One day, the undefeated Mohsin was called into the office where he was given his own clothes to wear. Five minutes later he was seated in the police lorry and sent off. Later, it was learned that his release date was quickly approaching, and so he was sent to a jail in the district he was from . . .
Baba Madansingh had also fallen ill. More recently, Shekhar had been to see him each day and he could tell that there was no change in his extremely wizened face, but those parts that were still young were quickly moving down the road to elderliness—Baba’s eyes . . . As if the darkness of a life held in suspension for nineteen or twenty years suddenly wanted to drain the light from his sparkling eyes . . . Shekhar had come to hold this imprisoned sage in deep regard, and ever since he had heard that Baba had developed dysentery he was racked with concern all the time. He was worried all day, and each morning and evening he would religiously go to see him—this had become his daily routine.
And that was how September passed, October passed and November passed. Then suddenly one day, Shekhar’s suspended life was jolted out of its reverie, and it seemed to him that nothing was in suspense, that his heart was protected by a thin sheath which could be ripped to shreds at any moment and leave his heart unprotected from any injury . . .
There were four cells in the condemned wing that Shekhar was in. The inmates there changed regularly. Shekhar was in one of the cells, but there had been eleven different men in the three other cells since he had been there. A few had been released since; the rest had been executed.
One October evening, a new man was brought in. Shekhar observed him with curiosity—a twenty-three or twenty-four-year-old young Jat lad, handsome and well built, fair-skinned, a thin, twisted moustache and clear and courageous eyes. Shekhar couldn’t believe that this man was a murderer. After the warden had placed him in the cell next to Shekhar’s and left, he asked the guard on duty about him and learned that he was a murderer and that he had confessed.
His name was Ramji. This was something Shekhar had learned on the first day. The next day when Shekhar was being let out for exercise, he called him over and they introduced themselves.
‘Excuse me, Babuji!’
Shekhar went up to his cell.
‘How did you end up on this stage of beauty?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you been sentenced to death as well?’
Shekhar explained that he had only been charged and that he was in the cell voluntarily.
‘So you can get things from the outside? Then can you get me a couple of cigarettes now and then—it’s a terrible habit, sir, but since I’m going to be hanged I may as well smoke. You smoke, too, don’t you?’
‘No, but I’ll ask for some. Come by later and get them.’
‘You don’t think it is a bad thing to show kindness to a murderer, do you? Otherwise—’
‘Why is this a question of kindness—’ Shekhar stopped; he had a question on the tip of his tongue that he didn’t want to ask.
‘Why did you stop? You wanted to ask me something—it was why I killed someone, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And on top of that, a woman. You knew that, right?’
‘No.’
‘You asked, so I’ll tell you the whole story. I’ve already told the court everything.’ He stopped and then started again. ‘We own some land in our village—it’s my older brother’s and mine. But my brother doesn’t care for farming, so he left my sister-in-law at home and went to look for work in the city. He found a job and every other month he would send her twenty or twenty-five rupees.
‘But my sister-in-law had other ideas. She told me about one of the neighbours who used to come to ask after my brother; he used to come to see her when I wasn’t there. I had no idea; I learned about it accidentally one day. One evening in September, I told her that I would have to spend the night in the fields. Why? You won’t find it interesting. There was some work in the fields. I ate dinner, took some leftovers and left.
‘It had been raining all day, at any rate, but at night there was a torrential downpour and it even started to hail, so I left my work and went home. When I got home, no one opened the door even after I had knocked for a long time, even after I had shouted for a while. Then I got angry and started banging on the door when my sister-in-law came and opened the door and stood to one side slowly. I saw that neighbour in front of me. His clothes and shoes were dry which meant that he had been there for a long time.’
Ramji went quiet. Then he drew a long breath, ‘Babuji, if you had been in my shoes, what would you have done?’
Shekhar couldn’t give him an answer. He stood there quietly. Ramji started talking. ‘Well, I’ve done what I’ve done. I asked my sister-in-law, “Who is this, why is he here?” She didn’t respond. I asked that man and he didn’t respond either. Then I threatened and asked my sister-in-law if he had been here before. After much threatening, she said, “He has been here many times.” I asked, “Do you love him?” She didn’t respond. I asked the man, and he didn’t respond either. Then I said, “If you both love each other, then you should get married. I won’t stand in your way. I’ll take care of everything that happens. I’ll even explain things to my brother. So tell me, are you ready?” My sister-in-law didn’t say anything. I asked that man, and he said, “Who are you to interfere?”
‘I was getting angry, but I didn’t want to be unjust to my sister-in-law. She wasn’t my sister-in-law any more, but I had to have some respect for the three years she had spent with my brother. I asked again, “Tell me, are you prepared to marry him?” He said, “I’m married with children. Why should I take on this problem?” I asked, “Then why did you even come here?” He said, “She called me over.” It was becoming difficult to contain my rage at his vulgarity. But somehow, I managed to say, “I don’t know about all that. Either the two of you get married tomorrow morning or I’ll do what I need to do.”
