Hangwoman

by K R Meera

  ‘The followers of the Ajivaka cult believe that every life is divided into eight phases, Sanjeev Kumar babu,’ I said, trying to stay calm.

  ‘Ah, there we go—old tales again!’ He got up, irritated, and began to pace about.

  ‘We have to do something . . . when Grddha da gets bail, will the two of you come to the studio?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But Chetna, there has to be an answer to the question why he did it!’

  ‘Ask Baba.’

  ‘He won’t reveal it.’

  ‘Investigate and find out.’

  ‘Look, that’d have been easy if it were big fish, but people like you . . .’

  ‘Small people are harder to crack?’ I sighed.

  ‘I’m in no mood to argue. For the time being, let me put to you something that’ll help your family and you stay alive. Or become irrelevant.’

  He got up as if he was finished.

  ‘Sibdev babu tried his best to make Phani da say that it had happened in a moment of delusion. But no, your father didn’t yield. If this is your attitude, I can’t help you.’

  ‘If you accept the fact that we don’t decide who helps whom, then half the problem is over.’ His confusion made me want to laugh again. Despite his persistence, I didn’t go to the prison. Father came back on the twenty-first day once he secured bail. A press reporter and a couple of channels were already waiting in the tea shop. I held Champa and Rari close, and sat in a corner of the kitchen. Sanjeev Kumar bounded in.

  ‘Chetna! Where is Chetna?’

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  ‘If it’s about her baba, we know that he’s been let out,’ said Ma, returning with cleaned fish from next door. The police had taken away our fish chopper.

  ‘No, not that. Where’s Chetna?’

  I went out to meet him. He ran up, smiling, unable to contain his excitement.

  ‘Chetna, great news! His mercy petition’s been dismissed!’

  ‘Vidhi!’ I murmured.

  ‘Yes, yes, what excellent judgment!’ He was brimming over with enthusiasm. ‘Watch—my game starts now!’

  He rushed out with that declaration. I felt sorry for him. By ‘vidhi’ I meant fate, not judgment. When I thought of the lanes through which my life had travelled since 18 May, it struck me that it had a curiously distinct method in its madness. This world pulled me into its huge noose by accident. When I closed my eyes I saw Kaku, Sanjeev Kumar’s mother and Maruti Prasad Yadav. I remembered how the printer’s ink in Yadav’s press stank like menstrual blood. In the nights in which I tossed and turned sleepless beside Rari and Champa, who were completely senseless to the world while they slept, I yearned to walk back through those lanes. Fate, which worked like a country’s founding constitution, something that determined well in advance everything in the lives of the innumerable living things—how, when, where things should happen—and, like my father, could find its own reason for everything that happened . . . how I wished something like that existed.

  47

  The day Jatindranath Banerjee’s mercy plea was rejected again, the last hearse was passing by when Father got back home from the jail. Looking at the expensive silver-coloured vehicle, he said, ‘Ah, a blessed soul!’ and came in. I tossed and turned as usual. An old cow mooed inexhaustibly near the railway crossing. The loud jokes of the lorry drivers hanging around their vehicles near the transport company, and the noisy chirping of the mynahs that had been rudely woken in the banyan tree near the Port Trust quarters kept flowing in. Father didn’t seem worn out by his stint in prison. When he finished speaking at length to the reporters who had been waiting for him, he went into his room and changed, and Thakuma went up to his door. I saw him tie the lungi around his waist, and drape the gamchha on his shoulder after rubbing his chest and face with it. He then sat down on the cot and lit a cigarette.

  ‘His mercy plea’s been rejected again,’ Thakuma told him, holding on to the door frame.

  He made an affirmative ‘Hm,’ focusing on his smoking without looking at her.

  ‘Will you be denied the job because you are now a murder convict?’ she asked him in a worried tone. ‘If the hanging is postponed for want of a hangman! Bhagawan Mahadev, the land will be ruined, Phani!’

