently I counted reverse-from one hundred to one,
copiously. Though there’s no rationale behind this reverse counting.
My bed is a confounded mess of dirty clothes, used trays and bowls with leavings
of meals; notebooks for scribbling, old newspapers that have turned brown because
of stains of tea; one or two combs with traces sticking in them; one or two stray
puffed rice that have lost their crispness; scattered strips of pills and phial
of potions; inkless pens etc. etc.
For some days more than two hundred black ants, very large in size have occupied
my bed. They have girded up their loins to build their new home on my bed.
Gradually they’re holding their full sway over me. They’re too tiny creatures.
Shrivelled in fear, for days on end, I myself have become as tiny as the ants.
I’m stunned at their meanour. They’ve been performing dance programmes in
classical form on the surface of my being but not for even once have I been
bitten by one of them, even by mistake. I believe they’ve taken it for granted
that I also belong to them.
PERHAPS I’M SAFER IN THE COMPANY OF THE INSECTS THAN THAT OF PEOPLE.
-----
My
My
My Bengal has now eroded,
Her body has rusted away.
The east and the west are mixed up.
Today she's a confounded mess.
The fanatics brandish their sceptre,
While cowards walk out with bowed heads.
Surely this age belongs to headless demons,
Courage and honesty being banished.
My Bengal abounds with flatterers;
The rest of the populace comprise:
The self-centered, inert and rubbish.
I weep over my
May one day her soil be fertile,
May true humans sprout on her soil,
May the ill-fated
A Query
When I die, leave my corpse there.
There where they vivisect dead bodies,
In the mortuary of the
For I've vowed to donate my mortal frame there.
So leave me after death at Kolkata.
The city has willed to disown me in life,
Will she accept me after death?
-----
Not my City
This isn't the kind of city,
Once I called my own.
The city belongs to foxy politicians,
Unscrupulous traders, flesh racketeers, pimps, loompens, rapists,
But this cannot be my city.
The city belongs to mute witnesses,
To rape and murder but not to me,
The city belongs to hypocrites,
Feigning nonchalance to the sight of destitute,
At slums and beggars dying on the avenues of the rich.
This is the city of the escapists,
Who at the slightest premonition of a peril,
Make the hastiest retreat.
This is the city of the spooks
They stoically sit on the piles of injustice;
Here they go into rhapsodies,
Over the question of life after death.
This is the city of the soothsayers,
Agents of self-aggrandizement, opportunists.
I can never call it my own city, never.
Liars, cheats, religious bigots abound in here;
In this city, we're a handful of men and women
Armed with logic, liberal thoughts,
Voice against injustice,
Live in beating hearts.
Not my City
-----
Some tit-bits of my life in captivity
Bathing
Day after day I don’t take a bath.
Months roll by, pungent smell wafting out of my body.
Yet, I feel no urge for a bath.
Why should I? What’s the use of a bath?
An inexplicable apathy for a bath engulfs me.
Swallowing
A man comes,
Thrice a day,
To offer me food.
It matters little,
If I enjoy it or not,
But I must swallow it.
Were I able to live without eating!
Then I could have said to them:
Give me whatever you intend,
Except the stuff called food.
Sleeping
Before I lull myself to sleep,
I suffer from a constant phobia:
If something devilish befalls me…….
If I fail to wake up again!
If I fall asleep
Startled, I wake up, repeatedly,
As though one suffering from sleep apnea.
I look around to ponder:
Is it my own bed-room?
No this isn’t the room I own.
Banishment is merely a nightmare,
It cannot be the part of the verisimilitude.
As long as I’m awake during the daytime
Banishment dwells on me like a nightmare.
Sleep! I take a fright at you,
Lest you should vaporize my dubious reverie.
Movement
The room I inhabit is rectangular
Captivated within its four walls,
I just stalk from one corner to another.
If I’m so zealous to stalk at all;
The order from the top, I must oblige.
The room lies detached from me like a frigid partner,
I, on the other corner, lie prostrated,
By the order from the top.
In stark silence, I wonder:
Is it the same good, old earth,
I knew so vast and generous once?
