by K R Meera
There was another interval to draw in a cheekful of smoke or for a gulp of liquor.
‘Oh, to think of my condition at that moment! Even now, my hair stands on end when I remember it. Phani, I want to live, he told me, tears in his eyes. I was petrified. But Baba quickly put the hood on his head and the noose around his neck. He was lightning fast. It wasn’t for naught that the jailers used to call him Lightning Mullick. After putting the noose around his neck, Baba told me to pull the lever. But a demon got into me at that moment. Those days there used to be a small fastener on the gallows tree with which one could increase or decrease the length of the rope. I suddenly pulled the rope a little bit through the fastener. I still don’t know why I did that. Because the truth is, I was too stunned to think or do anything. Dear Sanju babu, Baba told me, Phani, hey Phani, pull the lever . . . I pulled the lever. The plank slid off. The condemned man fell. But because the rope was shorter, his head was above the mouth of the well. Usually, it goes under. We don’t see the head and the struggle. We see only the rope shudder and tremble. If you touch the rope, you’ll know whether it is all over yet. His head quavered and shook in agony at the floor level in front of my eyes. It was a terrible sight. Baba was shocked. It took the man exactly half an hour to die. But I stood there, still as a rock, watching him struggle in the throes of death. I can do at least this little for my Asha—that was all I could think of!’
Father blew his nose and wiped it.
‘You won’t understand me when I say this, Sanju babu . . . she was like a goddess. I have never seen another woman with such beautiful lips. Her walk, how she carried herself . . . her laugh. What a perfectly beautiful face. Her ways, so lovely . . . no one could help falling in love with her. It was such a girl that this villain, this scoundrel, turned into a prostitute. How could I bear it?’
Father’s voice now rose higher.
‘My father, Purushottam Grddha Mullick, swung his arm and hit me hard on my face. But I was rooted to the spot. The rope shuddered and quivered in front of my eyes and then slowly, slowly, it became still. I touched it. It was all over. Baba called aloud to the doctor babu. The demon broke loose in me again. I loosened the rope in an instant. The body fell and hit the floor of the well with a thud. Baba’s arm rose again to slap me. I was brimming with happiness, I was satisfied, no number of blows would have had any effect. But when I came out, Sanju babu, all my happiness evaporated. When the body was brought out and I saw the person who waited to receive it, I was shattered. It was Asha. She and her little child, poor lame thing. She fell upon the body, wailing and beating her breast. I simply wanted to die, Sanju babu. I have never been able to understand this creature called woman. I have seen so many women till now. But why this animal will love one man and hate another . . . even in this eighty-eighth year, I haven’t been able to fathom.’
Father blew his nose again.
‘Were there no women in your life after that, Grddha babu?’
‘Oh well, of course! But I have loved no one like I loved Asha . . .’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I don’t know . . . never saw her after that day.’
‘What kind of women did you say were in your life? Prostitutes?’
‘No, I don’t like buying women for cash . . . must take a liking . . . I must feel, ah, she is nice. Only then can I take her . . .’
If this were a jatra, Bibek would have made its entrance now. The whole of Bengal knew that the place Father set off to on better days in the tea shop, clad in his white jubba, his belt around his waist, hair and moustache combed and in place, was none other than Sonagachi.
‘How did you meet Chetna’s mother?’
‘Hey, she’s the girl Baba found me. The thing is that her mother was the woman Baba wanted to marry. But that didn’t happen . . . and she died after many years. Baba saw this girl go through hell under her stepmother and so decided to pile her on my head. The truth is that this daughter of a dog doesn’t know my value and will never care to find out either.’
‘Ah, so there is someone else who knows your value?’
‘Ha, there are four!’ Father laughed.
‘Eh? Goodness! Not bad at all! Quite something, eh!’
