Hangwoman

by K R Meera

  Inside, Sanjeev Kumar Mitra was offered a chair. Father stood stooping like a slave. I cowered behind him, half hidden, abandoned.

  ‘What is your name?’ the IG asked, craning his neck so that he could see me at the back.

  ‘Chetna,’ Father answered.

  ‘She is very beautiful. Why send her for this work?’ The IG leaned back in his chair, rocked his legs, and kept looking at me.

  ‘Chetna passed the Plus Two exams with distinction,’ Sanjeev Kumar Mitra intervened.

  When he looked at me with pride and satisfaction, the ache in my left breast got worse.

  ‘I couldn’t educate her after that, Babu . . . how could I? Don’t you know how badly off we are at home?’

  ‘Shut your trap, Phani . . . ah, whatever, you’re big-mouthed . . . too much . . .’ the IG who was just half Father’s age, raised his voice. Father lowered his head meekly. Fear rushed into my blood. It was clear that I had ventured into a strange world. It was not a world I could enter counting on my father.

  The IG picked up a file, put it on the table and looked at Sanjeev Kumar Mitra.

  ‘You’ve pushed me into an awful dilemma, Sanjeev babu.’

  ‘Please consider it somehow . . . with sympathy, Ajoy babu. Shouldn’t the government be able to do at least this much for Grddha da? He’s been a party supporter too.’

  ‘That’s all right. But look, read the rules regarding the hangman’s post.’

  He then read it out.

  ‘Qualification: Applicant should be an adult, over five feet four inches tall. Only males need apply.’

  He then looked at us one by one, again and again.

  ‘Do you understand? For this job there’s just one qualification. It has to be a man, over five feet four inches tall . . . that’s all . . .’

  He looked at the three of us in turn again.

  ‘But we have obtained a special order from the government to consider women also. What’s the problem then?’Sanjeev Kumar wiped his glasses and put them back on his nose.

  ‘This isn’t an ordinary job. The hangman must possess a resolute mind. If the hangman stands before the gallows and then cries, oh no, I can’t do this, he will go to jail. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘You don’t know Chetna, Babu. She is a girl with a mind stronger than us men.’

  Sanjeev Kumar threw me another pleased glance. I tried to control myself but went red in the face.

  ‘These women . . . by their very nature they are second-thoughters. This isn’t a job for them.’

  ‘Don’t let the feminists hear you.’ Sanjeev Kumar Mitra smiled at the IG.

  ‘If IG babu permits, may this humble Phani ask a question?’ Father asked, stooping all the more. ‘I’ll make her do all of this and show you. Will that do?’

  The IG looked at the two of us in turn again and again.

  ‘Is your father right, girl?’

  He looked at me again, chewing betel. I did not raise my head but held my body as if to say yes.

  ‘This is not a permanent job, Sanjeev babu.’ The IG shot Sanjeev Kumar Mitra a discouraging look.

  ‘I know that, Ajoy babu. It’s only a contractual appointment. Just a seventy-five-rupee-per-month allowance . . . have to report for work whenever summoned. Chetna’s agreed to all of this.’

  ‘So what about Sukhdev Mullick?’

  ‘Is he good for anything at all, IG babu? He faints when it’s time to pull the lever. He’s good for some odd jobs, that’s all . . .’ Father complained.

  ‘Then why give him the seventy-five-rupee allowance? I’ll have it stopped.’ The IG was angry.

  ‘IG babu, it is very saddening to hear you say this. Does he not have a family that depends on him? I need him for odd jobs. A hangman needs two assistants, Babu, haven’t I said that many times? There’s another thing, IG babu—in our Mullick family, only one person becomes a star at a time. That’s been our history.’

  Father looked at Sanjeev Kumar, feeling high as he began to tell a story.

