by K R Meera
‘Tomorrow Mama’s judgment will be out, Chetu ma,’ lovingly, he told me. ‘The court will set me free. After that, I want to teach them the lesson of their lives. Mama will bring Chetu a whole packet of chocolates, okay?’
I looked at him with hope. He took out a small bundle from the waistband of his dhoti and held it out to me. ‘This is Mama’s gift to Chetu. Keep it safe, it is your dowry when you get married!’
Hide it somewhere in the house where no one else will find it, he told me. Tomorrow when I return after winning the case, Mama will bring you a bigger gift, he promised. When we parted, he turned his cheek for a kiss. Very reluctantly, I kissed the sunken cheek covered with grey stubble. He caressed my head and grinned, showing his black teeth, and walked with me till we reached the other side of the railway tracks. I hid the bundle among my books and went home and, later, stowed it away in the big wooden box in which Ramu da kept his old books. When I came home from school the next day, a crowd had gathered around Father in the tea shop. They were talking of the death sentence that Avinash Sircar had received. Shattered, I wept in sheer disbelief, sobbing loudly. I will hang with my own hands the policeman who did this to an innocent man like him—I announced to Ramu da in between sobs.
‘What wrong did the policeman do? He owned up to everything in court. Even pointed out the places where he had buried two women he’d killed earlier,’ Ramu da told me angrily, raising his head from the book he was reading. I felt all the more ruined. A noose had tightened inside, stifling me. Why had he lied to me repeatedly if he had admitted to the crimes in court? I could make no sense of it. I tried to hate Sircar mama. I feared to tell anyone about the bundle he had given me. Within months, he was sentenced to death. He did not appeal to a higher court or submit a mercy petition. So the date of his execution was decided quickly. As the date neared, I became very uneasy. When Father began the puja to Kali, I began to quibble with Ma over trivial things.
After the Kali puja, after reverentially touching the box which held our ancient relics, after offering liquor to Grandfather Purushottam, after touching Thakuma’s feet and pouring liquor into her mouth, after casting a look at us, Father set out. Kaku followed him obediently. When the jeep carrying Father vanished from view, I could not hold back my tears any more. That night, I screamed seeing in my sleep a ghoul shave his face in the cracked mirror that hung from the political party’s flagstaff. The demon’s got into the child, Thakuma screamed; she circled my head with a coin in her fist and set it apart for Kali. I pressed my face on Ma’s breast and slipped into sleep, sobbing. The next day, I burned with fever. I did not go to school. Lying on Ramu da’s cot, all bundled up, I wept away all the sorrows I could not speak of, with the fever as an excuse. Father walked in at high noon, drenched in sweat as if he had had a dip in the Ganga. That was the only time I ever saw him sober after a hanging.
‘Oh, terrible day today,’ he told Thakuma, who had just come in. ‘My friend since childhood . . . him too, with this hand of mine . . .’
‘Karma . . .’ Thakuma tried to console him.
‘When I went up to put the hood over his face, he smiled. Grddha, in the end, I made trouble for you, didn’t I, he asked. I had nothing to say. But somehow I managed, this is my food, Avinash da, forgive me. He shut his eyes still smiling, and raised his head to me.’
Father’s voice was broken with terrible agitation. He then came to me—I was straining to hear his words, my heart was pounding—and felt my forehead, bidding me, ‘Come, get up soon. Let’s go and see Sircar mama off.’
Taken by surprise, I pulled open my eyelids and looked at Father.
‘The poor fellow . . . there was no one to receive him . . . how could I dump him there?’
‘But! Wicked man! Murdered four!’ Ma protested.
‘Even if he killed not four but forty, a guilty man can die but once. And there is no greater reparation than death,’ Father proclaimed, his voice glum.
‘The child is ill, let her be.’ Ma tried to oppose him again.
‘No, she must come. Grddha, make our Chetu offer me a ball of rice—that was his last request.’
Father’s voice fell again. Everyone fell silent. I alone shuddered in fright. Father went out to arrange the funeral. Thakuma followed him with her stooped walk. Those days, the Nimtala Ghat had only wooden pyres. Father bought the wood for Sircar mama’s pyre with the remuneration he had received as the hangman. That was my first journey to the cremation ground to see anyone off.