‘What to do? Wasn’t I born a man? I am eighty-eight. My wife is twenty-one years younger than me . . . by the time she was twenty-five she had back pains and nose pains and all. Then I met Malti. She was thirty-five then. That went on for about ten years. And then she too started getting back pains, and her children had also grown up. I was past fifty-five then. But, Mitra babu, is it not true that a man’s life starts only at fifty-five? Around that time, I met Savitri. She was a widow at thirty. Poor thing! She had to struggle to raise her children . . . I was a big help to her. Fifteen years passed like that. One day she said that her eldest son had got a job in Bombay and she was leaving with him. I was alone, again. And, of course, older now. So what, is not a man’s age a matter of the mind? My great good luck, I met Sudakshina. She is fifty now, but that’s okay . . .’
‘Does Chetna’s mother know all this?’
‘Oh, she’s a woman, right? Mark my words: this creature called wife, she will sniff out another woman even if she’s just barely grazed you.’
The intermixed scents of booze, the burning ghat and the fish cooking in the kitchen pierced my nostrils. I wanted to throw up. All this while, Mother, bleeding from her nose, had been cooking fish for Father in the kitchen.
‘So, Grddha babu, don’t we have to go to meet the IG at the jail tomorrow? I’ll bring a car . . .’ Sanjeev Kumar Mitra got up and stretched his limbs. He was terribly bored; his voice said so.
‘Not necessary, Sanju babu. We will take a rickshaw or an auto rickshaw.’
Father had turned modest.
‘Uh-ha . . . I came to tell you this . . . that is, about getting Chetna this job. I—my TV channel, that is—will make sure she gets it.’
‘Eh, is it true, Sanju babu? Chetu! O Chetu, come here quick . . .’
Father was very excited. I stepped into the room only after a moment.
‘Did you hear this? Sanju babu’s TV channel will make sure you get the job. We are saved, my daughter. Listen to your baba—don’t ever forget this man. He is our God . . . our saviour . . .’
Father took Sanjeev Kumar’s hands in his, squeezed them, and began weep and sob.
‘Chi, what is this, Grddha babu? Let me finish.’
He made Father sit on the cot, sat next to him and looked at me indifferently.
‘We’ll get Chetna the job. Though there is plenty of protest against the death penalty, most judges in this country wish to retain it . . . so no reason to fear that she will lose her job. And in any case, I am around. I know how to support my wife.’
‘Sanju babu, ask me, if you want my soul in return for these favours, I will give even that to you . . .’
Father became more emotional.
‘Not your soul, we want your life—’
‘Life?’
‘Your life stories, that is.’
Father suddenly fell silent. Though completely drunk by now, a calculating glimmer sprang up in his eyes.
‘Do you see it? Stories of the hangings you have overseen in your life. I don’t know if you are aware that the company that owns our channel has one hundred and twenty-seven publications. The new publication they are about to launch wants to publish your autobiography.’
Father stroked his beard once.
‘I can give it you, if it is for one issue . . .’
‘No, they want it serialized.’
‘I don’t remember so much, Sanju babu,’ Father got up as if to quietly pull himself out of this.
‘If that is so, it will be hard to get Chetna that job.’ Sanjeev Kumar Mitra’s face hardened.
‘I’ll tell you my experiences, Sanju babu. But I don’t want
to see them in print . . . many of those are very personal,’ Father announced, playing a sad part now.
Sanjeev Kumar Mitra stayed on for some more time, trying to put pressure on him. But Father stood his ground.
‘I’ll do something else instead. After the hanging, I’ll appear first on your channel—exclusive interview. I have been receiving offers of lakhs of rupees from channels in London and America . . . but no, you don’t have to pay me a paisa. Because, Mitra babu, you are going to become my son-in-law, right?’
Sanjeev Kumar Mitra gave it a thought.
‘In that case, Chetna will do . . . not you.’
The painful throb in my left breast became worse.
‘Chetna’s time, henceforth, must be exclusively for our channel. She must not speak to other newspapers or TV channels. Wherever she goes, we will go with her . . . till the eve of the hanging.’
Father’s mouth fell open.
