by K R Meera
‘This is it . . . this box will do . . .’ Father announced merrily as if he had found a long-lost toy.
The policeman fumbled with the keys, found another one and opened the topmost box.
‘Chotdi, take a look,’ Father ordered me lovingly.
I stepped into the room on trembling feet. The awful scent of the air trapped in the room assailed me. I too sneezed four or five times. Father paid no attention; he opened the lid of the box. My hair stood on end. Inside the box, ropes that were a century old lay coiled like enormous black cobras preparing to lay eggs.
‘This will do, Sibdev babu . . . do you know what this is? It is the one with which we hung two fellows together . . . the best stuff . . .’
Father picked up a coil of rope proudly and pulled it straight. It had five knots. I looked on, finding it hard to breathe.
‘Isn’t this Manila rope, Grddha da? We have Buxar rope too.’ Sibdev turned towards Sanjeev Kumar and smiled. ‘They make this rope in the Buxar jail in Bihar . . . very durable stuff. But Grddha da isn’t too happy with it.’
‘This rope is from the Ganga Ropes Company, Sanju babu. They aren’t in business any more, but I haven’t seen better quality rope in my life. Look, forty kilos heavy . . . sixty feet long . . . Sanju babu, to be hung by this . . . you need to be really lucky.’ Father kissed the rope affectionately.
‘Do you reuse a rope that’s already been used to hang a person?’ Sanjeev Kumar asked.
‘The belief is that the rope belongs to the hangman. In many places the hangman takes it home and sells it piece by piece. People believe that if you burn that bit of rope and drink its ashes, you’ll be cured of diseases that have no cure.’
Hearing Sibdev babu’s words, Father raised his hand as if to stop him.
‘All that is nonsense. Superstition! A hundred more can be hung with this rope . . . why cut it up and burn it?’
Father rummaged in the box again and brought up another coil of rope.
‘This has been here since my father’s time. See this knot at the end? Only Baba could have tied this knot so perfectly . . .’
Father looked at the rope with deep reverence.
‘Oh, I remember . . . yes . . . Dinesh Chandra Gupta was hanged with this rope,’ Father sighed. ‘That was the first time I saw Baba weep. That was the only job he did against his will. Dinesh Chandra Gupta was just nineteen . . . poor man . . . how great he would have become had he lived, this young man . . . it was young people like him who made us want to lay down our lives for the freedom struggle. Sanju babu, that’s a long story. I’ll tell you later, when it’s convenient . . . with it you can sell a hundred copies of your corporation’s magazine like hot cakes.’
Father coiled the rope again and put it back into the box with a sigh. He picked up the first coil again.
‘So, Sibdev babu, this will do for Jatindranath. Let’s fix this.’
‘As you wish, Grddha da.’ Sibdev babu smiled.
Father looked at me after he took the rope out. ‘We’ll have to come here two more times. A week before the hanging and the day before, to inspect the gallows, the cellar below and the lever. We must try a mock hanging with a sack of sand. Babu, what did you say his weight was?’
‘Just about fifty kilos. Five feet ten inches tall. He is a reedy fellow,’ Sibdev babu said.
‘So, Chetu, with what weight must we try our mock hanging?’ Father asked, to test and display my knowledge.
‘One and a half times his body weight—seventy-five kilos,’ I said.
‘Right, what about the length of the rope?’ Father asked, triumphant.
‘Seven feet, two inches.’
‘Make a noose and show Babu.’
I had no way out now. I touched the big rope slowly. The tiny strands poking out of the rope pierced my palms like sharp thorns. Nervousness was making me feel weak. The rope was very heavy. I lifted it slowly. Sibdev babu and the policeman were looking at me, anxious. Father wiped his sweat with the gamchha. I coiled the rope into a noose slowly and then handed it over to Father.
‘Ha, perfect.’ Father took it happily and held it up for everyone to see. ‘See, see, Sibdev babu, see, Sanju babu! Did I not tell you, this is in the blood of my line. Don’t rule her out because she is a woman. She is my daughter, she has all the strength and genius of the Grddha Mullicks.’
