Hangwoman

by K R Meera

  Ramu da’s song in her quavering voice, Amar shudhu ekti muthi bhori ditecho daan dibosho-bibhabori . . . I somehow felt that everyone was making fun of me, knowingly or not. Before the last lines

  Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine

  Ages pass, and still thou pourest . . .

  I exploded.

  ‘Can I have some peace around here?’

  ‘Is it proper for girls to be sleeping till noon?’ Thakuma stopped singing and scolded me.

  ‘I can’t . . . I am a human being . . . I need to rest for two days . . .’

  The rage in my voice shocked me.

  ‘Don’t you have to go to the studio?’ Ma sounded worried. ‘What if they don’t give us the money they agreed to if you don’t go? We need it to change the cracked asbestos . . . see, the rain has soaked the kitchen floor . . .’ Her voice faltered as she helped Ramu da turn over on his stomach.

  ‘Let them pay up first, and I’ll go. What if they don’t pay up later?’ I pulled the sheet over my head.

  ‘Do you really have a fever, Chetu?’ Ramu da asked later, lovingly. As was usual in the rainy season, his head was shaved. Lying on his stomach with his tonsured head, he reminded me of a frog. His large bulging eyes held a pathetic expression in them. The pang that I always felt whenever the thought—if only Ramu da had not lost his limbs—occurred to me shot through me again. I was sure that my life would have been different if Ramu da hadn’t lost his limbs, and Niharika her life.

  ‘You’ve been always reserved, even as a child,’ Ramu da said tenderly.

  True it was. I was taught at a tender age that women do not reveal their troubles. I always had to think a lot before speaking openly. And I would end up lowering myself in my own eyes, revealing things too late. One reason for that, surely, was Thakuma’s advice: ‘Do you understand, in this family, men have always suffered because of the women?’ Her examples began from the very first hangman Radharaman Mullick. Chinmayi Devi, the woman he had fallen in love with, served him as if he were her living god. She never moped about her lost love or blamed her husband for the loss. But day after day, the very sight of her made his guilt grow. Even after she had given birth to ten of his children, Grandfather Radharaman never believed fully that her heart belonged to him. The moment she had stepped into his bedroom as a bride, she had forsaken words and laughter. He must have tried to ask her questions. Must have begged her forgiveness, must have tried to soothe her. But she never uttered a single word. She never offered her breast to her ten children; never cuddled them. She took refuge in her own silence, the biggest punishment that he could ever receive. When she moves in bed, her large eyes stay still as if they were dead, he wrote on a bhurjapatra leaf, so said Devavrata Mullick, his son by his first wife who later inherited the executioner’s job. This was recorded by Kumarachandra Mullick who lived in the time of the Sunga kings.

  Kumarachandra Mullick lived during the reign of King Pushyamitra Sunga. The king had come to power after overthrowing and executing King Brihadratha. Kumarachandra’s ancestor Agnimitra Mullick had lived in the time of Emperor Asoka. He married six times. Five of his wives did not give him any heirs. The sixth wife became pregnant, but she died in childbirth. The five wives quarrelled over her infant, Udayamitra. Grandfather Agnimitra had to marry another young woman to raise him. This woman abandoned the baby and eloped with her lover. Later my ancestor converted to Buddhism along with the emperor.

  Udayamitra Mullick lived through the reign of six kings. It was the time of Buddhism and Ahimsa, but the prison system and the death penalty remained unaffected. He had seven children, but only one by a wedded wife. The rest were born of an infamous prostitute of those times. After giving birth each time, she left the infant at his doorstep. Grandmother took each child into the house and raised it as her own. All seven became hangmen. Buddha Mullick became a hangman in the time of King Vikramaditya. His wife had a secret liaison, and she tried to murder her husband many times. Once, she tried to poison his food, but he survived even that. Thinking him dead, she too eloped with her lover, taking her child with her. The lover took her to the jungle, murdered her, and stole her ornaments and money. Buddha Mullick woke up from his stupor and went looking for his wife. He found his little son weeping beside his mother’s body in the forest, and took him back home. This ancestor later became an ascetic.