  ‘Will you please go to bed now, Ma? Only the mercy petition has been rejected—so many more hurdles to be overcome. It could get upset at the very last minute!’ He spewed the words out, sorely irritated.

  ‘Surely, a question that must be asked when the elder son who’s murdered the younger arrives home on bail?’ Ma, who went in with a glass of water, put it down noisily.

  Both Father and Thakuma looked daggers at her as she left the room; they didn’t say word.

  ‘I don’t wish to live in the house of such a horrendously evil man for another moment! But what can I do? I have no place to go. Those wicked men! When they cut the country in two wasn’t it my home that got lost? Oh God, forty bighas of paddy which grew gold—who knows who’s farming it now?’ Ma complained in the kitchen.

  ‘Where is Chetna? Call her,’ Father said loudly.

  I picked myself up, and went to the door. He looked at my undone hair and tired face.

  ‘Are you strong enough to care for this family hereafter?’ He let out some smoke.

  Thakuma intervened. ‘Marry her off to a man capable of continuing our family’s profession, Phani. One of my grandfather’s brothers went off to Mumbai—why not search them out? Or, forget that. There are other hangmen in this country; let’s see if there are smart young men among them?’

  ‘Ma, we can’t live in these times just following the family trade—don’t be funny!’ Father said gruffly. He then said seriously, ‘Your wedding must happen soon. Who knows how much time I have left? The death penalty may be banned in the country any time. If that happens, our family trade will itself become extinct.’

  ‘Though we can’t feast three times a day, we aren’t starving. I work day and night,’ Ma ran back once more from the kitchen, glowering. ‘I’d like to sell at least some rotis, a bit of bread besides the tea. But there should be some surplus, no?’

  ‘She’s started again,’ mumbled Thakuma as she got up to go back to her cot.

  I put one foot into Father’s room. He lifted his face up towards me: ‘Uh?’

  ‘Why did you kill Kaku, Baba?’

  The question unnerved him a bit. He just sat there head bowed, like a guilty man. Then peered into the nearly smoked out cigarette. ‘I didn’t intend to kill him . . . he got in the middle.’ He sounded honest.

  ‘What did Kakima do to you?’

  An immense rage spread on his face. ‘If women turn to vice, the family decays. This is no ordinary family. There have never been thieves, murderers, or loose women who besmirch the bloodline. And I won’t let that happen now!’

  ‘Loose women who besmirch the bloodline? Who is that?’ I went up to him, anxious and eager.

  He drew in the rest of the smoke, stubbed out the cigarette and lit a new one. He raised his hand against further questions. ‘Don’t ask anything more. Let the dead sleep in peace.’

  I wilted.

  ‘What Ma said makes sense—you must be married soon. I can then die in peace.’

  He wiped his naked chest and shoulders with the gamchha and, swinging his legs, became thoughtful. His eyes were on the iron beam. My eyes followed his. I saw Niharika’s body dangling from it. I left his room and went and sat on Ramu da’s cot. Champa ran in and switched the TV on. It came alive, popping and wheezing. A woman’s voice on CNC declared, ‘In the meanwhile, Jatindranath’s family has decided to approach the Supreme Court again . . .’ Champa was going to change the channel, but hearing the name, she looked at me and pulled her hand away. ‘This is to request that the hanging be postponed as Jatindranath is mentally unbalanced. The organizations that oppose the
death penalty have decided to launch a door-to-door campaign to generate public opinion against the hanging. CNC’s special correspondent Sanjeev Kumar Mitra reports that the follow-up procedures regarding that have not yet been clearly identified. Sanjeev, can you tell us what is going on at Writers’ Buildings?’

  Sanjeev Kumar appeared in his dark glasses and a blue shirt. ‘Anindita, the central ministry for home affairs has not yet formally communicated its decision about the death sentence to the West Bengal government. Once it is received, the government will approach the high court to fix a date. The ruling government and the ruling parties have expressed their approval of the rejection of the mercy plea. The chief minister’s wife has appealed once more that people should desist from representing Jatindranath’s crime as a minor one. The jail authorities have increased the number of policemen guarding Jatindranath in Alipore prison from ten to twenty upon learning that his mercy petition has been rejected.’

