Portrait of a widow: A quiet afternoon with Khaleda Zia in 1983

In March 1983, the monthly magazine Nipun published a cover story on Khaleda Zia. Her colour portrait graced the cover, and inside featured a conversation titled The Days of Khaleda Zia. The piece was written by Asim Saha and accompanied by photographs by Nasir Ali Mamun. It was not exactly a traditional interview.

Over the course of a two-hour visit, Asim Saha managed to capture glimpses of her lifestyle, her tastes, and her hobbies. The following section of that conversation is taken from Mohiuddin Ahmad's book, Khaleda.

The daily life of Khaleda Zia

Khaleda Zia had given us an appointment for 12pm. Abu Sayeed Khan, a former BNP Member of Parliament and Whip, had arranged the meeting without even mentioning Nipun. We went with him to the residence of the late President Ziaur Rahman on 17 January. 

I had lived in Dhaka for 14 years, but I had never set foot inside the Cantonment area. It was spotless and extremely well-organised. One glance was enough to tell that this area was worlds apart from the rest of the city.

We arrived a little late. Two constables were on guard at the gate. They seated us in a waiting room and contacted Begum Zia by phone. We were told to come inside immediately.

The house was beautiful, surrounded by walls and a neatly kept flower garden. Many varieties of trees gave the home a sense of privacy and seclusion. It felt very quiet. 

Abu Sayeed Khan remarked that when President Zia was alive, the house had been a hive of activity. Day and night, party members, cabinet ministers, and foreign diplomats had come and gone. But then, it had fallen completely silent.

To the north stood an iron gate beside a sculpture of Zia. It depicted him during the 'Canal-Digging Revolution', sitting down to rest while travelling across the country, wearing a T-shirt and sunglasses. Khaleda Zia later told me the sculpture had been made by Shamim Sikder.

When we rang the bell, a young man opened the gate and led us to a beautifully furnished room on the eastern side of the house. Abu Sayeed Khan told us this was where Zia used to hold private discussions with his inner circle.

I had never seen Khaleda Zia in person before. Many had seen her on television, but I had not. I had only seen her photographs in the newspapers. People often said she was very beautiful. 

After a short wait, I heard her footsteps. She entered the room, her heels clicking on the floor. She already knew Abu Sayeed Khan, so seeing him caused no surprise, but the moment she saw Mamun and me, her eyes filled with silent questions.

I introduced myself, and Mamun did the same. After a couple of opening remarks from Abu Sayeed Khan, I explained why we were there. Khaleda Zia politely declined to give an interview. I tried to explain that this would be entirely personal — no political questions.

In truth, that was largely our intention. It would be dishonest to say we had no interest in politics, but we were primarily interested in her personal joys and sorrows and how her life had changed since her husband's death. I tried to emphasise this, but she remained firm.

"Look," she said, "people from many magazines have come to me. I haven't given an interview to anyone. If I give one to you now, it wouldn't look right."

"That's true," I replied. "But you have to judge the nature of the publication. If you speak to us knowing what kind of magazine we are, I don't think you'll face any trouble."

"But how am I to know which magazine has what character?" she asked. "I know the dailies and some of the weeklies, but I can't possibly know them all. How can I make a decision? Besides, even the major dailies have approached me, and I told them nothing."

"We won't ask many questions," I promised. "Just one or two."

"No, no. I won't give an interview right now."

Abu Sayeed Khan, who had been silent until then, finally spoke. "Look, Bhabi, sooner or later you'll have to speak. You'll have to answer questions eventually."

"Perhaps. We'll see when the time comes. But not now," Khaleda responded.

I said, "If you don't give us an interview, we can't run our cover story. You are our cover feature this time. If you don't agree, we'll have to delay publication."

"No, don't do that," she said. "Feature someone else. There are plenty of other people in Bangladesh."

"There are. But we came here specifically for you. Perhaps you don't trust us. Maybe you think we'll write whatever we like about you?"

"No, not at all. It's not about trust. I just don't want to give interviews right now. Look, I haven't even attended meetings or seminars for a long time."

Abu Sayeed Khan asked, "I saw in the papers that you've formed the Zia Smriti Sangsad (Zia Memorial Council). How is that going?"