  ‘So you mean to say that women of those times had no troubles at all?’ As a little girl, I asked that with genuine curiosity. Only rarely did the history of the women in our family get recorded.

  ‘Good women are those who bury their woes within themselves, child.’

  ‘But what if the trouble is too big to be buried inside?’

  ‘Oh well, what big trouble could women have? They stay inside the house and do little else but eat and sleep. What troubles do women have except that of giving birth to babies and bringing them up?’ Thakuma laughed loudly.

  ‘Thakuma, you never had any troubles?’

  ‘A trouble becomes a trouble only when you think of it that way. Whenever I feel bad, I tell myself, I am Grddha Mullick’s daughter. We hangmen have been around since the earliest days of the world. Without the hangman, no power can survive, be it kings, emperors, the British, or the sarkar that came after all of them . . .’

  Brushing off the raindrops, Thakuma came in, sat down and started chewing her paan. I lay gazing at her, thinking of all those old stories.

  ‘What are you thinking so deeply about, Chetu?’ she asked me, paan in mouth.

  ‘Didn’t Dadu love you, Thakuma?’ I asked her softly.

  Thakuma laughed. ‘Man’s love is different from woman’s. A man can love only the woman who gives him pleasure. But a woman is capable of loving even those who hurt her.’

  Ramu da burst out laughing. I didn’t. The story that Dadu Purushottam Grddha Mullick had been in love with Ma’s mother is one we’d heard since childhood. All his life, he ached in the memory of his lost love, the childhood sweetheart who was married off and sent to East Bengal. Father used to boast that his father’s anguish inspired Saratchandra Chatterjee to write Devdas. Her name was the same as that of the heroine of Devdas—Parbati.

  Dadu and Parbati were neighbours and playmates. When she was twelve and Dadu was seventeen, her father came to the Grddha Mullick family and proposed marriage. Their castes didn’t match, so the family refused the proposal; Dadu’s father Kalicharan was furious. Parbati pleaded with Dadu not to abandon her, but he could not defy his kin. He ran away to Burma, where he met Saratchandra. There he related to him the tale of his love. Saratchandra advised him to take heart and return to Kolkata. Gathering courage, he went back, only to learn that she was now married and settled in East Bengal. He fell upon the road she had taken and beat his head in the dust. Like the hero of Devdas, he lost himself in liquor and opium for a while. But soon his father married him to his niece—Thakuma’s older sister. She died after giving birth to two male children. Then Grandfather Purushottam took Thakuma as his wife.

  ‘That woman knew how to coo and coddle and shed tears at the right moment. Your grandfather was dumb enough to fall for the show. He just melted! But, my dear, if you make another woman weep, you will surely not thrive. Ma Kali saw my tears. Isn’t that why she was hacked to death by Muslims?’ Thakuma laughed, still chewing betel.

  ‘Oh yes, yes! Didn’t the country end up being cut to pieces by Ma Kali? Hey, be careful before you utter a word about my mother! I don’t care that you are old. Good people die soon. God finds a way to take them back. But the likes of you . . . even after a hundred years, you’ll be stewing in this hell.’ Ma entered the fray.

  As the quarrel reached a crescendo, Ramu da lifted his eyebrows at me. ‘Now, does that satisfy you?’

  I pulled my sheet over my head again. Thakuma’s words rang in my ears—a man will love only the woman who gives him pleasure. How come
Parbati alone could make Purushottam happy? The question racked my brains. If I could find the answer to it, perhaps I would also learn how to make Sanjeev Kumar Mitra happy. But the very thought of wanting to make him happy made me feel very ashamed. Bibek appeared again, asking why I would want to make a man who stole without an iota of conscience happy. I had no answer.

  When Thakuma stepped out of the room, Father approached and, with unusual tenderness, asked, ‘Chotdi, what’s wrong with you?’

