kamala surayya's last romance

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30 MAY 2011 MONDAY TEHELKAHINDI.COM TEHELKAFOUNDATION.ORG CRITICALFUTURES.ORG

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He asked me to become a Muslim

Excerpts from an astonishingly intimate new memoir. The story of the heady love and dizzying religion, which exploded the life of writerKAMALA DAS. One last time

BLISS IN THE SCENT OF HIS PERSPIRATION I dont know about it when it happens, and cant imagine why, but suddenly

aristocratic, upper-caste Hindu Kamala Das, lover of Krishna, descendant ofrajas, decides to embrace Islam. Without any hint or warning to me, she burstsback into the glare of CNN, Asianet, media across Asia, in the biggest scandalof her scandalous career. On 16 December 1999, amidst a storm ofcontroversy, in a one minute home ceremony, she converts.

I have no idea whats going on, neither do my informants, and Im embarrassedKamala hasnt told me anything herself. I try to call her, but her phone isdisconnected. I reach her son Monu in Delhi, and he says a state restrainingorder prevents Kamala from speaking to journalists or groups, that she isreceiving death threats, she travels with a bodyguard, and theres a price onher head. He gives me her new number but warns me that the phone isprobably bugged. I contact anybody who can tell me more, and Hari, myscholar friend in Kerala, forwards clippings.

Islam is the religion of love, I read Kamala saying. Hindus have abused andhurt me. They have often tried to scandalize me. I want to love and be loved.She tells an interviewer she is taking Krishna from the Guruvayur temple,naming him Mohammed, and making him a prophet. If you go to Guruvayur,you will not see Krishna there. He is with me.

But youre so fond of Krishna. How could you abandon him? asks the

astonished journalist, aware, as is everyone in Kerala, that Guruvayur is aKrishna temple and also the temple of Kamalas ancestresses.

I havent abandoned him. Hes still with me, hes in my house.

How can he be in a Muslim house?

Ive just had to rename him Mohammed, she says, confounding conventionalreligious logic, or asserting one more ecumenical. My grandmother told me asa child I was married to Krishna. I have seen Krishna, played with him andeaten with him. I love Krishna, and that love will never die. The essence ofKrishna is within me, its only that the name has changed.

I follow up on the Internet and read that Kamalas life is being threatened, thatthe leader of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad has taken her to court for abusingHinduism in her remarks about Guruvayur, and that she converted becauseMuslims promised her a seat in government or an Assembly candidature, or sothat Ishmail Merchant would film one of her books.

I was travelling from Malabar to Kochi, Kamala responds in The Times ofIndia. I looked at the rising sun. Surprisingly, it had the colour of a setting sun.It travelled with me and at 7:00 am it turned white. For years I have been

looking for signs telling me when to convert. Finally, I got the message.

Kamala has found a new and improved way to shock the fabric of her society,says a friend.

May Lord save Islam, concludes a local intellectual.

A month after her conversion, Kamalas enlightening letter arrives.

Dearest Merrily,

Life has changed for me since Nov. 14 when a young man named Sadiq Ali walked in to meet me.He is 38 and has a beautiful smile. Afterwards he began to woo me on the phone from Abu Dhabiand Dubai, reciting Urdu couplets and telling me of what he would do to me after our marriage. I tookmy nurse Mini and went to his place in my car. I stayed with him for three days. There was a sunlitriver, some trees, and a lot of laughter. He asked me to become a Muslim which I did on my returnhome. The Press and other media rushed in. The Hindu fanatics, Shiv Sena and the RSS pasted

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 50, Dated December 18, 2010

CULTURE & SOCIETY EXCERPT

Creation Kamala Das (top) and her sketches(above)PHOTO: STEPHEN LEGARI

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posters all over the place, Madhavikutty is insane. Put her to death. I refused the eight policemensent to protect me. There are young men, all Muslims, now occupying the guest flat and keeping vigiltwenty-four hours a day. I have received court orders restraining me from going out or addressingmore than six people at a time. Among the Muslims I have become a cult figure all dressed in blackpurdah and learning Arabic.

My Hindu relatives and friends keep a distance from me. They wish to turn me into a social outcast.My sister visited me twice but wept all the time. I cannot visit my old mother. Otherwise life isexciting

Affectionately,Kamala Das (Suraiya)

I get an Indian visa and fly to Cochin. Jet-lagged and tired, I openmyself to a laughing, entrancing Kamala in burqua and black.Weve been talking for hours, between and over the heads of thenew cast of Muslim visitors. Lulled by her lilting Malayalam, I followthe bewitching movements of her slender brown arms, elegantfingers curling and extending, palms opening, arms rising, handscircling, punching the air, reaching out. Her hands perform a hand dance, hand mime, handdirections, hand tones, resting just a beat before the next arabesque.

I notice too that Kamalas posture and body language are looser and more relaxed than on my last visit. She says Muslims are friendlierthan Hindus, and with them she feels a complicity and trust. Theres more laughter in the house and she looks radiant dark eyesbright, full lips puckering, gold on neck, diamonds in nose her face dramatically framed by a regal, high-capped, black chador.