"Yes, it's been formed. It was done to keep his memory alive. It's everyone's responsibility now to take his work forward."

"Of course," he replied. "But you know what I think? The Council needs a cultural wing."

Khaleda Zia agreed immediately. Meanwhile, the young man who had let us in brought tea. As we sipped it, I noticed that despite her faint smile, a shadow of distress seemed to linger over her face. I asked, "I suppose you don't go out much. How do you spend your time?"

"Talking to people like you when they visit, or occasionally visiting a few relatives. But that's rare. I didn't go out much before, and I still don't. This is just how life goes."

Nasir Ali Mamun asked, "Don't you read books?"

"Yes, I do."

"What kind of books?"

"All kinds. Whatever I find interesting at the time."

All of this unfolded through casual conversation. Between the lines, we were asking small questions and receiving answers. I am convinced that if we had requested a formal appointment, she would have refused outright. 

She was speaking to us now only because it would have been impolite not to. Our aim was simply to capture this moment with her in words and photographs. Mamun had his camera ready. I said to her, "You might not give an interview, but you must let us take some photographs."

She did not object. With a faint smile, she said, "I can do that."

Mamun stood up with his camera. Khaleda Zia adjusted herself and looked ahead with a pensive, distant gaze. After Mamun took two photographs, I made a request. "I'd like to take a photo of you with your two sons. Are they home?"

"The younger one is at school. The eldest is at home, studying. He has exams coming up."

She asked someone to call her son. A moment later, her eldest son, Tarique, walked in. He introduced himself: "My name is Tarique Rahman."

He appeared intelligent and confident. I said, "I'd like to take a photo of you as well. I hear your younger brother is at school."

Tarique replied immediately, "Oh, he's back."

"Could you call him, then?"

Khaleda Zia said, "He's very shy and a bit mischievous. He won't want to come." She laughed, then sighed.

Tarique said, "Let me see if I can get him." He ran off and returned shortly afterwards. "He's coming."

Soon, the younger son entered the room. I asked, "What's your name?"

"Arafat Rahman."

"I hear you're shy and naughty. Is that true?"

Arafat had entered with his head lowered and kept it that way. Mamun took two photographs of Khaleda Zia with Tarique and Arafat. Before the camera clicked again, Mamun managed to ask, "What are your hobbies?"

"My hobby used to be gardening," she said. "I still love collecting flowers. Whenever I went abroad, people gave me many gifts, but the only things I ever kept and collected were flowers. I love them very much."

As soon as the photographs were taken, Arafat ran off without a moment's delay. The telephone rang, and Khaleda Zia stepped away to answer the call.

In the meantime, Abu Sayeed Khan told us that this was the room where President Zia had once held private discussions. The adjoining room was essentially a conference room, concealed behind elegant curtains.

When Khaleda Zia finished her call, she sat on a nearby sofa with Tarique beside her. Tarique began talking to Mamun about a problem with his camera. When Mamun offered to fix it, Tarique was delighted. He was very enthusiastic about photography but could not practise much because of his exams. He was also an avid reader, particularly of science fiction. He liked music too—not slow songs, but those with a faster tempo.

As Mamun prepared to take a few more photographs, Khaleda Zia stepped inside briefly. I took the opportunity to speak to Tarique. "Look, Tarique, you have to help us get an interview with your mother. She refuses to speak, but she's our cover story."

Tarique asked, "Why? What did she say?"

"She says she isn't giving interviews to anyone. But we'd be happy just to know a few basic things."

"What do you want to know?"

"Where is your home?"

"Bogra, of course."

"And your mother's family home?"

"Noakhali."

"Have you ever been there?"

Tarique shook his head. He had not.

Khaleda Zia returned as we were talking. It was nearly 2.00pm, and I felt it was time to leave. Before going, I said, "You didn't answer any of my questions. Let me ask just one before we go. Where were you born?"

She laughed. "Dinajpur."

"How strange! We always thought it was Noakhali. You've always lived in Dhaka, haven't you?"

"Yes — well, I've been in Dhaka for a long time. But I also spent a few years in Dinajpur. My father had a business there."

"We've bothered you enough," I said. "But I have one request: if you ever decide to give an interview, let us be the first."

She laughed again. "If I ever have anything worth saying, I'll call everyone and tell them all at once."