  Father had never babied or cuddled me as a child. She’s young enough to be my grandchild, he always said whenever he saw me. He never indulged even Niharika, who was born after four of Ma’s babies died during childbirth. Ramu da was born after Ma had lost two more babies at birth. It was Niharika who had cared for me, who was born in my parents’ old age. Didi had been mother to me—she had bathed me, helped me take my first steps.

  ‘You talk well on TV . . . better than me . . .’

  Throwing a sideways glance at Ramu da who was lying on his stomach, Father made space in a corner of the cot and sat down there. Even in that pose, he retained an actor’s finesse in his movements. He is sitting on an invisible throne, I thought, seeing him sit straight with both palms pressed down on his knees.

  ‘But take note of this—they want our experiences. Don’t speak as if you are handing out all of it, as if it is being finally given

  away. If they feel that you have done that, they won’t want you any more.’

  A smile of contempt appeared on Ramu da’s face.

  ‘People will respect us only if they feel that we have something that is yet unsaid. And we must be able to convince them that there remains much to be said.’

  Father rose. ‘Do you think they crowd here because I am the hangman?’

  This time I looked at him directly.

  ‘No, it’s because I can speak well. People will throng for any amount of time in front of a monkey who can dance. But you need to figure out correctly when to end the dancing.’

  ‘She doesn’t like him.’

  Ramu da spoke with an effort. His voice came out rasping, like the sound of a rusty car door opening. Father turned to face him, bulging eyes rolling.

  ‘He is no good, Baba. No . . . we will regret it if we give her to him. We’ve lost Didi . . . not her too . . . No, let’s not . . .’

  ‘Ramu, this is an alliance we can’t even dream of.’ Father’s voice was charged. ‘He has two MA degrees. He has studied journalism. He’s smart. Knows his line of work well. Let at least this girl escape this hell. He has an air-conditioned flat and a car. Speaks four or five languages too, did you know?’

  Ramu da shook his head in distaste.

  ‘And Chetu likes him. Why don’t you ask her?’ Father fixed me with a stern look.

  I went red in the face. Truly, I wanted to say that I did not like him. But my voice hung back. My heart desired him even when he hurt me more and more.

  The hearses that passed by the house grew in number once the rain became heavy. Impossible to get out of the house, such a crowd, Kakima complained. Thakuma had not yet returned from the Kali temple. I fell asleep lying on the mat. By the time Ma woke me up for lunch, my head had begun to ache and I felt chilly. When the vehicle from the channel arrived in the evening, it had become a full-blown fever.

  ‘She isn’t well . . . bad fever . . .’ Ma told the driver. When he refused to leave, she tried to wake me up. The driver was standing on our doorstep. I raised my feverish face and looked at him. He saw my puffy red face and tired eyes, and left without further questions.

  The next morning, Sanjeev Kumar Mitra himself came. ‘The management is very uneasy that the programme was cancelled yesterday,’ Sanjeev Kumar complained, taking over Thakuma’s cot as soon as he arrived.

  I turned over on my mat away from him and looked at Ramu da.

  ‘Yesterday Grddha babu’s programme on AVA had the highest ratings. Chetna on our channel had been leading till yesterday. Yesterday we fell behind . . . they got a lead on us.’

  I did not respond.

  ‘You must come today, Chetna. Or we will fall further behind.’

  ‘I am unwell. Can’t you see?’ I asked harshly, raising my head involuntarily and looking at him.

  ‘Did you forget we have a contract?’

  ‘Why don’t you file a case of breach of contract? Yes, go ahead!’ I became furious.

  ‘If you don’t come, Chetna, that will affect my job.’

  ‘Oh really? Too good then!’

  ‘It won’t be ethical on your part if you don’t come, Chetna. You have taken money,’ he said again.

  I pulled off the sheet, sat up and looked at him. ‘Don’t you lecture me about ethics. I am not interested in continuing if I don’t receive the rest of the agreed remuneration. And by the way, it is really a paltry sum.’