‘For example, she’ll have to meet the IG and the DGP. She’ll have to go to Alipore Jail. We will be everywhere. Every move she makes from now, we are taking it . . . for a decent price.’
He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. That’s how I saw, and signed on, stamp paper for the first time in my life.
I, Chetna Mullick, daughter of Phanibhushan Grddha Mullick, hereby agree that all rights towards transmitting and publishing interviews with me for twenty-four days from today, until 24 June, on which date the death sentence of Jatindranath Banerjee is to be executed as announced by the Government of India, will be solely owned by CNC Channel, a subsidiary of CNC Publishing House. During this time, I agree not to speak with anyone other than the authorized representatives of CNC Channel. A sum of Rs 5000 has been fixed as remuneration, of which I have received Rs 1001 as advance.
Yours faithfully
Signature
First witness: Phanibhushan Grddha Mullick
Second witness: Sanjeev Kumar Mitra
Father did not ask me what I thought of it. He ordered me to sign. I signed. Sanjeev Kumar Mitra counted out a thousand and one rupees. When he handed over a thousand rupees to Father and one rupee to me, he deliberately brushed his fingers against mine. My age was such—that of a lotus bud yearning to bloom. A gentle caress would have made it blossom. But his touch was not gentle. I pulled away my fingers. The one rupee coin scorched my palm. I turned abruptly, seeking to get out of the room. But I could not walk as fast as I wished. My feet ached as if my toes were ready to fall off. Everything had been bought for a price—my movements, words, experiences. I felt as though a worm had burrowed into my flesh and was squirming inside. Right inside that left breast which he had touched, not with love but contempt.
7
‘Really? Did he agree to be the Speaker? Great news! Just watch—this is a historic moment!’ Sanjeev Kumar Mitra exclaimed excitedly into his cell phone from the front seat of the channel’s vehicle.
‘Hey Atul, Grddha da, Somu da has agreed to be the Lok Sabha Speaker. The discussion went on all day yesterday, right? But they’ll announce it only today evening, by six.’
Since the day before, one discussion had followed another on TV about whether the CPM should accept the Speaker’s position in the new Parliament or not. Till two days ago, it had been about whether the CPM should join the government or not. Our eyes had been glued to the TV screen, waiting to see if anything was being announced about Jatindranath Chatterjee or my appointment; and so even Thakuma had memorized all the arguments for and against. Debates maddened me; life slipping through my fingers saddened me. Thakuma kept reminding me that we are members of a family older than even the king, we are but instruments of power. Clad in a worn salwar kameez, my hair in two braids, I sat hunched up in the backseat of the car, plagued with unease at being slighted. The difference between Sonia Gandhi’s prime ministership and Jyoti Basu’s prime ministership did not make any sense to me.
Seeing the city after a very long while, I looked at the sun and the bustle, buildings old and new, with a sense of disbelief. I had travelled outside of Chitpur only rarely. Except for a few free trips from school and a visit to the Durga Puja at Kalighat, I had not been anywhere. Whenever the circular trains passed screeching harshly, louder than the sound of the rain falling on them and scattering like smoke, I always imagined trains that ran in lines and not circles, and the faraway places they could reach.
It was rather cold inside Sanjeev Kumar Mitra’s vehicle. I was all sweaty by the time I touched Thakuma’s feet, bid goodbye to Ramu da and Ma, and got into it; the cold was a relief. Father and I sat where the cameraman pointed. He began shooting even before the car started moving. I saw the camera and felt nothing. I had seen on TV how I appeared to other people. That very moment, all sense of anxiety about how I looked had left me. I saw the sights through the windows, their dark-tinted glass resembling Sanjeev Kumar’s spectacles. The city I had never seen split its jaws wide. All the walls we passed were covered with hammer-and-sickle signs and exhortations to vote for someone or the other. Crumbling walls. Broken roads. Human forms, thin, gaunt, pulling rickshaws. Women seeking alms with babies in their ragged bundles. A madwoman with wild eyes and flying hair ran behind the car, screaming something. I turned around to look at her, feeling troubled. In the jatra, the character of Bibek, the Conscience, had been created to get rid of the singing chorus but retain the songs. Conscience thus set the cash registers jingling through its singing. This madwoman is the Bibek of the jatra of my life, I thought. She did not sing, she screamed. I began to have second thoughts.