Since when has it become so parsimonious?
Meeting
Even in the prisons,
They honour some rules,
The permission to meet visitors,
Being one of the impositions.
I’m a prisoner
Compelled to be a non-conformist.
Without friends or relatives.
I send petitions daily
To be favoured like a prisoner,
The Government of India is reticent.
-----
So let them rule the world!
So let them get the license,
Let all the doors of arsenals opened for them,
Let them wield the swords and hang the rifles from their waists,
Grenades in hands and the inspiration of Dar-ul-Islam in mind,
Let them go out on the streets and behead the infidel, torture women unto death,
Wrap the women with bowed heads with veils,
And confine them in the penthouses,
Let the rapists go berserk door to door to copulate,
And beget male babies to crowd the world.
Let all the males become Talibans overnight,
Let them grab the world from Argentina to Iceland,
From Maldives to Morocco, Bahama to Bangladesh be their citadel.
Let the mass leaders stoop down on the sacred
Let them crown the heads of the terrorists, one by one.
Let the leaders apologize with folded hands for their misdeeds,
And drink the Charanamrita of the fundamentalists to earn their grace.
-----
Sans people
Will you let me have a glimpse of people?
People on the streets? People sauntering by, people smiling.
People intending to take a right turn,
Suddenly changed the mind and took to the left.
People across the meadows,
Past the shops, cinemas, theatres, Opera houses,
People racing down, people in the cars, bus, tram, train.
How I wish to have a glimpse of them, the procession of people!
Will you let me have a glimpse of them-
Men, women and children in the houses?
Am I to live only with the fluky glimpse of a strip of cloud
Or the streak of sun, penetrating through the chinks of my window?
People, they said are barred out,
I've to live the rest of my life sans people.
-----
Freedom
Let all of you together find a fault with me,
at least a fault you all jointly work out,
or else, a harm shall befall you.
Let you all combine speak out why you've sent me in exile.
Say: Taslima, you're at the root of a pestilence, infant deaths
or you've committed as atrocious a crime as rape or genocide;
Say something like this, at least two or three of the stigmas to substantiate my
banishment.
Until you detect a suitable blemish in me,
until you make me stand in the witness box,
to raise your accusing fingers in spiteful wrath at your black sheep,
how can you pardon yourselves?
Had you been able to say where I'm wrong,
the pangs of banishment wouldn't have engulfed me so harrowingly.
I'm eager to see you detect my wrong,
so that I can embrace you as my well-wishers.
Name my fault that made you ostracize me,
specify at least a loophole in my character.
By apportioning a blame on me,
you ensure your own acquittal.
Why should you let the history frown at you?
Why have you eclipsed the light of civilization,
by rooming with the darkness of medievalism?
Establish a cause for your action,
and if you can't,
then set me free,
not to save me,
but for your own survival.
-----
What a Country!
For more than an era,
my Country relished the pains I suffer,
watching my banishment in alien lands.
When the vision is blurred by distance,
they spy me through the hole of a binocular,
and roar in peels of laughter;
one forty million of them relish my own holocaust.
Never had my country been like this before,
She had something called Heart,
teeming with humanity.
Now she ceases to be the country I knew.
Now she is all some decrepit rivers only,
some hamlets and towns,
here and there some vegetations;
Some houses, markets and on the grey meadows,
some people who just resemble humans.
Once my country throbbed with life,
My countrymen recited poems.
Now none thinks twice before banishing a poet,
Now at dead of night, the whole country feel free to send a poet to the gallows;
one hundred and fifty million of them,
derive a lucretian pleasure
out of a poet's execution.
Once the country knew how to love.
Now She has learnt violence and frowning.
Sharp swords at her disposal,deadly weapons
tucked into her waist, fatal explosives in hand,
no longer can She sing a song.
Over an age, in search of a country,
I've been ransacking the globe;
Without a wink of sleep, decade after decade,
In my maddening pursuit of a country.
Reaching on the edge of my own country,
I wait with arms outstretched for her.
Alack! I've heard them say:
If my country ever gets me in her grip,
She'll build my sepulchre there.