  ‘What has been his response to the rejection?’

  ‘I hear that he is most dejected. He learned of it through the radio. The jail authorities say that he has not eaten anything since, nor is he talking to anyone.’

  ‘Is there a chance that the hanging will be further delayed?’

  ‘We can’t say anything about that, Anindita. This is the President’s second rejection of the plea. Jatindranath’s execution has been fixed twice before, but both times, it was postponed. A month back, it was postponed just hours before the hanging, taking into account his family’s appeal. The President had sought the opinion of the home ministry in this regard. The ministry’s response was that he deserved no mercy. They highlighted the fact that there were sixteen wounds on the body of the young girl he murdered. At the same time, a group of twenty lawyers have come together to defend Jatindranath. It is reported that they plan to approach the Supreme Court.’

  I switched off the TV because it made me tremble. But Father came in and turned it on again. Sibdev babu’s face appeared.

  ‘Yesterday too he ate as usual. For lunch he had rice, dal, vegetables and a piece of fried fish. He had six pieces of bread, butter and a glass of milk for breakfast. He bathed as usual at noon. The guards were on alert outside the bathroom. It’s not like I can run away from here now, he protested. Not because of that, I told him. For your own good. So that you don’t slip in the bathroom and break your leg.’

  ‘Sibdev babu, there is news that he is mentally unbalanced?’

  That was Sanjeev Kumar’s voice.

  ‘A big lie. The jail doctor Bimandev Mukherjee examined him. He’s certified that Jatindranath is physically and mentally fit. In addition to that, we are seeing to it that he doesn’t catch the tiniest of ailments,’ he said, a mild smile on his face.

  ‘Sibdev babu, have you spoken to him since the rejection of the petition?’

  ‘Yes, he was pacing up and down the cell. He tuned the radio, and then came to the bars and asked if he had any visitors.’

  ‘Did anyone visit him recently?’

  ‘No.’

  Sibdev babu’s face reappeared.

  ‘His brother Kartik had come a little earlier, but Banerjee did not want to meet him.’

  ‘Is he expecting someone else?’

  Sibdev babu smiled. ‘Maybe. Aren’t human beings unfathomable? How can we say what anyone wants? He does ask if there are any visitors, but doesn’t care to meet his family members when they come.’

  ‘This man who knows that death is now at the door to his cell even though the date has not been fixed—whom is he waiting for? Is it for death itself? We are not sure . . . From the Alipore Central Correctional Home, this is Sanjeev Kumar Mitra along with Atul Kishore Chandra, CNC . . .’

  Father stroked his moustache and looked at me. ‘Said nothing substantial, these fellows!’

  The news that followed was about the death of a woman in Imphal and the consequent protests. Jatindranath was a security guard who had killed a young girl and was now behind bars, awaiting his punishment by death. The security forces of the country had done the same in Imphal, yet people had to rage in the streets to get them punished. How immensely strange!

  48

  When Queen Saba decided to visit Sulaiman immediately after he threatened to wage war against her people if they refused to accept Allah, the Only God, it was because she wished to rescue them from humiliation. All kings, faithful to God or not, are like that, she told her ministers. They seize the land, contaminate the soil and the water, and turn the wisest of the wise into slaves. And so, to save her people, she set out for Sulaiman’s palace. The king was adamant that when she reached his court, she ought to be able to sit on her own throne. So he bid some of his slave djinns to steal it from her palace and bring it to him. When she entered his court, the king pointed to the throne and said, please sit down, will this throne suffice? Seeing her throne in the enemy’s court, Saba was silent. It is only a chair now, she said, if it is to be a throne, my people should bow down to it. Sulaiman fell in love with her and took her to a marvellous crystal palace. When the sun’s rays entered the rooms through the pure crystal roof of the palace at dawn, they split into the seven colours of the rainbow. The very first day, when the queen opened the door of her chamber at dawn, she saw the king at his morning prayer. He was clad in pure white garments and seated on a white floor mat; innumerable globes of light in the seven colours of the rainbow danced around him.