  ‘Listen, Sanju babu. This was in 1923, the time of the Bangla Pact. I was but a kid, just six or seven. I used to go to court with Dadu. Desbandhu Chittaranjan Das babu was a famous lawyer then. He used to give me an anna whenever he saw me. Have you heard of him, Babu? What a great man! But what to do, the Hindus did not recognize his greatness. He signed a pact that said Hindu processions would stop playing music when they passed by mosques. And that cow slaughter would be allowed when necessary. My goodness . . . what a storm that kicked up! There was lots of bickering over it and during one such row, Brijendra Singh beat a Muslim to death, and, as a result, was sentenced to death himself. Those days, my father used to be accompanied by my dada Nagbhushan Mullick. But on the day he received the order for Brijendra Singh’s hanging, Baba was down with fever. And so Nagu da went instead. He started on the booze early in the day. Drank late into the night, and by daybreak his feet weren’t on the floor. The policemen woke him up somehow at three-thirty. He stood by the gallows, reeling, unable to even open his eyes. The condemned man was brought to the gallows at four. Dada was so drunk, he couldn’t even make out where the head was, and where the feet. Somehow, they put the hood on the condemned man. It didn’t fit properly. Paying no attention, Nagu da put the noose around his neck. That wasn’t properly done, either. Brijendra Singh, you know, was nicknamed “Owl”—so narrow was his neck and so broad was his nose . . . there was no neck to speak of. Nagu da’s noose ended up being hitched on his nose. Swaying and tottering, Nagu da pulled the lever . . .’

  Father paused dramatically for a moment and looked at us.

  ‘Normally, the noose would have come loose. But the plank slid off when the lever was pulled. The man hung by his nose. His legs thrashed about for a moment. And then became still. The British officers and the doctor who were watching were dazed; there was no way that the man could have died with a noose like that! When the doctor went into the cellar below, he was amazed . . . Bhagawan! The bones in the neck were broken perfectly! The British crossed themselves. Nagu da was given a reward of a hundred pounds, as was the practice then. Babu—this one thing, please note it down—we Grddha Mullicks, even if we have to come straight out of bed and hang someone . . . A mishap? No, that just can’t happen! Uh-uh.’

  Father looked at each of us, beaming proudly. I was elated. No one can tell a story like my father. He revealed only the part about the hundred-pound reward. He didn’t disclose the part about how Uncle Nagbhushan was dismissed from service with immediate effect. Don’t ever be found anywhere near the gallows, the jail superintendent had bellowed at him, apparently. That’s why Father, who had been an actor and singer, had to rub the greasepaint off his face and pick up the hangman’s rope.

  ‘Okay, okay, go and see Sibdev. Not many days left . . . don’t you know?’

  The IG tore off a sheet of paper, signed on it and gave it to Sanjeev Kumar. He shooed us out with his other hand as if we were flies to be swatted. Father and I exited quickly. Sanjeev Kumar stayed back to say something to the IG.

  ‘I . . . I am someone who’s seen people like Chittaranjan babu with my own eyes, do you know? When he died, three lakh people waited at the railway station in the pouring rain for his body to be brought down from Darjeeling. I, too, all of nine then, waited. In that crowd, the whole day. These fellows will never make sense of such things. Here, look, Writers’ Buildings. How many great men have sat here! You must remember that whenever you pass this way. You must honour this soil, salute it . . .’

  Father stayed immersed in memories for some time. He then looked at me seriously. ‘He’s a bright chap. If you get him, consider that your great good fortune.’

  I did not reply. My heart trembled like the piece of paper that the IG had signed, and I felt short of breath, as if a man’s corpse had been tied to my ribcage. By the time we got out of the office throug
h the ground floor where two policemen with guns were chatting away by the elevator, I was soaked in sweat.

  ‘This too is a historic moment . . .’ As he ran up to the vehicle and stepped inside smartly, Sanjeev Kumar Mitra waved the piece of paper at me as if I were his best friend of many years. ‘If you had let this opportunity go, that would’ve been a historic blunder.’

  I could not bring myself to raise my eyes and look at him. Walking with my eyes fixed on the ground, like a donkey carrying an unbearably heavy load, I desired deeply to forget the expression on his face and his voice when he had crushed my flesh.

  ‘She will make my name and my life eternal to Bharat and the world after my demise, Sanju babu. I am indebted to you for that.’

  When he got into the vehicle, Father turned towards Sanjeev Kumar Mitra and folded his hands theatrically. Then, like an actor back in the green room after having delivered his lines, he wiped his neck and face with his gamchha and fanned himself with it. ‘Oh, this heat! Where is the damned rain?’

