Pluton's Pyre

by Gyandeep Kaushal

  ‘Yes,’ she said, almost whispered, to the defence lawyer.

  ‘Pardon me, Madam, but the court needs to hear you clearly. Did you just say yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she spoke a little louder this time.Tears oozed out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as soon as she said the word.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Kabir. Now that you’ve given us some very important details, would you care to throw some light on the other ways in which this man wronged you?’

  Having said that, he took a brief pause. ‘Did or did you not try to resist the accused, if at all?’ he asked.

  She nodded up and down, just the way her husband had done earlier. ‘Did then, or did he not, also touch, or should I say, grab your buttocks?’

  She nodded again. Perhaps, she’d learned she couldn’t derive any benefit by trying to resist answering.

  ‘Forgive me, Madam, but you can’t just nod up and down to all the questions.The procedure of the court would require you to answer by speaking, by which I mean you would at least have to say a yes or no. Henceforth, I request to give voice to your answers to the questions I am going to ask you. I suppose my next question would be: Did he do something like bite your buttocks or thighs, perhaps?’

  Holding a thick fountain pen in his right hand with the cunning look in his eyes, he stood there like a hungry wild fox, looking straight into her eyes.

  ‘No,’ she said, powerlessly.

  ‘Did he also then try to penetrate you elsewhere, if you know what I mean?’ he asked.

  To which she answered, ‘No.’

  Her tears poured out in earnest.

  But none of that would stop my top-notch, quick-witted lawyer. She kept crying when more questions were thrown her way; questions like for how long was she being raped, did she go to a doctor to get herself (precisely her vagina) checked up, did she like or dislike being raped, among others thrown at her.

  Considering the fact that it might sound like a hilarious joke, looking at the dossier on me, I have to say that for a second I too felt ‘bad’, watching her being made to answer all those questions, perhaps because I was the reason for her miserable state in the courtroom.You see, it seems even I had a ‘good’ human being left within me. For a moment, I wondered: who did the people of the courtroom deem to be the bigger son-of-a-bitch—my striving-to-be saviour or me?

  The fact was that only after a few hearings, I’d learned I had no option but to admit my crime. But even then, they were hell bent upon proving the proven. I suspect everyone present in the courtroom had his or her share of fun. Countless pairs of eyes would roll, while the episode of the incident was described repeatedly. No doubt they all secretly relished the picture being painted in front of them.

  And they would all pretend they were so different from me.

  ***

  Although my lawyer was a certified brilliant one, he couldn’t establish the facts in my favour, even with his best attempts to fluster the prosecutrix. He couldn’t do much against the medical reports, other evidences and witnesses produced by the prosecution.

  Even after months since my trial had begun, the flames of uproar hadn’t died down. The people still remembered me! Even after months of my coup, I was celebrated with pomp and show. Such was the magnificence of my feat: I was affecting legislations of the country now. I was inspiring leaders.

  One day, when I flipped through the pages of the newspapers, I saw the printed version of my next achievement. A new criminal law amendment Act had come into being that provided for the amendment of the Indian Penal Code, the Indian Evidence Act, and the Code of Criminal Procedure, 1973 on laws related to sexual offences. Now any man making physical contact or unwelcomed advances or explicit sexual overtures could be booked for sexual harassment. Voyeurism and Stalking were now offences expressly recognized under this Act and were incorporated in the Indian Penal Code. Now this meant that an act or an attempt to perform an act of following or contacting a woman to foster personal interaction repeatedly, despite a clear indication of disinterest by such woman, could lead to imprisonment upto three years and/or fine.

  The definition of rape was substantially broadened to include a number of acts other than penetration, and now lack of physical resistance was immaterial for constituting the offence. Where the question of consent would be in issue now, the ‘character of the victim’ was to be rendered totally irrelevant. Further, there would be a presumption of ‘no consent’ in a case where sexual intercourse was proved and the victim stated in the court that she did not consent.

  No doubt, the size of the populace cursing me had begun to become comparable with that of them that worshipped me daily on the roads.