‘Jyoti babu was not wise to have decided like that then, but . . .’ Father murmured, stroking his moustache and looking out. Then he turned towards Sanjeev Kumar with a broad smile. ‘Listen, Sanju
babu . . . take note of this . . . after my death, me and Jyoti babu—our names and lives will become deathless in India and the world over.’
‘Grddha da, you are witty, really.’ Sanjeev Kumar laughed aloud.
I was not amused. This is how a person being led to the gallows must feel, I thought. What next, what next—the fear, what next. I had no clue, what next. I wished I could hide my hands somewhere. The day I realized that my hands had the strength to kill someone, I started fearing them. I was now frozen with fear, deep in distress. When we got out of the car, I called out to Father.
‘Baba. . .’
‘Uh-uh?’
I stood there looking at him. My mouth was totally dry.
‘Don’t have to do this, Baba,’ I murmured somehow.
‘What? What happened? Is Chetna beginning to get scared?’ Brushing back his locks with a round red comb he had pulled out of his pocket, Sanjeev Kumar came up close to ask me. ‘Don’t be afraid, Chetna. There’s nothing to worry about.’ His face was full of sympathy and his voice overflowed with kindness. I stood there, completely miserable.
Father stroked his moustache, looking daggers at me.
‘It’ll be shameful to withdraw now after coming so far. Look, Chetna, don’t be foolish. You are getting a government job by a fluke. Don’t let it go. It is a contract job for now—but I assure you—we’ll do the needful and make it permanent. That’ll make sure that your family has a steady income.’
‘Aren’t there other kinds of work in this land?’
Sanjeev Kumar Mitra laughed aloud. ‘Don’t be idiotic, Chetna! What kind of work are you going to find with just a Plus Two education? Be thankful for what you have in hand now.’
‘You have nothing to fear. Am I not going to be there? Sudev as well? You just have to be there when it happens, that’s all. Look, this is our family’s tradition. Nothing in it to feel ashamed of or guilty about. You better come along. Otherwise I’ll change my tone, mind you!’ Father was clearly irked.
As he stomped ahead of us, Sanjeev Kumar looked at me. ‘You can do it, Chetna. You are strong. You have courage. And strength. Be bold. I’ll
always be with you, always. Come along.’ His voice grew tender.
I felt the tears coming. The love which had strangled me earlier and which I had tried to kill—it raised its hood again inside me. Caught, helpless, confused, my heart grew weak. I looked again into his eyes, hopefully. They were masked by those dark glasses. I wished to believe that he loved me. In the strength of that faith, I followed Father.
The cameraman followed us right up to the office on the fourth floor of E Block in Writers’ Buildings. There was a signboard that read ‘ADGP and AGCS’ in front. The cameraman had no entry beyond this point. In my imagination, the IG’s office was a beautiful building, like the ones in the TV serials that we watched regularly. I was astonished to see the front yard littered with empty water bottles and broken tea cups. The ancient building hadn’t received a fresh coat of paint in ages. From a room on the floor above, stains of chewed betel trickled down, as red as flowing blood. We had to wait for about an hour. Everyone was agitated over the mass transfer of fifty-seven IPS officers, Sanjeev Kumar Mitra told Father. It was only after eleven-thirty that Ajoy Chakrabarti came to his office, chewing betel and dragging his feet, as listless as a half-hearted student dragging himself to school. His eyes fell on me as he entered. Father jumped up and folded his hands respectfully. The IG stood before us, sizing me up from head to toe.
‘Why, Phani, is this your girl?’ he asked, chewing his betel peculiarly.
Sanjeev Kumar Mitra stepped forward and shook hands with the IG. They exchanged pleasantries. We were asked in.