by K R Meera
Rari’s face clouded with thought. ‘I will never eat spicy food!’ she said. ‘And never go to any king’s house.’
I patted her head.
‘But I’d like to see the palace full of rainbows! Is it still there, Chetu di?’ Champa asked.
‘No, it fell to ruin, a long time back.’
‘And what happened to Queen Saba, Chetu di?’
Before I could answer, I saw Sanjeev Kumar outside the house. I felt irked by his presence.
‘You haven’t left yet?’
‘Don’t think I’ll leave so soon,’ he smirked. ‘The police have come searching for you.’
There was a triumphant lilt to that. I went to Father’s room and opened the front door. Two policemen stood there.
‘The copy of the court order.’ One of them held out an official envelope.
‘Baba is not at home, Babu.’
‘This is for you,’ he said, then pulled out a packet of paan masala from his pocket, tore it open and put the contents into his mouth.
I took the envelope with trembling hands and checked the address.
To
Ms Chetna Grddha Mullick
Official Hangwoman
I held it in my hand, unsure of what to do.
‘You’ve to come and meet the IG. The jeep is here.’
‘Baba is not at home.’ I swallowed hard.
‘They don’t want your baba any more, Chetna. He is a murderer. The government could never appoint a murderer as a hangman.’ Sanjeev Kumar Mitra chuckled.
I had no response to that.
‘The jeep is here,’ the policeman repeated. I looked at him and Sanjeev Kumar. It didn’t take much time for me to decide. As the lowest link in the chain of law and order, I was duty-bound to obey the summons. I went in, changed, asked Ma for something to put in my purse.
‘You’ll go alone in the jeep?’ Ma asked, at a loss.
‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll be back soon.’
‘Ma Kali! Protect my child!’ she prayed, raising her eyes to the sky. A thin ray of sunlight entering the room through a tiny hole in the asbestos fell on Ma’s silver hair, making a rainbow there.
As I sat in the jeep, I saw the CNC vehicle follow us. The policeman sat opposite me in the back of the jeep. His eyes roved on my body as he chewed the masala. The fingers of my left hand twisted around my dupatta. The fact that he had forgotten I was a hangwoman about to hang a man who had raped and killed a young girl did rankle me. I peered at him closely; the bones in his neck stuck out.
‘Uh-um?’ he asked.
‘The bones in your neck stick out,’ I said.
He rubbed his neck on impulse. ‘So what?’
‘You’ll be finished in a second with a noose.’ I smiled sweetly.
His face dimmed. When he looked at me again, not lust but fear shone in his eyes. And then he stopped looking. Sanjeev Kumar’s vehicle reached the Writers’ Buildings ahead of us. As I walked to E Block, through the front of the red-painted building, his camera followed me, pointed like a gun. I paid no attention to him and entered the lift with the policemen. We reached the fourth-floor room which bore the sign I.D.G.P. and I.G. (C.S.). The policeman went in, asking me to wait. Sanjeev Kumar hurried there after us.
‘Are you scared to meet the IG?’
‘Chakrabarti babu?’
‘No, this is a Srinath Mullick. Accused in two custodial death cases. Take care!’
I didn’t reply. My heart beat calmly. Half an hour later, I was summoned. When I stood at the door and said, ‘Excuse me, Babu,’ a pair of round eyes in an unattractive face of about fifty looked up at me.
‘Chetna Grddha Mullick. So is it you the government has appointed as the hangwoman?’
I took a few steps in and stood with my head bowed.
‘Very young! Your old man didn’t come?’
‘No, Babu.’
‘Are you brave enough to go the jail on your own?’
He got up to come and stand directly in front of me. A young man in plain clothes who sat by the computer in a corner of the room averted his eyes in fear.
‘Do you have the guts to hang a man?’
‘Yes, Babu.’
‘What’s the guarantee?’
‘If you allow me, I can show you, Babu.’
He picked up a wooden ruler from the table and extended it towards me. Startled, I took a step back. He reached out and raised my dupatta with the ruler and surveyed my chest.
‘Let me see . . . your condition . . .’
