Hangwoman

by K R Meera

  I drew my breath in and began to tell a story. Sandesh was Satyajit Ray’s favourite sweet. His great-grandfather Ramsundar Majumdar crossed the Meghna over to East Bengal and lived by the Brahmaputra. But what happened? During a great flood which swallowed up the village, the family ended up split in two, one on either side of the river!

  I looked around. Everyone stood still, frozen. My voice panted and wheezed like an asthmatic’s. I didn’t have much time to tell him the whole story. I told him how Knowledge and Wealth in that family were thus separated; Knowledge went to the branch of the family on one side of the water while Wealth stayed with the branch on the other side. Then Ramakanta Majumdar was born; it was his habit to eat for breakfast a whole basket of rice and a hefty jackfruit. One afternoon, he was resting in the veranda when a big black bear strolled towards him. He caught it by the scruff of its neck, hit it with his slippers, and sent it right back to the forest. As I said this, Jatindranath laughed happily. My chest ached when I realized that this laugh which lit up his sallow cheeks would be his last. It was impossible to believe that he was a criminal, if you saw him laugh like that.

  ‘God! What a loss it’d have been if I had left without listening to this tale!’

  If you asked Ramakanta’s oldest son anything, he answered in perfect rhyme and metre. His third son became a scholar in the Persian language. His second son Loknath gained great fame as an expert in Sanskrit, Bengali, Persian and Arabic. He could read aloud in Persian or Bengali a book written in Sanskrit or Arabic, and vice versa! Within a year of his marriage Loknath turned to tantric yoga. His parents were terrified. Fearing that he would become an ascetic, they threw his books into the river. Loknath was shattered. He went on a fast for three days and attained samadhi. But he called his wife and son to him before he died. He blessed the boy by placing his hand on his head and, kissing the child’s head, told his wife, you have only this child now, but a hundred will be born from him.

  Jatindranath’s face lit up with interest. ‘How right he was! Now tell me the story of a woman.’

  ‘Shall I tell you the story of Rokeya Hossain’s Sultana’s Dream?’

  ‘No!’ The IG’s voice was inflexible. ‘It is time. Jatin, we are sorry.’

  The smile faded on Jatin’s face.

  Sibdev babu moved closer and asked, ‘Jatin, any last words?’

  ‘The government has killed me four or five times earlier. I am glad this is the last.’

  Sibdev babu looked at the IG; he looked at me. His stare, like that of a hungry tiger, hit me hard. When Sibdev babu whispered my name and handed me the hood, I went up to Jatindranath again and stood in front of him. We looked at each other. His body weighed fifty-five kilos. Loss of hair had widened his brow. He had thick eyebrows, and below them, like two bottomless pits, were his eyes. Upon his sallow cheeks lay the pallor of long years in a sunless room. And then his neck, from which the bones stuck out. In his eyes there was no fear, but pity for me, or someone else. I closed my eyes, focused my mind on my ancestors. I thought of Thakuma, Dadu and Father. I folded my hands holding the hood. I had heard that Father always did this. And I begged forgiveness: ‘Dada, tumi aamake khomaa koro.’ Brother, please forgive me.

  I tilted his face sideways and kissed his cheek. He smelt like the lal champa. He smiled. ‘Tomar bhalo bhobe.’ God bless you.

  ‘Four-thirty!’ the IG called.

  I forgot that this was my very first hanging. I was not myself, I was an executioner. Only an executioner. The hood stretched between my palms like a black pillowcase. I put it on his face easily. He kept looking at me till his eyes were covered. The black head, which had no eyes, nose or mouth, upon the white-clad body continued to look at me. A thunderbolt passed through me that moment; I staggered. Something pierced my bones and flesh hard. That was just the beginning. A thousand streaks of lightning pierced me like arrows. My blood seethed and boiled. The bones and flesh quavered hard. Through each pore of my skin, a thousand souls entered. I realized how true Father’s words were as I stood there—that it will feel as though you were on the azar. I too went through rehearsed steps, as if I were merely a character in a play, present to satisfy somebody else’s sensibility. I looked at Jatindranath Banerjee once more. He stood like a statue with an unfinished head, arms tied, legs tied. That his heart was beating like a rubber ball bouncing in well-defined intervals was evident from the frame of his chest rising and falling inside the new white clothes the government had gifted him for this journey to the other world.