  Then, I was sentenced. Capital punishment, it was to be. ‘To be hanged till death’ the judge had announced, before banging the gavel.

  My strangulation was scheduled for four months from the date of my sentencing. The High Court hastened to confirm the lower court’s decision. The state had apportioned more time to my otherwise terminal life than many would’ve considered adequate or proper; more than what they would’ve thought I deserved.

  The newspapers told me that my dad had appealed to the Madhya Pradesh High Court against the previous sentencing. Initially, he was reluctant to support me through the proceedings of the Fast Track Court. I suppose he wouldn’t have wanted to associate with me after what I had done. After all, there is some shame in being referred to as ‘the father of a rapist’.You see, it sounds like you fathered a rapist-by-birth, which cannot be the case.

  But later, perhaps he had a change of mind. I wonder if it was the fear of pain of losing a son or of losing status that impelled my father. But I guess, either would hurt. Be that as it may, all the money, muscle, and clout couldn’t save me.

  A week later, I learned via the same medium that the court had turned down his appeal. Dad would have learned of my fate. Perhaps that was the reason he didn’t even try for a further appeal to the Supreme Court or for a mercy petition.

  I was on death row now and I was supposed to be waiting.

  Chapter 23.0

  Life continued. I didn’t quit visiting the library; I had the best times there. I’d read newspapers, novels and books on philosophy.Yes, I was doing fine.

  Until, one day,Aarti, my wife, came to see me in the jail.

  I was plonked in one corner of my cell, with my back to the wall, right leg bent at the knee with an elbow pivoted on it, another lain out straight, me looking infinitely at the confluence of the floor and the wall opposite to me, before a man came and told me someone had come to see me. He then unlocked my cell and I had to follow him to what was called the visiting room.

  This place, the visiting room, was much like my cell. The bars were all the same, the colour of the paint was identical; it was even almost the same size.The only utility of this room, as I knew, was the privacy that it afforded to the parties meeting. It facilitated meetings without the visitors having to take the trouble to go inside the jail and enter the atmosphere that was plagued by the breath of the most vicious criminals.

  Not long after the man had left the room, I sat down on the ground, almost in the centre of the cubical, with my arms wrapped around my folded legs. I don’t know what I’d been thinking, where I’d been… lost... for those minutes until she had arrived. I guess she had stood there before the bars, for a while, looking at me, for I hadn’t noticed her come until she’d spoken.

  ‘Kaise ho?’ she’d said, upsetting the otherwise uninterrupted and perennial silence. I looked at her. No doubt I was surprised. So I stood up and went to the bars. For a minute, I only looked at her.

  ‘Ermmm,’ I couldn’t think of a word I could say.All that time, she hadn’t come to see me and now, here she was. But, she didn’t look too cheerful, for whatever reason.

  ‘It was not my wish to come here.’ Oh! Now I knew. ‘Shruti has been pestering me for weeks to see you. She would keep repeating day and night ‘Pappa se milna hai, Pappa ke paas jana hai’
and I usually told her this or that to calm her down. But last week, when she became adamant and started acting weird, I had to bring her here. I’ve told her that you’re off on some experimental project for your office. I didn’t know what else to say to her. I came here to tell you this, so you don’t end up telling her something else. Can you talk to her?’

  ‘Okay,’ I timidly agreed, unable to look into her eyes.

  ‘She’s out in the office now. I’ll go out and send her in,’ she said and turned away. She would’ve only gone a few steps, when she came back near the bars once again.

  She looked into my eyes and said, ‘You know, Suraj, I couldn’t believe my eyes, when I first saw your picture in the papers and on TV. ‘He could never do such a thing,’ I kept telling myself. But then I learned that you’d confessed and I didn’t know how to handle that knowledge.’

