Hangwoman

by K R Meera

  He extended his hand and touched mine slowly. I could not bring myself to pull mine away. His touch was gentle and loving at that moment, one that gave me pleasure.

  ‘I washed dishes from eleven-thirty in the morning. My legs ached. So did my back. My palms were wrinkled from being soaked in water and the skin on my fingertips began to break. All those were biryani dishes. Full of leftovers—bones people had sucked, half-eaten eggs, long grains of rice mixed in curd and pickle and papad.’

  He caressed my fingertips with his own ever so softly. I trembled like a vine in the wind.

  ‘The boys who worked there made fun of me and grabbed me between my legs when they passed that way.’

  He covered my palm with his and looked at me.

  ‘The lunch break at the restaurant was between three and four. Everyone ate and made me wash their plates. Then they told me to go. I put on my shirt and pants. But when I passed the manager’s desk, I deliberately knocked down the plate which held caraway sweets and toothpicks. As he picked them up, showering abuse all the while, I grabbed some money from the drawer that lay open—that was my very first act of revenge.’

  He was now running his hands over both my palms. Blood cells crawled down my veins like worms. All the blood in my body collected around my fingertips; I felt as if a thousand moths had gathered there.

  ‘I have never eaten biryani after that . . . its very scent fills me with a thirst for revenge.’

  He then leaned over the table and drew my cheek close, pressing his lips on it. I wilted. My body shrank. Opening my palm, he placed on it Thakuma’s old gold coin.

  ‘This too was revenge? On poor old Thakuma?’ I turned it over and examined it. Somehow, touching it made me feel afraid.

  ‘No, on you. You reminded me of my weaknesses.’

  The waiter came in with the food then. This was my first meal in such a restaurant. Naan, chicken, pulao.

  ‘Just eight more days to Jatindranath Banerjee’s hanging . . .’ Sanjeev Kumar whispered, looking into my eyes.

  Despite the tempting array of food, I felt revolted. It was not hunger that harried me. It was his eyes, which sent out termites. In those eyes, which reflected everything in that room, only my reflection was not visible.

  19

  I had gone to get dahi for the feast Ma had cooked for Sanjeev Kumar Mitra that noon. As I turned left from the salon and walked past Mriganka Dutt’s charity eatery and Harihar Jha’s shoe repair shop to reach Prasen Dutt’s shop, I felt many eyes upon me. Even in the place where I was born and raised, I had turned into something to be gawked at.

  ‘Ah-ha! Chetu di! Come, come . . . These days one has to turn on the TV to see you! They give you good money, no? Ah, good! I’ve known for a long time, you will go far!. But all of this is the fruit of your mother’s prayers, remember! Never forget . . . the poor lady, Sachinmayi di! This will be a great relief to her. How she has suffered! . . . And her only boy—ailing so long!’

  The moment he saw me, Prasen da bared his betel-stained teeth in a broad smile and broke into chit-chat. In between, he balanced a charcoal-stained brush on the stump of his right arm and drew me on a sheet of old newspaper. He sketched the figure in a rectangular frame with bulging eyes raised to the skies in prayer. Salim chacha, who repaired tablas in the next shop, suddenly called out: ‘Suparna di, please rescue this girl before your husband chops her up with his tongue!’

  Hearing that, Prasen da’s wife Suparna di came out stooping, asking me how many bowls of dahi I needed. Prasen da held out the change—six rupees—after taking the price of two bowls, but did not give it to me. He kept grinning: ‘Tell Sachinmayi di I asked about her, all right? Also ask Syamili di why we don’t see her much these days.’

  ‘Yes, Dada.’

  As Suparna di carefully measured out two bowls and handed the dahi to me, Salim chacha, who was testing a tabla with a small hammer, ears pressed on it, smiled: ‘Suparna di, your husband is so compassionate towards the wives of all other men in this world . . .’

  She went inside, her face completely expressionless, and Prasen da turned his grin at Salim chacha. ‘Salim bhai, where women are worshipped, there the gods are pleased.’

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah!’

  Salim chacha pressed his palms on the ground and moved his body to a corner of the room. Finding the box which held the small chisel, he crawled back to where he had sat earlier, and hummed in agreement.

  I used to love their talk even when I was just a little child. Everyone on Strand Road thought it amusing that Prasen da, who had only one arm, and Salim chacha, who had lost both legs, had shops next to each other. Prasen da and Salim chacha had actually met in the hospital when they were both victims of what is known as the Great Calcutta Killing—a result of the call for Direct Action on the demand for Pakistan.