  I checked the noose, made sure the knot was strong. Then I pulled the rope and passed the noose over his head and fitted it perfectly in the precise spot between the second and third vertebrae, as if I were offering flowers to a deity. I let out a deep breath.

  ‘Tomar bhalo bhobe,’ he whispered from inside the hood again.

  I reached the lever in a flash, placed my hand on it, and looked to the left. The magistrate, the IG and the others were lined up behind the gallows. Their faces were unclear; they were all still. A red kerchief was dropped. The lever’s ancient cold spread to my palm. My heart too bounced like a rubber ball. Someone stirred in my blood and emerged into the open, shooting out through my flesh. This presence tried hard to wrench my hand from the lever. It was like a tug o’ war between us. Just when I thought I would fail, I saw the kerchief, and its deep red blinded me. I pulled the lever. The planks below moved away with a thunderous noise. Like the sky falling, Jatindranth’s body fell straight in. My eyes were glued to the rope. One, two, three, four . . . someone was counting inside my head. Twenty! The rope became still.

  My hand stayed on the lever. I felt nothing special. A man had died. The noose tightened on his neck. The vital blood vessel between the second and third vertebrae snapped and the blood flow to his brain ceased. His blood pressure rose dramatically. His heart stopped beating. The bones of his neck shattered in a way that made it impossible to stretch the spine. His eyes bulged inside the hood and his tongue stuck out. His new white clothes were stained with shit and urine. The blood rushed into his sexual organs and he had had an erection for the very last time.

  ‘Chetna!’

  It was Sibdev babu, running up and holding me by my shoulders.

  ‘Are you all right? Lie down a bit if you want. There’ll be some

  tension . . . it’s only natural . . .’

  He couldn’t see that I was struggling to pull my hand off the lever. My hand was stuck hard on the metal rod, that primordial symbol of power. A sense of power surged through my blood when I held it. It became clear to me why my ancestors bore such pride, even arrogance, in their profession. I looked at the rope dangling from the gallows tree. Jatindranath’s body had disappeared into the cellar. The rope was stretched fully; it looked more like an iron rod fixed to the ground. The sky had begun to turn a pallid white. A terrible silence pervaded the yard. The magistrate, the IG and the other employees—they were all like mannequins, silent and still. Suddenly, the six o’clock siren blared. Sound waves fled through the silent, wet, heavy air, shrieking like hunted and wounded birds. The morning bell inside the prison sprang to life. Like a town immobilized by an evil spell in a fairy tale suddenly coming to life, the jail woke up. The thud of a falling sandbag reverberated beneath my feet. The rope, which stood stretched so grandly, rose to the sky like a severed lizard’s tail, and drooped, helpless, bereft of all pride. The drizzle began again. A policeman ran up from the cellar below.

  ‘Twenty seconds . . . declared dead!’ the magistrate announced loudly.

  My body was tense and overwrought, like a stretched rope. All the souls that were stuffed into my body began to fall away in ones and twos, like grains of sand from an old, torn sandbag. I felt hollow and light, like an empty sack. Raindrops and sweat mingled and flowed from my head to the ground. Everywhere I turned, I saw nothing but a deep red. Dr Bimal Mukhopadhyay climbed the steps of the cellar and approached me. H
is white face looked so red that it was as if he was back from Holi.

  ‘Just twenty seconds!’ His trembling voice rose. ‘Perfect hangman’s fracture. The break in the C-2 vertebra was precise, simply beautiful. Like a seashell splitting open.’

  I stared like a fool into his eyes; they were filled with approval and sheer awe.

  ‘No one would even guess that you were hanging someone for the first time! Chetna, I was really tense, to tell you the truth. The slightest error, and the government would have been in deep trouble.’

  ‘It’s not right to express such satisfaction about taking someone’s life, but I can’t help saying so—you were excellent!’ Sibdev babu came up.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the doctor asked.

  I rubbed my palms together, wiped my face and neck with my dupatta, and let out a deep breath.

  ‘You’ve cut at the very root of the male race, my dear girl,’ said Magistrate Harinarayan Chatterjee. The approbation was evident even in the eyes of the policeman who was holding the umbrella over his wigged head.

  ‘I observed each of your movements closely. How effortlessly you tied his arms, put the leather straps on the legs, put the hood him, and pulled the lever—all in a flash!’

  ‘Her baba Phanibhushan needs thirty seconds, usually,’ Sibdev babu reminded.