When Sibdev, Sanjeev Kumar and the policeman agreed, nodding vigorously, I experienced a sinking feeling. The thought that fate had handed me a noose instead of all the appreciation and recognition that I richly deserved in this life distressed me. I wiped my sweat-soaked neck and forehead with the fringes of my dupatta.
‘All right, let’s look at the other things on 18 June,’ Father announced as if he’d remembered something just then.
‘Shouldn’t we take a look at the gallows?’ Sanjeev Kumar Mitra wanted to know.
‘Sanju babu, this isn’t the time for that.’
Sanjeev Kumar’s face fell, but Father ignored that completely. I guessed he had a reason, but only the next day did I learn what it was.
We stepped right into the camera’s eye. Sanjeev Kumar’s cameraman had been waiting to shoot Father and me coming out. Sanjeev Kumar fished out a tin of face powder from his pocket, touched up his face and combed his hair, and, taking the microphone from the cameraman, spoke into it: ‘And so, for the first time in the world, a woman has been officially appointed to the post of hangman. Accepting all the demands made by the state’s famous hangman Phanibhushan Grddha Mullick, the government of Bengal has appointed his daughter Chetna Grddha Mullick to the office of the hangman. Chetna Grddha Mullick has received the order, visited the IG of police and the superintendent of the Alipore Correctional Home, and completed the first phase of arrangements. You are watching Chetna and her father leaving the jail. Chetna Grddha Mullick passed her Plus Two exams with very high marks. Chetna, welcome to CNC. What do you have to say about your new job? Do you feel scared working as an executioner?’ Sanjeev Kumar asked me that question without warning.
‘We Grddha Mullicks don’t know what fear is,’ I spat that out unthinkingly. Father’s face broke into a broad smile.
‘Are you happy to get this job?’
‘All the women in the world can be proud of this moment.’
‘Is there any basis to say so—that all the women in the world can be proud because you have become an executioner?’
‘This will prove that there is no job that women can’t do.’
‘Are you a feminist?’
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
He didn’t expect my response; that was clear from his face.
‘Chetna Grddha Mullick prepares to take up the job of the hangman, raising before us the question of whether or not she is a feminist. With this, Jatindranath Banerjee gains the good fortune of securing passage to the other world through a noose fashioned by bangle-clad wrists for the very first time in history. CNC is proud to announce to our viewers that till the date of the execution, we will have exclusive access to Chetna Grddha Mullick. Watch out for the special programme on Jatindranath Banerjee tomorrow in the seven-thirty news bulletin! From 1 June, every day, we will feature exclusive updates on the execution from Chetna Grddha Mullick who has been appointed as assistant to the chief executioner. Hangwoman’s Diary only on CNC! From the gates of the Alipore Correctional Home, with cameraman Atul Kishore Chandra, this is Sanjeev Kumar Mitra for CNC.’
He waited a minute for the camera to be turned off, handed the microphone to the cameraman and turned to us.
‘Chetna, you are marvellous! Grddha da, your daughter is an extraordinary woman. She should continue her education. I will help in whatever way I can.’
‘Sanju babu, we have no words to thank you . . .’ Father wiped tears of joy.
‘We must have Chetna’s interview on the seven-th
irty bulletin on Wednesday. You must be at the studio by seven at least. I will send the car at six. Chetna should be ready.’
‘Sure, Sanju babu. May I say something from my life’s experience?’
Father became modest. Sanjeev Kumar looked up with interest.
‘The truth is that it is TV channels like yours that give freedom and equality to poor folk like us. No one listened to our stories before. Not any more. Take my daughter’s experience, for example. Would she have got such a high position so easily before? No, and even if she had, would she have been recognized this way? Never.’
It was a scornful grimace that bloomed on Sanjeev Kumar Mitra’s lips. ‘You are very right, Grddha da. I need to get this CD to the studio as soon as possible. Do you mind going home by yourselves?’
‘By all means, we will, Sanju babu. I will coach Chetna about what she has to say in the interview on 1 June.’
Father wiped his forehead with the gamchha and raised his hand as if to bid goodbye.