My legs froze. But my blood boiled and my hand tingled. The man in the corner of the room stooped further, utterly revolted.
‘Huh, good!’
His eyes bored into mine. I could not pull away mine either. We stood there for a while, like fighting cocks, locked in each others’ menacing gaze. There was ten times the arrogance and dominance of Sanjeev Kumar in this man’s gaze. I felt utterly nauseated.
‘How many times did you do Chakrabarti?’ He came closer.
‘What?’ My voice changed.
He laughed aloud contemptuously and I knew what he was hinting at. I felt sorry for Maruti Prasad Yadav then.
‘Babu, I could leave if you’d just give me the papers.’ Controlling myself, I tried to manage a smile.
‘I need to see you again. I will send the car this evening.’
I looked at him unwaveringly for a few seconds, and then laughed. The man in the corner looked at me in disbelief. The IG opened a file, pulled out some papers, signed them and handed them to me.
‘Hm! Leave now!’ He muttered an obscenity. ‘The car will come by evening, okay?’ he called out.
‘I will be waiting, Babu.’
When I stepped out of the room, Sanjeev Kumar came up to me. I smiled sweetly this time. He came closer with an apprehensive look.
‘Don’t you have to see the superintendent?
‘Uh-hm.’
‘May I come too?’
I didn’t say yes or no. He came out with me. As usual, his cameraman buzzed around me like a bee. I remembered the tale of Shah Ismail Khazi who was deputed by Sultan Ruknuddin Barbak Shah of Bengal in the fifteenth century to extend his kingdom by conquering Kalinga and Kamarupa. He conquered Kalinga but had to admit defeat in Kamarupa. King Kameshwar of Kamarupa decided to execute him. His executioner was my ancestor, Nathu Grddha Mullick. Ismail Khazi requested him to let him pray before the execution. The king allowed it and Ismail Khazi began to pray to God, Most Gracious, Most Compassionate, on a white sheet laid on the raised dais of the gallows platform. The king raised his eyes to heaven, following Ismail Khazi’s eyes, and was dazzled by light which had split into brilliant slivers the colours of a rainbow. They pierced the king’s eyes, and he trembled. What is your last wish, the king asked Ismail Khazi. Take me, said Khazi, but do not harm my soldiers. King Kameshwar felt a deep affection for him. He cancelled the execution, and in his company, the king embraced Islam. But Barbak was envious of Ismail Khazi’s popularity and had him assassinated and his head and body buried in different places.
Barbak Shah’s grandson and heir was mentally unsound and so after his death, Barbak’s brother Jalaluddin Fateh Shah ascended the throne. He was killed by one of the palace guards, Shahzada Jaluddin, an Abyssinian descended from Queen Saba. Jaluddin seized the throne, but another Abyssinian, Saifuddin Firuz Shah, a faithful aide of Fateh Shah, overthrew him, and claimed the seat of power. But he too was killed before long. His son Mahmood Shah was only three years old. Both the toddler sultan and the regent Habish Khan were murdered by Shamsuddin Musafar Shah. But in just a few years, Shamsuddin was hacked to death by his own accountant who revolted against him. Thakuma said it is Ismail Khazi’s curse that has befallen us. When he was being overpowered, he cursed Barbak Shah: May you forever feel the terrible pain of your bre
ast being cleaved in two. That’s why our land has been cleaved thus, she said.
When the jeep stopped at the Judges’ Court Road near the prison, I got out and walked ahead briskly. Sanjeev Kumar and the cameraman had to run to catch up with me. I stepped into the jail yard, which was shaped like the letter A, with confidence. Sibdev babu greeted me sadly. Sanjeev Kumar followed me in.
‘I thought Grddha da would come too?’ he said as he signed the papers.
‘Baba is not at home, Babu.’
‘Will you be able to handle this by yourself?’
‘I think so, Babu.’
‘You can ask some of the policemen to help you tie the condemned man’s arms and legs.’
‘No need, Babu.’
There was determination in my voice. Sanjeev Kumar and Sibdev babu looked at each other.
‘I will do all that myself. That is very important to me.’
‘Okay, as you wish. Shouldn’t you examine the rope?’
