AUGUST 4, 2019 • THE WEEK 65Minu, the cat, has been her long-
est companion, from the tumultu-
ous years of leaving Bengal to finally
finding a home in a safe house in
Delhi. In her new home, Minu has
her own room, next to Nasreen’s.
There are pictures of cats on her
walls. Like her books that she has
acquired during her stay in India,
tucked in two cupboards, her pos-
sessions, including the quirky metal
cat on her table, have the newness
of the last decade. They lack history,
they lack permanence, everything
except Nasreen’s pictures from
when she was younger and Minu.
“I found her in a fish market; she
was this small,” she says, gesturing
with her forefinger and thumb. “She
was helpless and I didn’t think that I
would take care of her. I just wanted
to feed her. She is now 16.’’
Minu, too, has a connection to
Nasreen’s childhood. Any cat she
acquires—only cats, never dogs—
is named Minu. “I had a cat when
I was a teenager. I called her Minu,’’
she says, smiling. “In Sweden, I had
a cat. I also named him Minu. He
died. I cried so much and I decided
to leave Sweden, because he died.
I couldn’t tolerate it. I couldn’t live
in the house where Minu was so
happy running around. In Kolkata,
I acquired another cat.’’
The lack of certainty, what with
the extensions of visas in India, is
compounded by the fear of losing
Minu. The cat never travels. When
Nasreen goes abroad, like she will
soon, Minu is left at home with
friends to be fed. With age now
catching up to Minu, Nasreen
knows it is only a matter of time.
“Sometimes, she doesn’t eat. Cats
cannot express their feelings. But
I have to understand,” she says.
“If she is happy and healthy, I am
happy. She is still playful. Today,
she will eat. Then she won’t eat to-
morrow.”
This inevitability of loss hangs
heavy. Over the years, members ofher family have slipped away. “Only
my sister is left,’’ says Nasreen. Her
brother died recently. He was still
young. “My aunt died; my grand-
mother died. I will fight for my right
to go back to live in Bangladesh. But I
won’t want to live there. It is risky and
my loved ones are all dead,’’ she says.
Nasreen lives her life on the inter-
net. If Twitter helped her get her visa
extended, she also turns to it for sim-
ple joys. Instant and immediate are
concepts she embraces. Her sari—a
rich blue with peacock motifs—was
delivered during the interview. Nas-
reen grabbed the packet, opened
it and chose to wear the sari she
bought online only yesterday. “It is
wonderful,’’ she says, with evident
awe.
Has exile changed her? For years,
she longed to be home, but now she
does not. She has become slightly
more forgiving of her parents. “I was
very anti my parents. But I realise
now that maybe they both wanted
me to be independent,’’ she says.
Is loneliness the price for exile?
Or, for being outspoken? “I think
[so] if you are different, if you have
different opinions from the majori-
ty,’’ she says. “I demand equal rights.
I demand a true secular society. I
demand human rights for every-
one. That kind of beautiful society, I
dream of. So, of course, I should be
alone. Anywhere, I would be alone.
Because there are very few people
who think like me.”
In the 25 years of exile, the sacri-
fice of her personal freedom for her
thought, perhaps, is her biggest ac-
ceptance. “There are lots of things I
cannot do,’’ she says. “If I go outside
Delhi, I have to ask permission from
the Delhi Police. But it is part of my
life. I don’t think, ‘why can’t I get this
much freedom?’ I can write. I can eat.
I do not complain. I was supposed
to be dead long ago. I am alive. As
long as my health is fine and I con-
tinue writing and get published, I am
happy.’’GREEN CORNER
Nasreen in her
balcony, where
she has recreated
a garden of her
childhoodI WILL FIGHT FOR
MY RIGHT TO GO
BACK TO LIVE IN
BANGLADESH. BUT
I WON’T WANT TO
LIVE THERE. IT IS
RISKY AND MY
LOVED ONES ARE
ALL DEAD.
Taslima Nasreen
Author
ARVIND JAIN