When Ma left me to go shut the tea shop, I took out the little bundle Sircar mama had given me and opened it. Held within a piece of red-bordered cloth, four finger rings bared their teeth at me. I hid them in the pocket of my frock. The dead body which had arrived in a jerking, juddering cart was lifted into a bamboo litter bought from Narayan da’s. I burst into tears again. I wept as I circled the pyre. When the pyre began to burn, we immersed ourselves three times in the Ganga. The third time, I dropped the bundle quietly into the water. A miraculous peace descended on me. By the time we came back home, my fever had abated completely.
When it hit the tangles in my hair, my right ring finger, which Sanjeev Kumar Mitra had cruelly crushed, ached. I yearned to wash away the dirt from the bruises that my body and soul had suffered in that cellar where the semen of countless men hanged at the gallows, including Sircar mama, must have fallen. Sircar mama’s rings left me when I had thrown them into the Ganga. But Sanjeev Kumar’s ring stayed stuck on my finger even though I had pulled it off. I had loved Sircar mama. But the keepsake that he had offered a child was a share of spoils. Some sixteen years later, Sanjeev Kumar Mitra had done the same. He too had forced on me a share of his crime.
11
On 1 June, Father got up late and began his day with booze. When the channel’s vehicle arrived at six in the evening, he was dead to the world. The driver was impatient, so I set out alone. It was not natural courage but sheer helplessness that goaded me on. Bruised, my body and soul still seethed. The Bibek of my life’s jatra ran behind the car, screaming. The CNC studio was on Ashutosh Mukherjee Road in a compound full of gulmohar trees. Like the jail, I was seeing it too for the first time. Many rooms, bright shiny floors, smartly dressed busy men and women everywhere. A pretty usher led us in amid the constant stream of chatter that flowed from the many TV screens on the walls. And so, I wore make-up for the first time in my life. The chairs and mirrors in the make-up room reminded me of Kaku’s salon. There was a TV in the salon too, just the size of a notebook, which played love songs. On the TV in the make-up room, the chief minister was making a statement, that the prime minister’s office is not a shopping mall. Many problems that go back to 1999 still continue to plague Bengal, he grumbled; the soil erosion in the Ganga, the closure of the cotton mills, poverty and the reduction of interest rates on small savings are all making the lives of people miserable. I baulked at the prospect of the Ganga all filled up. If all the water dried up and the riverbed was exposed, along with the skeletons of animals, men and women, Sircar mama’s cloth bundle would also become visible. I saw my painted face in the mirror and felt tears in my eyes.
A slight, fair young man, his curly hair caught in a ponytail, took me to the studio. Sanjeev Kumar Mitra sat in front of a white-topped table. He greeted me enthusiastically. The bluish mark of dead blood was no longer to be seen on his forehead. Blindingly bright lights were set up around me. My eyes burned. A gigantic tree, too heavy for me to carry, grew on top of my head. Its roots penetrated my throat and heart. In between the roots, a bird beat its wings, desperate, fearing for its life. I sat in my faded salwar kameez and the tattered dupatta Ma had hastily darned, waiting for questions, wary that he would pull the lever unexpectedly and throw me down into the damned depths.
‘All around the world, there is a call to end the death penalty. But the government of Bengal has decided to go ahead with Jatindranath Banerjee’s death sentence. The chief minist
er’s statement that the government values the human rights of the victim more than those of the perpetrator has also become controversial. On top of this, the government has appointed a woman to the post of hangman for the first time in India. Many women’s organizations around the world have welcomed the appointment of Phanibhushan Grddha Mullick’s daughter Chetna Grddha Mullick as his assistant. Chetna will speak to us about the latest developments every day until the date of execution. Let us talk to her now. Namaskar, Chetna, this is the second week since you received the government order. What have your experiences been in these two weeks as a hangwoman?’