  ‘What is the difference between rain and no rain? You sweat if it rains, and you sweat if it doesn’t. The rain should be like the rain back in my town—just one shower, and the earth cools,’ Sanjeev Kumar said to me, pulling out a blue kerchief from his pocket and wiping his face.

  Something moved in my heart. That moment, he was not someone who had hurt and humiliated me with his words and touch.

  ‘So you are not from Bengal, Sanju babu?’ Father asked, astonished.

  ‘We journalists are all alike, wherever we are born, Grddha da.’

  ‘But everyone has some birthplace or the other?’

  ‘Another place like Bengal . . . but not this bad. Not this good, either.’ He said that as if he were mired in another thought.

  ‘Bhagawan! But who can make that out from your Bangla?

  ‘My mother gave birth to me in Bengal.’

  Sanjeev Kumar Mitra tried to smile. But I saw it turn into a grimace. Though his eyes were hidden behind his dark glasses, I felt that something he did not wish to reveal lay in their depths, collected in a pool.

  ‘Where is your mother now?’ Father inquired again.

  ‘She is no more.’

  He was cryptic. Then, after a short silence, he turned towards me, smiling. ‘I saw her off to the cremation ground in a red kasi silk sari, in the most expensive hearse available . . .’

  His voice broke. The toes of my feet tingled. Unease swept over me; I withdrew my leg feeling that my big toes were bound together. I was assailed by fear—the unreasonable fear that the woman who had lain inside the first hearse that had rolled over the hailstones of the hail shower many years ago had been Sanjeev Kumar Mitra’s mother. It was in these ways that he tightened the noose around my heart. Whenever I struggled and writhed, he increased the length of the rope. And so the noose never became tight enough. He took off his glasses, revealing those dreamy eyes, and smiled at me. For a moment, I was deluded, thinking that this was how a man looked at the woman he loved. Conscience never made its appearance. It also did not warn me that if my name too were to become eternal in Bharat and outside after my death, it would be through this wretched love which could be made real only by the shedding of my heart’s blood.

  8

  Like the world outside, the jail too was a man’s world. And its colour was red. Crossing the gate which looked like the entrance to a fortress, and getting inside the walls which were as tall as two men, I found that the building inside was also red. To reach the gallows one has to cross three gates, reminded Father. Each of these is well guarded.

  ‘Is Sibdev babu inside? Babu, please tell him that hangman Grddha is here to see him,’ Father requested the guards on duty at the first gate.

  The gate opened after some time and we went in with Sanjeev Kumar. Once inside, Father became excited. ‘The jail is behind the third gate.’

  A police jeep drove up to the superintendent’s office. A handcuffed man emerged from the jeep in front. He walked past us nonchalantly. Sanjeev Kumar Mitra cast his eyes on me and smiled: ‘That could be one of Chetna’s victims . . .’

  ‘Hey, hardly!’ It was Father who replied. ‘Looks like death by the rope won’t survive much longer. Sanju babu, mark my words . . . maybe Jatindranath’s will be the last. Isn’t the whole world against the death sentence?’ Father let out a sigh of regret, his eyes wandering.

  ‘In my father’s time, there used to be twenty . . . thirty jobs, sometimes fifty, every month. Those days, the death sentence wasn’t just for murderers. It was the same in my youth too . . . But now? It’s been twelve or thirteen years since I had a job. Is that because people are committing fewer crimes? No. In the old days, murders occurred once a year or so. But now, how many murders happen each day! Don’t tell anyone that I told you, Sanju babu, even the Puranas say that evil men should be killed so that the earth’s burden is eased. Were Vyasa and Valmiki senseless people? Was Bhagawan Krishna ignorant?’

  ‘Chetna, I must say, your father is remarkable. Even at his age he’s in touch with everything that happens in this world.’

  ‘Ha, and why is that? Because I gobble every word of the Anandabazar Patrika every day. I watch the news on TV. Does the difference between the poor unlettered and the rest matter when it comes to watching television, Sanju babu?’