  For as long as I can remember, I had seen Prasen da arrange mud pots of pristine white dahi in many amazingly artistic ways, like the pandals raised during puja. Whatever he touched with his one good hand, in that he revealed impeccable artistry. He would pull up the dirty tattered vest over his potbelly, smile and chat with even the crow flying by or the dog loitering around, and keep sketching.

  Salim chacha was born in a rich Muslim family. His family was butchered by militant agitators who also set fire to his ancestral home. He was the only one to survive. He played the tabla so well that even the corpses who passed by on Strand Road couldn’t help keeping rhythm.

  ‘Sudev da’s love for Syamili di hasn’t faded, I hope?’ Prasen da asked as he finally handed me the change.

  I laughed. So did Salim chacha who struck the tabla a few times, chuckling, as did Prasen da himself, shaking his potbelly.

  During the Great Famine, in Noakhali, those who begged for a little food all day long would reach the bazar exhausted by evening and lie down there to die. Most of them were Muslim farmers. Father once told me that the sight of people coming there early at dawn every day to examine each corpse and determine which faith it belonged to gave him a terrible fright. The Muslims took only Muslim corpses and the Hindus took only Hindu corpses, leaving the rest behind. The Muslims buried their corpses after the prayer; the Hindus threw them into the Ganga.

  Father turned thirty in the year of the Direct Action Day. He never got over witnessing the riots on his way back after hanging two prisoners; he narrated the story of it again and again. The prisoners were sentenced to death in a case related to the famine of 1943. It was an effort to show that the famine was brought about not by the government, but by merchants who were black marketeers. When Raman Kumar Mukherjee, a trusted lieutenant of Ranada Prasad Saha, was arrested, someone remarked that there could be trouble if only a Hindu was arrested in such a case. So they decided—let’s arrest a Muslim too, and caught hold of Ahmed Shah from Midnapore. Both were found guilty and hanged to death. The hanging was at Presidency Jail, at four o’clock, at dawn. Both Hindu and Muslim wilted alike at the sight of the hangman’s noose. Both struggled and died with equal ease fifteen seconds after the lever was pulled. Father had rushed into an arrack shop run by someone called Gopal da after the deed was done. The riot began around then.

  ‘I pushed open the door hurriedly, desperate for a drink of water. Gopal da was opening his shop in a leisurely manner. And then, in the a distance . . . a menacing buzz. Rath-mela, I thought. Then the sounds became clearer: Lad ke lenge Pakistan . . . When he heard that, Gopal da shut the shop again. If that happens, Grddha da, we Hindus are a gonecase, he exclaimed in fear. It happened all in a flash. He ran about and collected others. They pooled money, went to the American Camp, bought grenades and two pistols for two hundred and fifty rupees. A crowd collected very fast. Ten rupees per head chopped off, the reward was fixed. Five per limb. Those were times when the British government wouldn’t give me even a full rupee to hang someone. They urged me to go along but I didn’t . . .’

  Fath
er stroked his moustache in pride and revealed the reason for that decision: ‘A true hangman cannot weigh death and sell it like that.’

  When the Hindus and Muslims attacked each other in front of his eyes, Father fled the scene, consoling himself that he would be back after a sip of water. For many years after, the murderous howls and the piteous cries rang in my ears, he said. It was then that he learned that the smell of clotting blood was even more wretched and frightful than the stink of rotting flesh. As I walked back, I cast my eye fearfully on the dark soil under my feet. This soil, a poisonous black under the heavy footfall of all the centuries that had passed this way, was already drunk with the sweat, blood, phlegm and pus of so many human beings.

  I could hear Sanjeev Kumar Mitra’s voice from the road near the house. ‘The attention around hunger deaths is over . . . Now’s the

  time . . . We should leap to act, Phani da, you shouldn’t continue your show. We want to do the exclusive telecast of the day before the hanging. Two days before the hanging we will begin a twenty-four-hour live telecast. I want both father and daughter. Not for free . . . one thousand rupees and a bottle . . .’

  He shot a glance at me while devouring the sandesh Father had brought the other day.

  ‘Uh-um! Did you know, Sanju babu, my channel pays me fifteen hundred rupees for each day’s show?’