  She wasn’t looking at me anymore. ‘I admit that somewhere deep down, I could’ve been wrong in whatever I did. But didn’t I apologize? You’d reacted so wildly, when it was just about a kiss. I still said sorry.And what did you do? You violated another woman?’ Clenching her jaws, she spoke now, ‘Such a blot, such ignominy you’ve stained our names with, me and your daughter, for the rest of our lives.’ She took a moment’s pause, before she looked back up into my eyes and continued, ‘I’ve promised Shruti, I’ll let her see you once every month, but I’ll make sure that I don’t even let your shadow fall upon her.’And then, she walked away.

  And then, after a minute, you came. Shruti, my daughter, my baby… How pretty you’d looked in that purple frock! Not that I’m raising another question to your mom’s character, but for a moment, I really couldn’t believe I’d created something so beautiful.

  ‘Pappaaaa…’ you’d seen me and twittered.

  Chapter 24.0

  How are you, baby?’ I swear I wanted to kiss you on your cheeks, on your forehead, but I was afraid I would dirty your face black.

  ‘When will you come home? Don’t you miss me?’ God, you’d chirped like a bird.You looked so cute; all worrying like that.

  ‘I’m tasked on an experiment. Don’t worry, Pappa will be home in few months,’ I’d said. ‘Months? N-o-o-o…’ you’d looked like an angel, when you furrowed your brows and frowned like that.

  ‘You won’t even realize how the time will pass. Plus, hasn’t Mamma promised she’ll let you come here once every month? So don’t be a trouble to her. Be a good child. I know you’ll be.’

  ‘Okay, but on one condition.’

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ I’d tried sounding as caring, as relaxed, as I could.

  ‘Pappa, you know, na, I miss you so much. Even one month is such a long time. But I promise I will be a good girl, if you’ll do what I am going to ask,’ you said and advanced towards me the diary and the pen you’d brought along with you. ‘You’ll write one story for me every day. You know, na, I love your stories so much? Mamma really doesn’t know how to tell good stories like you. So you write one story for me in this diary every day and when I come to see you after one month, I will take this diary from you and give you another one for next month. If you can’t be with me, at least I will read your stories.That way we’ll be able to be with each other, don’t you think, Daddy?’

  ‘Yes,’ I’d said and smiled.

  ‘So you’ll write the stories for me, na?’ you asked again, only to make sure you had what you wanted, poor little thing, you…

  ‘Why wouldn’t I, my love?’

  ‘Okkaeiyy!’ All of a sudden, you’d turned so cherry-happy. I really didn’t know you loved my stories so much!

  But before I could hear more of your pretty voice, a female constable came to take you with her. Probably, the time for meetings was over.And a moment later I had to see you go away, disappear from my sight, forever. It was such a pain to know I could never see you again, not in this life…

  I still remember your face, my little pigeon; the way you’d kept waving at me, while you faded away from my sight. It still tightens my throat when I remember those images sometimes.What to do? I may be a bad person, but the heart within me still beats and pumps.

  When you’d gone, I looked at the diary and the pen you’d left for me.

  The diary, it looked so fancy. And the pen, that black smiley-face on the yellow, disk-shaped badge made of plastic, not bigger than a button in size, glued to the hook of its cap. They would remind me of you until I breathed my last.

  And then it came to me. I knew what I was going to do.

  Chapter 25.0

  Baby, I am sorry that I did not write your stories in this diary. One of the two reasons why I did not do so is that I know you’re not coming to take it from me, after one month.The other reason is, it would be a bad feeling, I think, to not know what kind of a person your father was. So Shruti, my love, this is for you.

  I have to tell you—these bars give a man a lot of time to think.To reflect, to retrospect.

  Of all the things, I am going to begin with by telling you how I turned into what you saw, when you handed this diary over to me. It is, if not professional, a moral obligation, on the part of the creative chef to tell other people of the ingredients invested in his innovative recipe. Thus, I am going to tell you the recipe required to make a rapist…

  It is an incontrovertible truth that many men live to glorify their legacies and I find no wrong in it. One might hence contemplate the scruples, of the shame, I have in speaking like this. But a deeper ethical investigation into my story would reveal that I am a celebrated, established offender and the world knows about me. And since I am a dying man, you can trust the credibility of my words.