‘He threw curses at me. I asked my sister-in-law, “Are you willing? If you are, then I will come to terms with it and drop the issue,” but she still didn’t say anything. Then I saw blood. I cut them both down with an axe.’
He stopped for a while so that he could breathe and see what kind of effect the story had on Shekhar. ‘Then I immediately went to the police station and confessed—after killing my sister-in-law I didn’t feel like staying in the world. A murderer should be killed. Whatever happens next happens!’
There was a long silence. Then Ramji volunteered, ‘Babuji, I won’t ask you whether you think what I did was right or not. I’m not ashamed, and I’ll die well. That’s why I haven’t filed an appeal.’11
Shekhar thought quietly as he went away. After that, they got to know each other quite quickly—Shekhar felt warmly towards this half-wild and completely honourable man.
One day in October, he heard that Ramji’s appeal had been denied and that he would be hanged in four days. He hadn’t filed the appeal but the officials in jail had nevertheless petitioned the high court themselves.
Shekhar was saddened. But it was as though Ramji wasn’t affected at all, as if nothing new had happened.
In the evening, Ramji called for Shekhar, ‘Babu Sahib!’
Shekhar caught hold of the bars and spoke, ‘What is it?’
‘Have you ever seen a hanging?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a writer, aren’t you? You should see everything.’
‘ . . .’
‘Why don’t you ask the warden to let you watch my hanging? That way, I won’t feel alone—otherwise in my last moments all I will have are the faces of the executioners.’
Dumbfounded, Shekhar couldn’t speak. Could he request to see Ramji’s execution!
‘Babuji, why are you quiet? There’s nothing wrong in this—you’re helping out a helpless person. And I will know that I have a friend there when I die.’
Trembling, Shekhar said, ‘All right.’
But he didn’t get permission. When Shekhar
sadly told Ramji, it depressed him, too. He said, ‘Bastard executioners!’ And then he was silent.
That day Shekhar didn’t leave his cell, nor did he say a word. Ramji repeatedly tried to talk to him, but Shekhar couldn’t manage more than, ‘Uh-huh.’ Finally, that evening, Ramji said, ‘Babuji, you aren’t saying anything and you seem sad. Did you get bad news from home? So, here, I will sing something to make you feel better—when will we have another opportunity?’
Shekhar burned with embarrassment.
Ramji sang through half the night. Who knows when Shekhar fell asleep . . .
Another day, too, passed somehow. Night fell, and Ramji began singing again. He became tired somewhere around midnight and said, ‘Babuji, now you sing something. I’m tired. I’ll fall asleep listening to you.’
Shekhar couldn’t sing. But for Ramji he tried to sing something. He wasn’t successful. Ramji teased him sweetly, ‘Babuji, are you singing for me?’ Then Shekhar started telling him stories . . . Some from the Puranas; some from foreign literature; some from things that had happened in his own life . . . Ramji’s ‘uh-huhs’ began to become fainter and then stopped altogether. Shekhar asked the warden and learned that he had fallen asleep.
But Shekhar couldn’t sleep. The night passed on with the rhythm of the jail’s announcements. ‘All is well!’ . . . All of a sudden, Shekhar awoke from his sleep; dawn had broken. The doctor had come to examine Ramji.
‘Doctor, you’re going to hang me anyway, so why the check-up?’
‘Brother, it’s my duty, so I have to do it. You should pray to God—’
The doctor left. As soon as the day broke, the warden, the inspector, the magistrate, the chief warder and the army of guards—all appeared.
Shekhar looked out through the iron bars to see what he could see, and he tried to hear the rest.
Ramji was being searched—his hands were bound—he was being taken outside—
‘Do you have any last words? Do you need to tell anyone anything?’
‘Can I speak to the gentleman next door for two minutes?’
Three seconds later the warden responded, ‘No, I can’t let you do that.’
‘Then let’s go.’
A little fear, a little uneasiness, a little speed . . .
Suddenly at the gate near the courtyard, Ramji spoke, ‘All right, Babuji, we’ll meet again some other time. On the other side—’ A flash of a smile—then the procession moved on.
And Shekhar, tightly gripping the bars, slowly realizes that his grip has slackened, his arms have gone limp, his head is hanging . . .
Six days later, when Shekhar had for the first time considered leaving his cell, something happened that prolonged his nightmare for a few more days. He received a letter from Shashi that said she was in serious trouble, and she prayed to be freed from her life quickly . . . Why, what the trouble was, she hadn’t explained at all; she had left it for the demon of his imagination to provide its own colouration to his nightmare . . .
Shekhar thought, life does stand still in jail! And what was it that had thrown him down and stepped on his throat and said, ‘Me? Standing still? Then look, handle my weight and suffer the wounds of my speed.’ Oh, he couldn’t stand it . . . It couldn’t be borne . . . Life couldn’t be borne . . . Bondage couldn’t be borne . . .