  Sanjeev Kumar sniggered. ‘There’s one zero missing in the actual amount, right, Phani da? We know of every paisa that you get! Okay, if this is too low . . . then . . . We have already given you five thousand rupees for Chetna . . . Actually, according to our contract, I needn’t pay a single paisa more, but I have decided to pay you five thousand more. I’m doing this because I am partial to you, Phani da. Think and decide,’ he said, focusing on the sandesh now.

  Father didn’t respond. He sat there looking thoughtful, stroking his moustache and rubbing the part of his leg that peeped out between the bottom of his folded-up dhoti and knee.

  ‘You weren’t keen on the plan I told you about . . . it would have fetched a bigger profit,’ Sanjeev Kumar said in an offended voice as he licked the remnants of the sandesh off his fingers.

  Father lit a cigarette, held it between his fingers for a moment, then drew in the smoke contemplatively and slowly let it out. ‘Memories are armour to a man. Better to go out naked into the street and beg than sell all my memories to you . . .

  ‘When I give you my daughter, Sanju Babu, I am not just giving you a woman but also all the memories we have cherished in our family. Memories in our family are not owned by individuals . . . they belong to us all of us.’

  Having polished off the sandesh, Sanjeev Kumar was wiping his fingers with a black handkerchief. ‘Your daughter is far shrewder than you,’ I heard him say when I went back to the room after leaving the dishes with Ma in the kitchen.

  ‘Phani da, what if we build a replica of the gallows by ourselves?’

  Father reacted after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Where? At home, or in the studio?’ He paused and then suggested an answer to his own question: ‘Not at home . . . better in the studio.’

  Puffing harder at his cigarette, he became animated.

  ‘It will help your channel in the present mood. Isn’t the interest and curiosity of the viewers evident? Many duffers may bark at the death penalty, but I tell you, Sanju babu, it is impossible to ban it in this country! Because our minds are too attuned to relishing the idea of death, of letting it slowly melt inside like this sandesh in your mouth!’

  ‘Wonderful sandesh . . . where did you get this from?’

  ‘Ganguram’s, Elgin Street,’ said Father happily. ‘That used to be Satyajit Ray’s favourite shop. He bought sandesh only from there till his very last days, did you know?’

  ‘Sandesh is a great invention, Grddha da. Only Bengalis could make something like this out of milk fat and ghee and sugar.’

  Picking up a piece encased in butter paper and decorated with edible yellow beads, Father gazed at it admiringly, then laughed. ‘Sanju babu, have you ever wondered why all the things that harm the body taste so good? Whether it is ghee, sugar, booze, or women? If you find the answer to that then you’ve grasped the crux of life!’

  Sanjeev Kumar guffawed, but the words he spoke were serious. ‘I propose that we set up the gallows for real in the studio on the day of the hanging. Phani da, you and Chetna must be in our studio that day. If you show the viewers how it was actually done, that’ll give them a truly unique experience,’ he said as he wiped his face. ‘It’ll be great if we’re able to show the real gallows instead of just a set. That is, show how the gallows are built, step by step . . .’

  Ramu da, who had been staring at the wall and laughing heartily to himself, turned his eyes towards me with a broad smile and said, ‘Chetu, I was thinking of Maradona’s goal . . . the Hand of God . . .’

  I tried but a smile would not appear on my face.

  ‘I had a dream last night. That my legs sprouted back. You should’ve seen! Like a sprout from a seed. I thought it was a leaf’s veins . . . but no, it was my foot. I realized only then, the design of a leaf and a man’s feet are so similar . . .’

  My heart trembled.

  ‘What’s the news about the Euro Cup? Will the cable operators’ strike end by then?’

  He had been uneasy ever since the TV channels and cable operators had fallen out with each other.

  Another of Sanjeev Kumar’s guffaws rose up from Father’s room. Ramu da looked at me: ‘What’s the big joke? Your wedding?’

  ‘He wants to build a gallows for his show . . .’

  ‘Where?’

  When I gestured my ignorance, his face clouded.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about why people are this way these days. Everyone’s changed so much, Chetu. Ever remember seeing anyone like Sanjeev Kumar in our childhood?’

  The image of yellow biryani with a white egg hidden inside appeared in my mind then. Thakuma’s gold coin was still inside my purse. My heart beat hard, wanting to give Sanjeev Kumar more time to turn over a new leaf. So I turned my back to Ramu da and fished it out secretly from my purse. Putting back stolen things discreetly was as hard as stealing them, I realized. Somehow I managed to slip it under Thakuma’s pillow without Ramu da noticing. At night when I was at the studio, Ma would make the bed; when the coin fell on the ground with a jingle, Thakuma would jump up in delight!