  I was narrating the story of Queen Saba to Rari when Sanjeev Kumar came to tell us that the date of the execution had been fixed. He was in a state of high excitement. I had been trying to get Rari to stop playing with the water Ma had collected from the tap the night before. Maybe because one still had to retell this tale though it was some two thousand years since it was first heard, it always made me afraid.

  ‘A good date—14 August!’ he said, ignoring Rari who was hiding shyly from him. ‘Chetna, it will happen this time. It has to! That’s why they are not allowing time for yet another mercy petition or court intervention.’

  I looked at him with all the irritation of a storyteller interrupted midway.

  ‘He is still hopeful. Because it did get postponed at the last minute last time. But I see no such possibility this time. Even if it does we will get a few days’ respite.’

  I dried Rari, tied the same towel around her waist and sent her in to change. Then I dealt with him.

  ‘Why do you think so?’

  ‘We have to plan something for these intervening days. Chetna, could you please come with me to the prison once? If we can create a story about you visiting the jail to console and comfort him, it will do you good, and him too.’

  ‘What good is it to the man who is to die if the person appointed to kill him offers consolation?’

  ‘You can console him, can’t you?’

  I couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘That has big news value, Chetna!’

  ‘All I hear in this house these days is about killing and dying. And see what’s happened—there’s nothing left in this house except killing and dying. Can you please let human beings give up all this, escape from it all and live in peace, Babu?’ Ma came in and scolded him, having changed Rari into dry clothes.

  His face grew callous. ‘Ah! So I’ve outlived my usefulness! Maybe someone’s made a better offer and you want to get rid of me?’

  ‘I just can’t keep on accepting help and more help from you, that’s why . . .’ I too didn’t flinch.

  ‘I have always tried to do good by you. Only for your well-being.’ He moved away, throwing me a disgruntled look. ‘Cooperate some more in the following days, Chetna, it will be very advantageous for you. Don’t worry about the expenses and money. I’ll take care of all that.’ Then, hesitating, he continued, ‘If it is about the wedding . . .’

  ‘Don’t speak of it any more!’

  ‘Why, have you found someone
else?’ He frowned.

  I lost control again. ‘Anyone will do. Must be a man, that’s all. Anyone with the qualifications to become a hangman can marry a hangwoman. Must be a man; should have presence of mind—that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t know how much pressure I had to put to change that rule,’ he whimpered.

  ‘You reaped the greater benefit from it, anyway.’

  ‘I don’t want to argue with you. Don’t challenge me. If I decide to do something, I know how to get it done.’ He challenged me.

  ‘Excellent!’ I shot back.

  He walked out. But I was perturbed.

  ‘Chetu di, what happened to Queen Saba?’

  Rari, who seemed to have been waiting impatiently for him to disappear, came running and pulled my dupatta. Champa too joined us. I continued with the story.

  The king prepared a fantastic feast for Queen Saba—with pepper and cardamom from south India. He expressed his wish to marry her, but she said, don’t insist on marrying me. Then he set a condition, don’t take anything valuable from the palace without my permission.

  The girls’ faces lit up with interest.

  Saba was fabulously rich and did not need anything expensive. So she went to bed peacefully. At night, moonlight filled the crystal palace. The stars shone on each crystal and they multiplied in many reflections. When she shut her eyes and tried to sleep, Saba felt thirsty. The spice in the food she had eaten made her feel all the more thirsty.

  ‘And then?’ Rari’s little eyes sparkled with an eager smile that made me remember Kaku; I felt pain.

  But no sooner had Queen Saba sipped from a glass of water she had poured herself from the golden jug beside the bed than the king jumped into her room! You have broken your word, he shouted. She told him, I have taken nothing valuable. But he let out a loud snort of laughter and said, what is more valuable in this world than water? The queen admitted defeat.