‘The question about these two weeks is irrelevant. My experiences stretch back over two thousand years,’ I said, struggling to control my heart. I was feeling just what Father must have felt on the stage singing and acting. People don’t want simple truths. They want sweet, blatant lies. I loved the trepidation that appeared on Sanjeev Kumar’s face. Surely, the dhak-dhak-dhak sound that I heard was his heart beating. He gave me a searching look.
‘From my earliest childhood, I have grown up listening to tales about my forefathers. Their experiences are the wealth that belongs to all of us in the family. One of them—the most notorious man in our family—was Kala Grddha Mullick. Once, a condemned man whom he was leading to the gallows kicked him hard and he fell on the ground. The hanging was carried out at the appointed hour, but my forefather’s hip was sorely injured. Back then there were hangings every day, so he could not find the time to take care of it. His posture became twisted, permanently. From then on, he carried an iron staff to dispatch the condemned man instantly, hitting him hard on the head if he did not die soon enough on the noose.’
Sanjeev Kumar’s face lit up with interest. I suddenly gained confidence, realizing intuitively that the words of whoever speaks of death, however slight she may be, carry inflated value. It was not at all likely that the famous writers or artists who had sat in this chair before me had had anything more weighty to say than my Thakuma, Bhuvaneswari Devi.
‘Chetna, have you ever tried putting a noose around a person’s neck?’
‘The midwives of then and the doctors of now are of the view that infants born in our family learn to make a noose when they are still in their mother’s womb.’
Sanjeev Kumar Mitra was taken aback again.
‘What preparations have you made in the past two weeks? ‘
‘There was nothing I could do until the formal order of the government arrived. After I got it, I went with my father to meet the IG. Then we went to the Alipore Correctional Home and examined the gallows and the rope. The rest we need to do a week before the event.’
‘This is work that can throw even men off balance. Do you think that a woman like you, Chetna, is capable of it?’
‘There is nothing a woman can’t do.’
Sanjeev Kumar shot me a penetrating look again.
‘Doesn’t the sense of sin at having to kill another human being bother you?’
‘I don’t kill, I merely pull the lever.’
It sounded like a joke to him. He laughed. ‘Everyone knows that is just an excuse.’
‘Who registers the case against the accused? Who investigates it, and makes the arrests? The government’s police. Who pronounces the sentence? The government’s court of law. Who gives it assent? The head of the state, the President of India. Who decides the date of execution? The government’s court of law, again. Who keeps the accused confined? The jails run by the government. After all this, one day, at dawn, at four-thirty, who drops the red handkerchief? Even that is a magistrate appointed by the government. So how is the hangman responsible?’
Words just flowed, surprising me. Sanjeev Kumar looked rather flustered. Maybe because a mere Plus Two-educated female like me seemed fairly unshaken even after her experience in the cellar beneath the gallows.
‘But, Chetna, the condemned man does not actually die until the lever is pulled. That is the difference . . .’ He let out a long sigh.
‘The hangman merely hangs. It is the court that orders that the condemned man be hanged by the neck till he dies.’
‘So you mean to say that there is nothing wrong in what you do?’
‘How are we to know what is right and what is wrong in our doings? If that were really possible, wouldn’t we all have become gods? Maybe what I do is wrong. But the court of law and the state say that it is not wrong under the existent system. All that a poorly educated woman like me can do is trust them.’
‘Chetna, you speak very well.’
‘I listen carefully to the discussions on your channel every day, Sanjeev babu.’
The ponytailed young man gestured from behind the camera that it was time to end the show with my words. Sanjeev Kumar turned towards the camera, whipping out the broad smile meant for the viewers.
‘Thought-provoking ideas from Chetna Grddha Mullick in Hangwoman’s Diary every day exclusively on CNC. Call us this time tomorrow to speak directly with Chetna. Cell phone subscribers, please call the numbers appearing at the bottom of the TV screen . . . See you again, same channel, same time, tomorrow!’
When I came out of the make-up room after wiping my face clean, Sanjeev Kumar Mitra invited me into a room which was marked ‘Director, Programmes’. Inside, a very fair, middle-aged man with an impatient expression was speaking on the phone to someone. He gestured towards a chair. Sanjeev Kumar pulled up one and sat down. Neither he nor his superior asked me to sit. And so I stood by the door.
