Taslima Nasrin (Bengali: তসলিমা নাসরিন, Arabic: تسليمة نسرین, Hindi: तसलीमा नसरीन, Toslima Nasrin) is a Bangladeshi author and former physician who has been living in exile since 1994. From a modest literary profile in the late 1980s, she rose to global fame by the end of the 20th century owing to her feminist views and her criticism of Islam in particular and of religion in general.
Since fleeing Bangladesh in 1994 she has lived in many countries, and currently (June 2011) lives in New Delhi. She works to build support for secular humanism, freedom of thought, equality for women, and human rights by publishing, lecturing, and campaigning. Her name, Taslima Nasrin, is also ... more »
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Taslima Nasrin Poems
At The Back Of Progress
The fellow who sits in the air-conditioned office is the one who in his youth raped a dozen or so young girls, and, at cocktail parties, is secretly stricken with lust,
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.
My life, like a sandbar, has been taken over by a monster of a man who wants my body under his control so that, if he wishes,
The garment girls, walking together, look like hundreds of birds flying in Bangladesh's sky. Garments girls, returning to their slums at midnight, are met by street-vagabonds who grab a few takas from the girls,
Bhul Preme Kete Gelo Tirish Boshonto
Boro Voye Gopone Gopone Bachi
Eve, Oh Eve
Why wouldn't Eve have eaten of the fruit? Didn't she have a hand to reach out with, Fingers with which to make a fist?
I'm going to move ahead. Behind me my whole family is calling, My child is pulling my sari-end, My husband stands blocking the door,
You're a girl and you'd better not forget that when you cross the threshold of your house men will look askance at you.
Women spend the afternoon squatting on the porch, picking lice from each other's hair. They spend the evening feeding the little ones, lulling them to sleep in the glow of the bottle lamp.
When I die, leave my corpse there. There where they vivisect dead bodies, In the mortuary of the Medical College.
A Letter To My Mother
How are you Many days, many thousand of days I don't see you ma, Many thousand of days I don't hear your voice, Many thousand of days I don't feel your touch.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
At The Back Of Progress
The fellow who sits in the air-conditioned office
is the one who in his youth raped
a dozen or so young girls,
and, at cocktail parties, is secretly stricken with lust,
fastening his eyes on lovelies' bellybuttons.
In five-star hotels,
he tries out his different sexual tastes
with a variety of women,
then returns home and beats his wife
because of an over-ironed handkerchief or shirt collar.
In his office Mr. Big puffs on a cigarette,
shuffles through files,