‘Not necessary, I’d think . . . no need to teach the baby squirrel tree-climbing.’
Sanjeev Kumar Mitra said that in a serious tone, all the while hurrying to get into the vehicle. Father laughed aloud. I stood there, eyes fixed on the red walls. When I was outside, those red walls looked like the best escape route available to me. But inside, they appeared to be my biggest obstacle. The throb in my breast had eased. But I still felt the worm writhing inside. When we took our leave, I did not look at him. That was the only revenge that a weak woman like me could take on a powerful man like him. Total disregard. But let me admit ruefully—this may be impossible for you to imagine—that even then, my heart, like a rain-drenched lotus bud, yearned to bloom in the warmth of a patient caress. A totally undesirable longing, like the yearning to build a hearth at the head of a burning pyre.
9
I was rudely jolted awake that night by a weird nightmare in which a huge banyan tree—the one that grew in the moss-covered warehouse on Rabindra Sarani—had taken root on my head. Instead of the long locks of hair, long brown roots flowed down to my waist. Dismayed, I touched the smooth, shiny red root-tips. My fingers moved up and stopped at the tangles. Those were not roots; those were hangman’s nooses, softened and readied with soap and banana flesh and wax. I sprang up from my mat.
It was barely past five. But daylight had begun to spread outside. I told Thakuma about the nightmare when I went to serve her tea. She was terrified. A death sign, she said. Taking a fifty-paisa coin in her fist, she made a circle around my head with it and tottered down to the cremation ground. She came back with a piece of red string which had been blessed and some ash from a pyre; she marked my forehead with the ash and tied the string around my neck.
It was a tense day at home. After Father and I had returned the previous evening, the house had grown noisier than Strand Road. So, ultimately, one’s own blood counts more, Kakima had shouted. No point sending a girl to do such work, said Kaku. Thakuma lay on the coir cot in Ramu da’s room, buried in her blanket, chanting Ram-naam. Ma ran about the house, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, busy with her chores. Contradictory feelings racked my mind; I was exhausted. Soon after I had given Ramu da his dinner, I spread my mat and lay down. When Champa and Rari came to me for English and maths lessons, I said, tomorrow; that too triggered loud complaints. Kakima started off all over again. Ramu da lay silent and still, eyes fixed on the asbestos sheet above. I wanted to simply slip into sleep, sealing my eyes and ears. But a sacrificial animal’s seemingly never-ending cries rose from Hemu da’s Kali temple. When Kakima woke up in the morning and opened the door, she found droplets of blood splattered all over the doorstep. An evil omen, she screamed. Father, who came out hearing the commotion, laughed away her fears. No better omen for the hangman than blood, he asserted. He turned scornfully towards Kaku who recoiled with fear at the sight of blood.
‘Dumb sucker who can’t kill even a fowl by himself! Hey, you have to see, I’ve just sacrificed my daughter for your sake . . .’ Father dug up the previous day’s quarrel.
‘Oh, you needn’t have bothered so much about me, Dada. Chetna is a woman, she must get married and settle down to family life . . . don’t forget,’ reminded Kaku in a dejected tone.
‘Just wait and see, she’ll be swept off her feet by suitors.’ Father laughed.
‘Heard that the fellow who came here has proposed. Is that true?’ asked Kakima, coming out.
‘Uh-uh . . . he did . . . but we haven’t decided anything. Is she an ordinary woman now? It’s the first time in the whole world that a woman’s been appointed an executioner. She is a symbol of strength and self-respect to the whole world now . . . don’t forget that. Chetu, get ready quickly, we have to go out.’
I had no idea where we had to go; there was no way of guessing either. All I knew was that we had to go to the TV channel from 1 June onwards. Doesn’t Sanjeev Kumar Mitra own all my mobility until the date of the execution, I wanted to ask Father. When he combed his hair, smoothed his moustache and began to hurry me up at eleven o’clock, I braided my hair and wore my only good pair of clothes—a violet salwar kameez. It was rush hour in bus no. 62. A tongue of flame rose and singed my insides as the red walls of Alipore came into view. Not daring to ask Father why we were there again, I glanced at him. Shouldn’t we tell Sanjeev Kumar Mitra? Shouldn’t we?