‘Harish babu, this is the Chetna Mullick I’ve been talking about. I’m hoping the wedding will be in September . . .’
The man grunted, putting down the phone, but still impatient.
‘The programme’s been appreciated till now. Chetna is cooperating really well,’ said Sanjeev Kumar. He looked as if he was acting out a well-prepared part in a play.
‘Okay, all the best for the programme. And all the best for a happy married life.’
‘Thank you, Babu,’ Sanjeev Kumar replied.
When we came out, he turned to me with a keen look. ‘A taxi’s been arranged to take you home, Chetna.’
‘I’ll take the bus.’ My words were full of distaste.
‘No, all this is included in our contract,’ he said, looking straight into my eyes. I, however, pulled my eyes away. When I got into the taxi, he also got into the back seat with me. His nearness and scent set my heart beating wildly. Desire and disappointment tormented me in equal measure. My hands tingled. I began, involuntarily, to fashion a noose with my worn dupatta. If he hurts me again, no matter what happens, I will teach him a lesson—I was sure about that.
The taxi moved forward. The city flowed past like a river of darkness upon which mud lamps, glowing and dead, floated. Shops, big and small; apartment blocks, new and old. Bustling wayside markets. Waiting sheds in bus stops where washing lay drying. Cloth cradles swinging on roadside handrails. My head was reeling. A cry of sorrow rose up within me, hankering to be released.
Sanjeev Kumar Mitra stopped the vehicle and paid the fare. He then got out and held the door open for me.
‘What place is this?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘Lal Bazar, don’t you know?’ he asked.
Through my mind passed Thakuma’s evocative descriptions of the four villages of Kalighat, Suttanutti, Govindpur and Chitpur which had survived on weaving and agriculture and selling fish before the Englishman Job Charnock disembarked on the banks of the Hooghly. She sounded as if she had indeed seen them with her own eyes, so haunting was her storytelling. When the enterprising Seths reached the banks of the Hooghly, they cleared the forests and set up the village of Govindpur. There they built and dedicated a temple to their deity, Govindji. One branch of the Seth family migrated north from Govindpur to Kalighat which belonged to our family those days. The path from Chitpur to Kalighat was through a dense forest. On the way was t
he Shiva temple built by an abandoned prince named Chowringeenath. The Ganga, in those days, had a wider bed and extended past Strand Road. The Seths and Basaks built their houses to the west of Lal Digi. The villages that poor folk like us built after clearing the jungle for the Seths they sold later to the British at hefty prices. Our fields and weaving sheds became their Maidan, a vast open ground. Because the stories of our forefathers were also stories of Kolkata, they spoke of not just death and love, but also of the land, loving and losing it to traders. I remember, when I was in class eight, Jyoti Basu initiated shilpayan, inviting industrialists, and Thakuma knew what it would bring. Traders arrive by water—they are not of the land, she declared in anger. To seize the land, they need, power.
Amidst the city’s sounds, the scent of mustard oil and masala enveloped me. As if reading my mind, Sanjeev Kumar bought two packets of jhalmuri from a vendor nearby and held out one to me. Rice crisps, peanuts and cashewnuts blended together had the most mouthwatering aroma and a wonderful spicy edge. As we ate standing right in the middle of the swirling city crowds, I felt teary again. I did want to be carefree, to laugh and share jhalmuri with the man I loved, but we did not acknowledge each other’s hearts. Sanjeev Kumar dusted the last of the jhalmuri off his palms and walked briskly towards a large textile shop with a prominent white signboard on which its name was written in bold purple letters.
‘You will have to come every day to the studio till the twenty-fourth, Chetna. You aren’t allowed to wear the same clothes each day.’
‘I don’t need clothes you’ve paid for.’ I was livid.
He did not like the firmness of my tone. ‘These days people are what they wear. Don’t forget, Chetna, the whole world is watching you.’
I was somewhat taken aback.
‘Don’t say, “but that isn’t in the contract”. That need not be in the contract. And, do remember, this is the first time I am buying a girl clothes.’