‘Yes, I’ll do it.’
I chose the Manila rope from Buxar Jail. I did not sneeze this time when I took it out of the iron almirah.
‘I can do the first test hanging if we can find a sack and sand,’ I offered, as if I’d been in this business for many years.
As I walked ahead, passing the government press and through the schoolyard in the jail, I forgot not just Sanjeev Kumar Mitra but the whole world. The convicts who were cleaning the front of the welfare office looked up at me, passed some comment and laughed. I noticed the cell which had been occupied by Netaji. I then went towards the gallows platform, turning left from Netaji’s cell. Sanjeev Kumar gazed at me, wonderstruck. The sack which Father had used to do the test hanging lay there soggy from the rain and bleached by the sun. I had it filled again and tested the rope. The prisoners clearing up the yard stopped working to look at me. I heard them say something. But my mind did not dither, nor did my hands shake, not even for a second, when I put the noose on the sandbag and got up on the stool to tie the rope on the hook.
‘Will it rain today?’ I asked, looking at the sky.
‘It rained heavily yesterday. Many places are flooded and waterlogged,’ said Sibdev babu.
‘If it rains, it will have to be taken down. If not, let it hang like this for a while.’
‘Okay, I’ll see to that. You can go now if you wish. I’ll get someone to do it.’
‘No, Babu, I’ll take it down myself. That’s my job.’
‘So you’ll wait till then?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, there is one more thing. We usually ask the condemned person his last wish. We’ve managed to get whatever he asked the last couple of times. But this time he’s asked for something different . . .’
I was all ears.
‘He wants to meet you and speak with you.’
Not just I, even Sanjeev Kumar and the two policemen there were taken aback.
My tension eased after a moment. I smiled. ‘I don’t mind, Babu.’
‘Come, then.’
He moved to the right, to the side of the condemned’s cells. I read their numbers clearly: 1, 2, 3. He went up to cell no. 3 and waited for me. My steps were slow. I waited on the veranda on which there was some sunlight still. A man sat inside, a radio to his ear. He got up and came towards the bars. We looked at each other. He was not wearing a shirt. The bones stuck out prominently on his thin chest.
‘It’ll happen this time, won’t it?’ he asked.
I looked at his yellowed face and sunken eyes.
‘Nothing more unpredictable . . .’ I couldn’t complete the sentence.
‘Chetna di, you are an executioner. Will anyone marry you?’ he asked.
Because I hadn’t expected him to ask such a question, I was silent.
He raised his hands and held the bars. ‘Ever since I first saw you I’ve been thinking: can’t you marry my younger brother, Kartik? He, the brother of the executed, you the woman who executes. You two won’t find better matches!’
Losing all capacity for words, I looked at him. By the time she came out of the crystal palace, Saba had embraced Allah as her Supreme God. Was it for water? Was it for her people? She did not say. I thought, perhaps it was to sustain the colours in the palace of love built of clear crystal? When I turned back, far beyond the high walls behind the gallows tree, the sun, sapped by age, began to fall off like a head severed by an invisible noose.
I stood before Netaji’s cell for a moment. Sanjeev Kumar caught up with me.
‘What did he say, Chetna?’
I smiled at him. ‘I accept your offer. Ten thousand rupees.’
‘Why the sudden change?’
‘From today, each moment of mine is yours. You must follow me everywhere with that camera of yours.’
‘Great!’ He smiled.
I walked out, telling him to follow me. The touch of the wooden ruler on my breasts when it raised my dupatta hadn’t faded.