  Does a lion know how to hunt when its head crowns from the womb of its mother? Does a python know how to strangle the instance it hatches out of its egg? Does an alligator know how to engulf its prey the second it learns to swim? Or does a spiteful murderer know how to slay the moment he is born to mankind? Akin to most ordinary specimens that dwell the planet, I too, I’d say, wasn’t anything by birth.

  A certain special recipe is required using which you can roast a man into a perfect rapist and it goes like this. In a bowl, you take three teaspoons each of a man’s self-respect, confidence and sense of self-worth.Add to that half a cup of trauma mixed into the base liquid of bad experiences.Batter the mixture until it turns into a paste.Then take two slices of a man’s soul. Sandwich the paste between the slices. Next, from the cellars, sprinkle equal bits of heart-wrenching pain, disappointment, and depression. Then carefully place the sandwich on the searing grill of time and scorch it properly by pressing the snack both ways. Keep calm, keep checking. In a couple of decades, it’ll turn light brown; almost the shade of hopelessness, and you can get whiffs of smoking-hot hatred.Your rapist is hot and ready to serve.You may as well garnish it with minced-flakes of recklessness.

  I wasn’t always like this. I was a man once and then I was a soulless demon. But I had to go through a pipeline, a process in which I lost my spirit.The fact is, I’d fallen prey to the many enticements of this deceitful world that loves to feed and encash upon the simple desires of a man.

  What were my deficiencies? I wasn’t a beggar. I wasn’t brought up in a slum, but in a family that ate fresh food and drank warm milk. I wasn’t illiterate; I was well educated and was the recipient of a professional degree. People in fact, once called me ‘the geek’. I even had a girlfriend once. Most of my friends in college had nurtured dreams of wooing away just one girl, but their magic never worked. I, on the other hand, had managed to secure a kiss with a girl, without even having her slap me in return.Though I thought once that I craved for sex, I remember I couldn’t do anything to a girl who’d stood naked and available in front of me. Not that I never had sex after. I had a wife whose family was impressed enough with my accomplishments and probably with my conduct, so much so that they’d almost rushed to marry off their daughter to me, she, who never denied me her body.

  Isn’t it funny? All you need to do to mak
e a man crave something, something he may have never even thought about, never even known is; show it to him and tell him, ‘I’m not going to give it to you…’, and he’ll start losing his mind. He’ll start becoming crazy over it and do anything to obtain it. It’s just like the person who never really loved sweets much, but starts going ape about them the second he learns he’s diabetic. His mouth waters every time he passes by a confectionary, but he knows he can’t do anything about it.

  How badly we all want to matter. How desperately we all want to stand out. But this very truth—that we all want to matter, that we all want to be different, that we all want to stand out—leaves us all the very same.

  Such a predicament – We just can’t let it go sometimes. We latch on to it and we don’t give up, no matter what.The only thing that remains, the only thing that matters now, is to get what we know we’ve been losing over and over, for ages. And we humans are plagued with another agent of damnation. Its name is ‘ego’. And ego, my love, is like a coiled spring. Every time we learn of our defeat, at anything, it stretches. When the length of its extension reaches its peak, it now begins to demand to shrink back, compelling us to do something about it. It demands from us the force that would enable it to overcome the force that tortured it, that stretched it in the first place. It chooses to ignore how we arrange for it, often harnessing our actual finite potential, often incapacitating our rationality.And then the ego leaves us like cud; it has us too defeated and resigned, just like itself… and we become animals.

  They often call me a hypocrite, a dual-faced cur, who pretends to be something on the outside, but is an entirely different thing inside. Fact is, I don’t give a tiny fork about it. But since they’ve chosen to label me like that, I shall not step back from throwing stones myself.

  I? A hypocrite? I’m being honest about everything and they say I am a hypocrite? Tell me, who isn’t? A teacher who doesn’t practise what he teaches in the classroom. Or the judge, the minister, the policeman—all upholders of the law—who take bribes.