  ‘The rest is due only on the day of the hanging.’

  ‘I don’t trust you to pay up after that day.’

  ‘But I gave you my word.’

  ‘Word? Is your word worth anything?’ I laughed in bitter derision.

  Sanjeev Kumar Mitra sat on the cot looking at me, completely impassive.

  ‘I have never met a more dishonest person than you. And have no desire to meet one either. I don’t like seeing you at all.’ Lying down again on the mat, I drew the torn sheet over myself.

  ‘But your smile is lovely, Chetna . . . even if it makes fun of me . . .’

  My heart pounded hard as I lay under the sheet. Amused by my own surprise at his presence of mind, a smile broke inside me. Sanjeev Kumar Mitra waited for a while and then left. He didn’t bother to say goodbye.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Ramu da whispered.

  I pulled down the sheet to look at him.

  ‘His eyes didn’t see this piece of flesh lying here—me . . .’ Ramu da sighed.

  I felt not just pain but also guilt. Something told me deep inside that I was somehow to blame for his condition.

  Two days went by quickly. The channel’s vehicle came to pick me up each day; I sent it back each time, declaring indisposition. On the third day, Sanjeev Kumar Mitra brought four thousand rupees. I was cutting vegetables in the kitchen. When he strode straight into the kitchen, Ma and Kakima pulled their pallus over their heads and shrunk into a corner. He held out the cash to me.

  ‘Here it is . . . you must come at least today, Chetna.’

  ‘This is not enough,’ I murmured, not meeting his eyes. ‘Your channel spends so much on those who appear in your programmes . . . so much per episode. I want decent money.’

  The muscles in Sanjeev Kumar Mitra’s face twitched. But his tinted glasses hid the expression in his eyes.

  ‘Look, Chetna, this is not child’s play. It’s our channel that sweated the most so you could get this job. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘So, how do I gain from that? Seventy-five rupees per month . . . and what money will you make in these two months?’

  The kitchen smelled strongly of asafoetida.

  ‘I have been polite till now. But there’s a limit to my patience,’ he rasped.

  ‘And to mine as well!’

  I leapt up, knife in hand, knocking over the dish of vegetables.

  ‘What the hell do you think? That you can get away with anything? Is my body your plaything? I lack only money, not self-respect. I don’t need to sell my body for money.’

  Ma and Kakima froze, completely aghast. Ma put her hands around me and snatched the knife from my hand. ‘Chi! Shut your mouth! Is it right to speak like this to men?’ she scolded.

  ‘Ma, this man has hurt me many times. I forgave him each time, but not again. I don’t want to see him again.’

  I stormed out of the kitchen and ran into the next room to Ramu da’s cot, sinking to the floor beside it. I sat there panting aloud, leaning on the
cot. Ma or Kakima would rush in to comfort me, I expected. But no. They were busy trying to comfort him—he was wiping his eyes in the kitchen. A man’s tears are always worth much more!

  Ramu da hummed slowly without opening his eyes to look at me. Klanti amaar khoma koro, Prabhu . . . He was teasing me. Otherwise there was no need to sing the line I am totally spent. Forgive me, o

  lord . . . Suddenly, our house shook and shuddered violently as a sudden streak of lightning flashed over it. In love’s deepest intensity, I cursed—if only Sanjeev Kumar Mitra had been reduced to cinders instead of Rabia. More stubborn now than I ever was as a child, eyes brimming with tears and lips curved in a smile of sadness, I tied a noose with my dupatta, pulled it tight on my own neck, looked at Ramu da and hummed determinedly: Aar amar ami nijer shire bayibo naa . . . I will no longer carry myself on my head . . . Ramu da stopped singing and tried to jump up in distress. When he shook his head in desperation, I loosened it, and took it off my neck. I looked into his stunned eyes and tried to sing the rest: Aar nijer dware kangal hoy rayibo naa . . . I will not wait at my own doorstep for alms any more . . . But then the tears began to flow.