Whatever her new reality, Kamalas warmth to me is unchanged. She shows me a shiny silver cell phone resting like an idol on apedestal, and says it is a gift from thirty-eight-year-old Sadiq Ali, Islamic scholar, national Muslim League MP from Malabar, and herabsent lover. All day she wears the phone on a gold belt slung rebelliously around the waist of her black dress, keeping the line openand, as he requested, dedicated to our love. As her bangles flash and her visitors delight, Kamala listens for the phone strapped to herbody. She longs for Sadiq Ali to call. And when the visitors leave, she tells me that after their first meeting, he called for days, atmidnight, every night.

After my husband died, I found myself insecure and totally untethered. I lost my zest for life, she says, beginning her love story. Even

in this supposedly modern age, Hindu widows are regarded an inauspicious sight. Theyre not the right omen at the beginning of anyjourney. Theyre lacklustre, like a mud lark. They cant fly. They drag their wings in the mud.

She had spent decades being celibate, extolling its virtues, carrying my body around like a corpse, accepting loneliness as thepermanent climate of her life. In a sense I was lying in wait for death. Everything seemed to be dead, or deadened, even poetry. Ishrank pitifully, feeling diminished for no fault of my own.

Then Sadiq Ali asked Kamalas cousin to arrange a meeting. He said he had admired Kamala for years and wanted to meet her.Kamala gave him a two-hour appointment, and Sadiq Ali drove five hours from his small town to Cochin.

He sat at my feet laughing the attractive, reckless laugh of a monarch. He was a preacher who delighted large audiences with balladsand narratives lasting five hours. He held his listeners in a spell with his four-octave range and a pure voice that resembled a newbornscry.

Sadiq Ali charmed Kamala with his eloquence, scholarship, rough wavy hair, white teeth, and smileof wondrous innocence. He asked if she would permit herself to be photographed with him, and theyposed on the cane sofa, nibbling on plum cake, laughing together. I no longer recollect the topics ofour first conversation, but laughter entered our home as spontaneously as sunshine thatmorning,filling each crevice of emptiness.

Feed me, Sadiq Ali requested playfully, when Kamala allowed the two hours to stretch into lunch.

But I cannot touch your lips, Kamala responded. Her grandmother had warned that Muslims ate the corpses of sacred cows, whichmade their breath stink, and that touching them led to exile. A staunch vegetarian like me would never touch the mouth of a mlecha[flesh eater], she said.

Then I will feed you, Sadiq Ali offered, breaking food into small pieces.

By the time he left Kamalas home, his flirtatious play had stirred long-buried feelings and desires. For many years I had not witnessedthe blush spread on the cheek of a young man finding himself embarked on a new love.

And it had been many decades since she had felt desire, that slow ache in the abdomen, blood surging as on a fast-moving swing.

*****

[Returning from giving lectures in Qatar and] flying on the wings of adoration, she calls Sadiq Ali. He answers and immediately passesthe phone to his first wife, who responds rudely and hangs up. Kamala puts the phone back pensively. A story I wrote came out lastweek in Malayalam. A sad love story about a love between a Muslim and Hindu. Perhaps they recognized Sadiq Ali, and thats why theyare so unkind. I ask her to translate the story so I can see how she managed to be subtle enough to publish a love story in a Muslimmagazine and obvious enough to upset Sadiq Alis family.

Salim Ispahani was a guiding light of his community, she translates, her concentration visible only in the sub-speech movements of

her lips.

He would explain the technicalities of language to his followers. He would acquaintthem with the commandments of Islam. In a voice as sweet as wild forest honey, hetold the people who were guilty that God would forgive them. He was like amessenger from God.

Salim Ispahani had very sturdy corded arms. He wore half-sleeved shirts so it wasimpossible not to notice that the muscles of his upper arms were as strong as abisons shoulders. Probably that was the reason he was so prompt in lifting andcarrying the lady poet who had come to inaugurate the conference. He carried her toa stage decorated with garlands and sat her down on the stage with tenderness.

A slightly musky smell of perspiration lingered on her body and haunted her. Shekept seeking the right words of thanks, but was silent. He was her sons age, andwhen she was free from his clasp, the freedom tasted bitter and she was surprised.

THE LOVE QUEEN OFMALABARMerrily Weisbord ResearchPress 278pp; Rs. 395

By the time Sadiq Ali leftKamalas home, hisflirtatious play had stirredlong-buried desires

For years I have beenlooking for signs tellingme when to convert, saidKamala


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For twenty-seven years she had observed celibacy, and persevered to belittle herbodys needs. Now she was a widow, and the slight ecstasy her skin felt at his touchmade her blush in shame.

Kamala translates all the repressed ardour of An Incomplete Love Story, which ends,This is not a revolt against religion, or a plea for any religion. This is only a wailing.This is only a cry. And when she puts the magazine down, I see that she is actuallycrying. The phone call to Sadiq Ali has brought her crashing down from the heights ofQatar. She may have the adoration of thousands, but she still cannot have Sadiq Ali.Even though it makes no sense to her at all, she is beginning to realize that he isgone.

Excerpted from The Love Queen of Malabar by Merrily Weisbord, published byMcGill Queens University Press

[email protected]

The lady and her veil Kamala Das SuraiyaPHOTO: KC GEORGE

Print Email to Friend |From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 7, Issue 50, Dated Dec 18, 2010

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kamala surayya's last romance