  Father walked briskly, wiping his face with his gamchha. We saw the superintendent’s office when we got past the second gate. Father walked in like someone who knew his way around well. I tarried on the path, still doubtful. A jeep appeared through the gate of the jailer’s office on our left. Beyond the third gate of the prison, which was right before us, I could see a two-storeyed building. The prisoner we had seen earlier was going there. On its top storey, white-clad prisoners hung around lazily. Fear bloomed in my heart. Heavy, cold darkness hung everywhere. Till then, the biggest house I had seen was Thakurbari. The moment I stepped into it, the music of the jal tarang rang in my heart. The moment I stepped into the Alipore Correctional Home, my heart froze. It had happened before once, at the gate of Nimtala Ghat. The jail is a cremation ground too of the thing that makes human beings human, like soul-force.

  ‘Grddha da, what news? Are you well?’ Sibdev Ghosh greeted us, holding his hands out in a friendly gesture.

  Sibdev babu was a bright-faced fifty-year-old man. He did not look like someone who handled criminals every day. His face was warm and smiling, like Narayan da’s—Narayan da who made litters for corpses out of raw bamboo. I liked Sibdev babu on sight. Sanjeev Kumar was given a front seat here too. We stood leaning against the wall. This room was smaller and narrower than the IG’s. Except for four iron almirahs of half-height, there was nothing in there.

  ‘Everything is well with your blessings, Babu.’ Father turned meek.

  Sibdev babu studied me, scratching the left side of his greying head.

  ‘Uh-uh . . . the allowance is seventy-five rupees . . . understand?’

  I smiled foolishly.

  ‘The hanging’s been fixed for the twenty-fourth. Exactly twenty-nine days from now . . .’

  He opened a file bound with a red string, took out a sheet of paper, signed on it and handed it to me. ‘This is your appointment order, understand?’

  I held out my hand like an idiot and took it.

  ‘Chetna, my daughter, your father advises you, listen, for the rest of your life, you must give this man the respect that you give the gods.’

  Father suddenly turned into the stage actor of old and began to deliver his lines.

  ‘This gentleman, this Sibdev babu, as far as your father is concerned, he is a divine messenger. It is he who increased our allowance from fifty to seventy-five.’

  ‘Isn’t seventy-five disgracefully low, Sibdev babu?’ Sanjeev Kumar Mitra interrupted.

  ‘That’s all the law permits . . . the intellectuals will make a fuss if we raise it.
And of course, the job’s irregular too. Whenever there is one, Grddha makes sure to bargain and get the best deal. Look, right now, he’s asked for twenty thousand.’

  ‘I’m not willing to reduce it by one anna or one paisa,’ Father cooed.

  Sibdev babu got up with his bunch of keys, a slight smile on his face. Father rubbed his face hard with his gamchha and gestured that I should follow him. Sanjeev Kumar started to accompany us. Sibdev turned to him, retaining his gentle manner.

  ‘By rule, outsiders are not allowed here.’

  ‘Our job is to break the rules, isn’t it so, Sibdev babu? I have got the DGP to speak for me. No risk to you.’ Sanjeev Kumar smiled.

  Sibdev babu did not object further. He walked ahead towards the third gate. When it opened, a policeman hurried up, saluted him and came along with us. Crossing the printing press, the school and the kitchen on the right, we went towards the godown.

  ‘This jail dates from British times. Look, how it was built . . . ’ Sanjeev Kumar spoke to me as if he were speaking to a friend.

  My heart quavered. Whenever he spoke like a different person, wiping away his words and deeds of the past few days, I was filled with anger. And anxiety. It seemed to me that I was in some other world as I walked with him on the veranda. The two-storeyed building was now very close. Red verandas, walls painted red. Massive granite pillars. We had stepped out of the office block and on to the jail veranda. The barred doors of the cells were open, but the prisoners were nowhere to be seen in the vast jail yard. The echo of someone’s racking cough rang out. It was a terrible, tormenting cough, strong enough to wrench out the lungs. Reaching the door of the next cell, I saw that it came from a very old man stretched out on the cot inside and covered with a black blanket. I saw clearly his shaven head and sunken eyes. I began to be afraid again.

  The key to the godown was a fat black one. The policeman who stepped in ahead of us sneezed four or five times. He switched on the light. A big room came into sight in the yellow gleam. I took one look and saw four iron boxes piled one upon the other. I knew what they held. My body trembled.