The way the students rallied to bring down a government that was becoming increasingly autocratic has been marvellous. It has also come at a time when my relationship with Dhaka has been forged anew. (Illustration by C R Sasikumar)
Can home be more than one place? It is difficult for me to pin down just one city in Bangladesh as home. I was born in Dhaka but my father was an executive engineer in government service, and so we had to move often depending on his posting. I grew up across various small towns and districts of Bangladesh — Rajbari, Madaripur, Bhola, Patuakhali, Goalmari — studied in multiple schools through my childhood and early teens. If I think of home, of the places that have made me who I am, I think of all these places.
In the mofussil towns, my father would be allotted government bungalows. Mostly, they would be in mixed neighbourhoods. I grew up with Hindu and Buddhist neighbours, my best friend in school was a Hindu girl. There was always, what we say in Bengali, sampradayik sampriti, a goodwill among neighbours and communities. People looked out for each other, stood by each other in times of need.
The same couldn’t be said for gender equality in these places. Cities in the Subcontinent are unfriendly to women — be it in Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka or Nepal. When I look back at my childhood and teenage years, I can never say that I grew up like a boy. I have two brothers but their memories of these cities and towns are bound to be vastly different from mine. They grew up with freedom and autonomy, out and about till late. The city treated them differently. I was brought up and treated like a girl — loved and cherished, but also eve-teased on the streets, harassed during my brief working life in the media, heckled by men who thought they were entitled to opinions about the lives of every woman. Societies in our countries thrive on a particular brand of patriarchy and misogyny that does not leave women alone no matter where they grow up or how.
I am a mother to a daughter now and I keep fighting on her behalf about the burden of obligations and restrictions that our cities place on women. Dhaka for my daughter and I will appear to be two different cities. My parents were conservative, I was brought up with conservative values and society mirrored that back to me. The Dhaka my daughter is a part of is insulated because of me — both my fame and the values I try to bring her up with. I tell her to never undermine herself because of her gender, to believe in herself and use her voice. It’s a part of who I am — I believe there should be gender parity — that things such as our inheritance tax will treat sons and daughters equally, irrespective of religion, caste, or class. But that remains a longer battle.
My relationship with Dhaka has been curious. One always feels a special pull towards the place of one’s birth. But Dhaka, where I returned later in my teens — we moved here when I was in Class X, I went to medical school here — made me feel unsafe for a long time. It was primarily because it was tied up in memories of my marriage gone wrong, of my former husband’s threats and abuse. It took me over a decade to live that fear down, to feel at ease again in this city. Now, I travel a lot across the world, it is something I deeply enjoy, but after a few days, my home — basha — keeps calling out to me. I don’t ever feel like living anywhere else.
In the last few months, Dhaka has inspired me to believe that change is possible. The way the students rallied to bring down a government that was becoming increasingly autocratic has been marvellous. It gives me hope. It has also come at a time when my relationship with Dhaka has been forged anew. In hindsight, the pain this city caused me has also made me stronger, more mature. There was a time when I was an anonymous person in Dhaka, living out her life to a familiar script. But then the city pushed me to take risks. Those decisions led to my acting career, to my film going to Cannes, to finding success overseas. I have shared all my highs and lows with this city and its people. Dhaka is where my daughter was born, the city where I earned respect. It means something to me, makes me feel responsible, duty-bound, to stand up for what is right. Which is why, when the time came, I stood with the students against the (Sheikh Hasina) government.
This movement was phenomenal — I don’t think anyone has seen anything like this before. I wasn’t born at the time of Mukti Juddho (Bangladesh Liberation War, 1971), and, so I can’t compare it with that. But this was a fight for justice, a fight for equality. The police firing in August that killed students was a shock. But then watching young people unite across the country and rise up in peaceful protest has been one of the most uplifting episodes of my life. I believed in the justness of their cause. That is why I joined them in their protests, stood with them in solidarity. I gleaned strength from the students, learning from them, one day at a time, how to be brave. Can anything be a greater gift or honour?
The writer is a Bangladeshi actor