  ‘Ah! So, there goes the job of killing—to women now! Poor men, what do they have left? Sibdev, has anyone come to receive the body?’

  ‘His younger brother is here, but he’s not willing to take it. We will have to handle it, Babu.’

  ‘Never mind. Isn’t it our last opportunity to spend for him?’ the magistrate joked, and moved ahead.

  Sibdev babu and I looked at each other. His face was full of kind concern. ‘Are you thirsty? Do you want something to eat? Tell me what you want.’

  ‘Can I take his body?’ My voice broke and sounded as if it weren’t mine.

  He started, and then smiled mildly. ‘No, child. That’s not needed. That’s the government’s responsibility.’

  ‘His soul should not wander without peace . . .’

  ‘Soul! You believe it exists?’

  ‘It may or may not exist. But if it does, it should be given peace.’

  He smiled regretfully. ‘Let’s think about it. Come to the office now. Don’t you want the money?’

  I rubbed my hands against each other. I felt as though death clung to them like a viscous film. It would be impossible henceforth to make a ball of rice and eat with these hands, I feared. The smell of mouldy bread would cling to me all my life.

  Hemant Mullick’s bhajans rang inside the jail. Kadambini brought me my bag. I walked as if I were floating above the ground. Jatindranath’s brother Kartik was standing in front of the welfare office. My steps became heavy again. Sibdev babu patted him on the shoulder and went ahead.

  When I neared him, he thanked me. The effort to smile made his face look ugly.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You didn’t hurt Jatin da even a little bit.’

  He wiped the wetness of the raindrops off his face and stroked his stubble. ‘I was really scared. That he may struggle in pain, cry out . . . I felt choked and breathless . . . but it was all over so soon, in the bat of an eyelid. I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Forgive me, I am but an instrument.’ My voice faltered. I pulled out Jatindranath’s radio and held it out to Kartik.

  ‘All of us are somebody’s instruments. Jatin da surely was. And I, as well.’

  He turned the radio over and over, looking at it sorrowfully.

  ‘He liked you. Told me to marry you.’ He smiled, suppressing a sigh.

  ‘Our land is dry. No guarantee that one can reap if one sows. You need credit every year. You get it, hoping that you can repay it the next year. And it goes on like that . . .’ He stopped. ‘It takes a very strong mind to live in our villages these days. To be able to farm your land, you need a mind strong enough to kill a man!’

  I kept my eyes on him.

  ‘The water has to be drawn up from a well four hundred rungs deep. It won’t come up however hard you pull. You have to be very patient.’

  I noticed that he swallowed what he was about to say. He tried to smile again.

  ‘Ah, what was that story you were going to tell Dada?’

  But before I could reply a policeman called me and I had to leave him. I was panting hard when I reached Sibdev babu’s office. I saw IG Srinath Mullick sitting in the chair only after I stepped in. But he did not raise his head or look at me. It seemed to me that I had hanged Jatindranath Banerjee but actually killed Srinath Mullick.

  ‘The CM called. He’s declared a reward of fifty thousand rupees for the woman who accomplished this task. He’s sent the signed cheque.’

  He didn’t meet my eyes but said in a tired voice: ‘There is another ten thousand as remuneration; sign for that as well.’

  I too was exhausted. If I wasn’t, his attitude would have made me laugh aloud. I signed the papers and then, picking up the ruler on Sibdev babu’s table, held it out to him: ‘Don’t you need this, IG babu?’

  Though I was worn out, my voice still had enough steely derision to strike him hard. His face went red. ‘Don’t take it badly. We policemen live in such tension . . . sometimes we lose control. That’s part of the job.’

  ‘Tomar bhalo bhobe,’ I said.

  I went out with the money and the cheque. Sibdev babu came out with me. ‘Before you go—there are more prizes to come! The chief minister is going to visit you today at noon. Go home and spruce up.’

  ‘Why, why is he coming?’ I asked, rather taken aback.

  ‘Who knows? Maybe to make you a minister!’

  He smiled and so did I. But it wasn’t really all that scary. It is easier to hold the lever of the ruling machine than that of the gallows. I had learnt it at the age of twenty-two.

  ‘Go out by the back gate. The vultures won’t let you live if you go out through the front,’ he warned me. ‘You probably don’t know about it—Judges’ Court Road has been packed for the last two days. Some there are for the death penalty, and others against. And on top of that a whole phalanx of TV crews and reporters from newspapers! BBC and CNC and even the cable channel fellow from Burkina-Fasso!’