  I had to leave for the studio rather early after lunch with Sanjeev Kumar.

  ‘Just seven more days . . .’

  As we sped forward in the car, Sanjeev Kumar gave me a smile. But I continued to hold back, not sure whether to return the smile or not.

  ‘Tomorrow is the day for the sandbag test, Phani da said.’

  That made me glum.

  ‘Seven days later, the experiment will be with a living man’s body . . .’

  ‘That will not be an experiment,’ I reminded him, uneasy now.

  Sanjeev Kumar laughed. ‘I want to see it, Chetna . . . I have asked for permission.’

  ‘Father says that many who come to witness a hanging pass out or throw up.’

  ‘You don’t have to fear that of me.’ He sounded confident.

  When we reached the studio, there was an unusual amount of chaos. Before I entered the make-up room, Sanjeev Kumar came looking for me.

  ‘No, Chetna, no need. No Hangwoman’s Diary today.’

  When I turned around in surprise, he told me: ‘An assassination attempt on the chief minister of Gujarat . . . three people killed by the police, including a college girl . . . We need to be careful . . . This could blow up into a communal riot.’

  On the TV screen above, images of the college girl’s flat were being shown. Seven people lived there, left helpless after the death of the father some time ago. Images of her mentally challenged sister laughing delightedly at the camera;
of her mother waiting for her in the flat which had no electricity; of a police officer saying that it was not clear why she had gone to Gujarat, apparently packed for a two-day visit. I remembered Niharika again.

  ‘There’s time . . . why don’t we go for a walk?’ Sanjeev Kumar proposed, when I was getting ready to return home. It was one of the most charming evenings in the city that monsoon. Raindrops from a previous shower dripped slowly from the gulmohar that stood in front of the CNC building. Yellow mynahs chattered merrily from its low-hanging branches. Sanjeev Kumar took my right hand and held it in his, without seeking my permission. I looked at him, frightened. The mild drizzle and the retreating sun had painted the city a faint ochre. He helped me into a cycle rickshaw. A softly warm wet wind passed by, caressing my palm. Once we were seated, he took my hand again gently. Someone inside me screamed: This is only a dream; in reality, you are standing in the harsh white, eye-piercing light of the studio in front of Sanjeev Kumar Mitra, ready to pull a lever, beneath a three-legged gallows tree. The gallows was really a huge camera. The lever, a large mike. As I fell into the cellar, I tried to raise my eyes towards the camera and flutter my wings in delight, like a mentally challenged child. I, Chetna Grddha Mullick, the symbol of strength and self-respect of all women in India and the whole world.

  20

  In truth, my love was like the monsoon in Kolkata which did not cool the air, making us swelter all the more instead. Rather than giving me peace, it left me terrified. The cycle rickshaw Sanjeev Kumar Mitra and I were in had a weather-worn rubber tiger with steadily waning stripes fixed on its rusty handle. The seat cover was torn in the middle; the sponge underneath and the decaying skeleton showed. I sat trembling on the torn seat as Sanjeev Kumar stretched out his left arm and held me close. My heart felt as helpless as a bird trapped in the hollow of a burning tree, feathers stiff and throat parched, able neither to fly nor burst into flames. His body grew warmer still, as if a pit of fire burned furiously between the flesh and the bones under his blue shirt. That ride was indeed like a dream. The grey rain soon slanted off and ceased. The road grew clogged with vehicles and people. Through the dirty road—upon which plied dirty buses full of people with dirty clothes and faces; auto rickshaws; and fancy cars in which powdered and lipsticked people sat in ease, and on the sides of which pedestrians waited to cross, jostling for space—our cycle rickshaw glided ahead as if it were another planet in the solar system, as if it were not connected to this earth. The rickshaw wallah seemed to be dancing, standing instead of sitting upon the pedals, his grimy feet hardened with the scars of centuries. He led our rickshaw along some celestial path in outer space. Even the licence plate tied to his right wrist had a dream-like gleam. I was beginning to feel sleepy. A bird with its feathers on fire cannot feel worried about women’s power and self-respect, I was convinced. That moment Sanjeev Kumar Mitra ceased to be the man who had menacingly muttered ‘I want to fuck you hard, even if only once,’ and I ceased to be the woman who had hanged him seven hundred and twenty-seven different ways. We became two nestling birds in a tree that swam in the air. I fought with myself to put out the fire in my wings.