49
If women want to stand up straight they should be willing to bend occasionally, Thakuma said. That’s the first lesson women ought to learn. I kept murmuring it in my mind as I sat in the CNC studio with Sanjeev Kumar Mitra. He was not in a hurry because the show was not going to be telecast live. The stress of having hauled up a sandbag all by myself stayed in my arm. There are plenty of stories in history of people bending because they were unable to stand straight, I fumed. Even the ‘Bankim’ of Bankim Chandra Chatterjee’s name means ‘a little curved’. When Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa teased him, ‘What happened, A Little Curved?’ he replied, ‘Because of the kicks from shoe-clad feet.’ He served the British as a deputy magistrate and sang ‘Vande Mataram’. It was my ancestor Narottam Grddha Mullick who prepared the rope for Muzzafar Khazi Choudhury who wanted a noose to commit suicide, refusing to bend before the British. The same Narottam worked under Khazi Choudhury’s son who was ready to bend before them. When the junior Choudhury hunted with British officers Narottam joined the group of servants who made loud banging noises to flush the prey out of their shelters. Later, when the choudhury’s daughter Faizunnesa became the choudhurani, Narottam protested against accepting the authority of a woman, that too a Muslim woman. He returned from Tripura to our family home and its incessant succession quarrels. At that time, the choudhurani’s husband, Muhammed Khazi Choudhury, approached Narottam and bought his loyalty. He then tried, till Muhammed’s death, to help men who wanted to seduce the choudharani.
‘No, I have no hope that crimes against women will end with this hanging,’ I declared, sitting as firmly as I could in the old chair in the studio.
The currency notes I had demanded and got, correctly counted, writhed inside my purse.
‘Banerjee is going to be executed for having raped and killed a young girl. Even the chief minister has declared that this will be a strong message to those who offend women’s honour and dignity.’
Sanjeev Kumar looked at me with a victorious smile. I experienced, all over again, the pain his hand had inflicted on my left breast, and the agonies he had showered on me in the cellar. A sourness invaded my mouth.
‘Yesterday, before I went to the prison, a police officer poked my breasts with a wooden ruler. He threatened to send his car to my house this evening. If I go where he wants in that car, I will be raped too, for sure. Will the chief minister punish a police officer like him? What is the guarantee?’
Sanjeev Kumar looked utterly shocked. He sat up. ‘Unbelievable! That a senior police officer dared to behave thus to a woman in this democracy? Why didn’t you complain, Chetna?’
‘If I complain, will you assure me justice, Sanjeev babu?’ I looked intently at him.
‘Can’t you reveal the name of the police officer who did this to you?’
‘I will, most surely, if he repeats it.’
‘Why do you try to protect
him now?’
‘I hope this sends out a strong message to him.’
‘But being a senior officer, can’t he trap you easily?’
‘I believe in people’s goodness. I want to give him a chance to become good.’
‘But you deny that chance to the man who is to be hanged, Jatindranath!’
‘Not me, it is the state that has denied him the chance.’
Suddenly, Sanjeev Kumar pulled the mike off and rushed to his superior’s room. In a minute, Harish Nath came out running.
‘Chetna, what we are recording now will be telecast in two hours. What you said about the police officer—that’s a political bomb. If you can give us more details, we can put it on the nine o’clock news as a special bulletin.’
‘What for?’
‘Shouldn’t the guilty be punished?’
‘There are other names in the list of the guilty, in that case. For instance, you, Sanjeev Kumar Mitra.’
‘What! I don’t like this over-smart preening you’re doing! There’s a saying back home that one should not stretch too tall, unmindful of the hump!’
‘My Thakuma says, one bends in one place to stand up straight elsewhere!’
I twisted Thakuma’s words a bit to let him see what a strange relationship he and I shared. Harish Nath and Sanjeev Kumar exchanged helpless glances. They tried to bring me around for some time. I faced them both with a broad smile. After some time they found it unbearable. When Sanjeev Kumar sat down again, suppressing an angry obscenity, I really wanted to laugh. But I was still worried as I went home in the channel’s car. What will be the culmination of this constant repetition—of taking refuge in him and then running away, wounded? The Hemant Kumar song Pather shesh kothai, ki aache shesh pather . . . filled the car. The hangman’s rope from the jail, which I had brought with me according to the custom, sat inside an old sack on the seat beside me. I held on tightly to it. I felt a deep affection towards it, coiled inside the smoothness of the plastic sack like the root of some ancient tree. At the end of the ride, following a large crowd and a hearse that moved at a snail’s pace, I practised in my mind the acts of tying the rope on the hook and pulling the lever. By the time I took the hangman’s rope to Father’s room and placed it under Dadu’s picture, I was a changed person.