As if he had read my mind, Father mused: ‘He is smart, and has been helpful to us too . . . but sometimes you can’t take journalists into confidence.’
I stared, unable to grasp what he was getting at.
‘You have been appointed to a job by the government. The government is now your master. You shouldn’t feel greater gratitude towards anyone else.’
Father didn’t say anything more until we walked through the gate of the jail. As I waited outside Sibdev babu’s office, Father came out with a policeman. I followed them blindly. This time, they turned left after we crossed the second gate. I couldn’t even guess where they were headed.
‘Look there . . . those are the cells of the condemned,’ said Father.
My eyes opened wide as I looked where he was pointing. Three little barred cells in a row. Inside each, the yellow glow of a bulb. The light blinded me, so I could hardly see who was inside. Later, whenever I thought of those barred doors, all I could remember was that blinding yellow light. We had reached a place that looked like a martyrs’ pavilion. A piece of wood rose to the sky like a flagstaff mounted upon a raised platform. Father whispered, ‘Phansi kaath . . .’
The gallows! I looked up, feeling something tug hard inside me. The ancient black rosewood caught my eye first. It looked like a headless man lost in the rigours of some penance, long right leg rooted firmly on the ground, short left leg bent and planted on the right. Here, this is the hook on which you tie the rope . . . this is the pulley for the rope . . .
the noose should be here—Father was giving me lessons. I stood below the hook and looked up. At that moment, an invisible bird flew in through my left breast and began to beat its wings inside my body. The sound of beating wings rang clear and loud in my breast. Its sharp beak and talons bruised me from inside and I began to bleed from within.
‘Here, this is the lever . . .’ Father said. I went close slowly and touched it. I stared at it through hazy eyes. The iron rod which had borne the touch of my ancestors for many, many centuries. They had made sure that their mission continued through centuries—whenever one retired and proceeded towards death, he would dedicate to the world another soul who would continue to carry out justice. And here I was, finally, deputed to continue that mission. And what a mission, I sorrowed. A completely meaningless one. I caressed the lever. Then tried to raise it with a single pull. But it didn’t budge; it was so rusty. Father too tried but it didn’t move. We need oil, Babu, it is all rusty, Father complained to the policeman. I’ll get it now, said the policeman. He and Father came down fr
om the platform and made their way back to the veranda. I was left alone with the gallows tree. Under the grey sky in the dim light, it looked like an incomplete sculpture. The lime plaster on the veranda behind it had begun to peel. When it struck me that some part of me had reached here after travelling through the ages, I felt strangely tranquil. This, maybe, is our lineage’s ocean. It is this ocean that we seek, rushing towards it like the drops of water that flow in the Ganga. The hangman’s job can’t be a mechanical, bureaucratic government assignment, I felt. No female-born human can pull this lever without waging a war against herself and winning it. I sensed that someone was standing behind me and turned sharply to see Father there. A smile dawned slowly on his face.
‘I was scared to bring you here along with the others yesterday,’ he said. ‘If you had taken fright in front of all the others, it would have been a blow for us. I am relieved now. Chetu, you are a brave girl, really.’
I lowered my head and remained silent. I alone knew that it was not a matter of courage; it was more of helplessness. This was my last refuge, this gallows tree.
‘So many years have passed since I came here last . . . but each time I come, it feels as though I was here just the other day . . .’
Father looked around, wiping the sweat with his gamchha.
‘Here, see this? This floor is so many years old. Look, there used to be a wall here . . . Dadu’s calculations were still on it. In the old days, there used to be another door here. The sahibs used to watch the execution from there . . . Look, it is here that the DGP, the superintendent and the magistrate stand. Once the condemned man is brought in, and we make him wear a hood that covers his whole head and tie his hands, the magistrate will drop a red kerchief . . . that’s the sign . . . the lever must be pulled then . . .’
I stared at Father, unable to utter a word.
‘Presence of mind is the quality that a hangman cannot do without . . .