  Sanjeev Kumar Mitra’s face appeared in my mind. I was a tiny bit regretful that he hadn’t seen me carry out the hanging.

  ‘His funeral rites will be at Harkat Tala, but we told the media that the funeral will be in his village in order to avoid them. Are you sure you want to go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I had no doubt at all. They took me out secretly through the back gate. Right behind us, in a police jeep, was Jatindranath’s body.

  Kartik Banerjee was waiting for us at the Harkat Tala Ghat. Water trickled out from the hole in the pot he carried while circumambulating the body of his brother. The body was then burnt in the electric crematorium, and the ashes consigned to the Ganga. When he came up after dipping himself three times in its waters, he looked like an ascetic.

  ‘I had no money for a proper funeral. That’s why I didn’t take the body. Sibdev babu said this is better . . .’

  I had no reply.

  ‘Thank you, once again.’

  ‘Again? What for?’

  ‘For everything. For saving him so quickly, for making him happy with a story, and for coming here to see him off.’

  He left in his wet clothes. I got back into the police jeep which had brought me there. The policeman in the front seat gave me a broad smile. The jeep moved slowly through the traffic. I leaned against the seat and dozed off. In my sleep, I saw Jatindranath Banerjee read out in a different language a book written in some other language. Which book is this, asked Kartik. Sultana’s Dream, I answered. The three of us were in the cellar below the gallows tree. Jatindranath wore
the cut-down rope like a garland around his neck and lay on his back, straight and stiff. I could smell the stink of mouldy bread and the acridity of wet ashes from the pyre. We were lost in the pleasure of reading together, when someone called out, ‘Chetna, hearty congratulations! Wake up!’

  I was hesitant to open my eyes.

  ‘Chetna, wake up!’

  Someone shook me awake. I could make out from the voice who it was. My eyes opened of their own accord. Sanjeev Kumar Mitra loomed through the mist of my sleep, a triumphant smile on his face.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Chetna Grddha Mullick, India’s first official hangwoman!’ he proclaimed loudly. My sleep vanished. I rubbed my eyes in dread and looked around. Yes, the same man. The same Sanjeev Kumar Mitra. His same old glasses. The same old smile. The same old studio of his. I yawned deeply and then sighed. Streaks of lightning travelled again through my body. The slimy feeling returned to my hands. All of it was old, I saw with a beating heart—I, alone, was new!

  ‘For the time being at least, the only one in the whole world, you!’

  So what if there’s just one now, the ancestors in the cellar laughed. A hundred will arise from this one!

  52

  So he had betrayed me again, greasing many palms to get me to the studio; I, who had sent a man to the other world in just twenty seconds. My hands tingled for a rope. We were in the conference hall of CNC. They were congratulating me. I sat seething in the black velvet chair beside the oval glass table. In the TV screen on the wall, Jatindranath’s life story and his pictures tumbled together. The captions ‘Jatindranath hanged’ and ‘Hangwoman Chetna on CNC at 10’ pushed their way through the images and sounds. ‘Chetna is India’s first hangwoman,’ ‘Chetna is the daughter of Phanibhushan Grddha Mullick, a hangman since the days of the British,’ some reporter screamed. The image of me on 18 May when Jatindranath’s mercy petition was first rejected, caught by Sanjeev Kumar’s camera, appeared on the screen. On a road crowded with hearses and ambulances, Kaku stood once again in front of our dilapidated house. He spoke to me, handed me ten rupees from his pocket, and pointed to Hari da’s shop. I walked again to Hari da’s shop with the carefree lightness of a twenty-two-year-old woman who had never been in love, joyously swinging her long arms. It was on the seven o’clock news that day that I had first noticed Sanjeev Kumar Mitra. He had stood proud then, mike in hand. Now he sat in the chair next to the owner of the, Biswajit Ray, all bent like a slack rope on which washing is hung to dry. Ray congratulated them; he said that the coverage of Jatindranath’s case was a huge achievement for CNC and that the team deserved full credit for introducing Chetna Grddha Mullick to the world. Biswajit Ray was about sixty, with a face as smooth as sandesh. By then, Jatindranath who had dissolved in the Ganga must have entered the Arbudanaraka. Would his soul carry the memory of sandesh? The thought disturbed me. The garland I had put on the glass table lay there like a sliced tongue.