Why couldn’t it be borne? Weak, coward, liar! In front of his eyes, each day, the most insignificant men without any talent, wealth, status, relatives or education faced life and passed, and he, proud, cried that he couldn’t bear it . . . Cowardly hypocrite . . . There is pain . . . There is sympathy . . . What is it about sympathy that lightens life’s burdens or makes one think and be grateful for life? He says goodbye to sympathy and fears life! Soulless . . .
Burning with affection and insult, Shekhar sat up slowly like a crazed bull, lowering his shoulders, ready to clash with the pressure of life . . . He drew a breath through flared nostrils and stomped on the earth as he left his cell to stroll around, meet everyone, and let no one see that life was standing still for him, or rather that it was moving twice as fast . . .
Baba Madansingh was sitting up in the pit, leaning on the wall for support. Shekhar looked at his face once, and the question that came to his lips never left them. Baba’s health had worsened.
Baba didn’t get up, nor did he smile. Shekhar saw that even the skin beneath his hair and beard had become white. It was now only his eyes that had any colour, and today it wasn’t merely colour, they had a light, too—they were on fire . . .
‘You came . . . Where have you been for so long?’
‘I haven’t been myself. My neighbour was hanged.’
‘I haven’t been myself, either, Shekhar. The body is gone, and the mind is really broken.’
‘Why, Baba?’
‘Nothing—weakness! Whenever I get news from the outside, I become depressed.’
‘What kind of news?’
‘Have you read about what happened at Chittagong?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not about the shoot-out that happened, but about what happened afterwards?’
Shekhar had read in the papers that much violence was happening there, many things were being prohibited, and he also read that news from there was being censored and that letters were stopped.
‘And?’
‘I don’t know any more than that.’
‘Shekhar, I’ve heard that the soldiers are doing whatever they want—they beat the villagers repeatedly and force them to salute, the women are raped and . . . and—’ Baba’s throat suddenly seized up and he couldn’t say any more. He stood up in a frenzy . . .
‘Where did you hear this?’
‘I got a letter.’
‘But when there’s no news, how did the letter writer learn any of this?’
‘He didn’t learn—he heard. You want to say that this is a rumour, and that rumours happen all the time, that it’s a lie, that there is no proof, that it is wrong to say anything until we have all the information? I have thought similar things a thousand times! But that’s all stupid. I’m not angry because I have no proof, I’m angry because I don’t have proof. You don’t understand how terrible our situation is, how helpless we are that we can’t investigate these serious allegations; we can’t make any inquiries about the evidence or the conclusions. I’m not saying that the allegations are definitely true. But these allegations are being made, and we don’t have the resources to investigate them. It’s our right to acquire those resources, and we aren’t getting our rights . . .’
Baba came up to the bars. He raised a clenched fist to Shekhar’s face and said, ‘Slavery—absolutely contemptible servitude—if this isn’t the definition, then what is? Not the knowledge of the unpleasant, not faith in the false, slavery is the condition of being unable to discriminate between the true and the false. Slavery is that bondage, that prohibition, that steals our right to know . . .’
He suddenly stopped. ‘I’ve probably said all this before—it’s been a year since I’ve come to this realization.’ He laughed a hollow laugh. ‘Something realized a year ago stings today when it has become a truth, and I’m locked up.’ Baba’s breathing became laboured. He drew a few long breaths and said, ‘Shekhar, Chittagong is a stain on our national reputation. To me, this is the warrant of revolution—it needs pride and so it has to instil pride at the same time—and what is more important than that? We need pride and so we need revolution! Revolution! And I’m locked in chains . . .’
Baba went back to the pit. Drily, he said, ‘Shekhar, you should go. I am not well. I wanted you to see me happy—the world to see me happy—but it still pains me even more than my ego does. That’s what I’m learning today—it’s good that I’m feeling this sharp pain. Go!’
Shekhar went quietly back to his cell, afraid and trembling.
Three days later, in the evening, Baba’s health worsened. The doctor wanted to take him to the hospital, but Baba said, ‘I won’t go for just one day. I have spent
the greatest part of my life in this cell; I won’t go somewhere else now to spend my most important day.’ Had it been anyone else, they would have forced him to go, but nobody had the courage to force Baba. The doctor ordered a guard to stay on duty near him and left; he even came once during the night to check on him.
Shekhar got the news after he was locked in his cell. That’s when he discovered just how respected Baba was in jail. He had never seen the jail as silent as he had that night—news of Baba’s illness had spread to every corner of the jail, and even the night watchman’s call of ‘All is well’ was quieter than usual.
‘For just one day’ . . . ‘most important day’ . . . truly? Shekhar felt a strong desire to pray rise up inside him . . .
In the morning, the cell was empty.
When the cells were opened, Baba’s body had already been moved. When Shekhar noticed that the cells were opened later than usual, he asked the warden, ‘Is someone being hanged today?’ Because it was on such days that the cells were opened late.
‘No—’ The warden hesitated and stopped.
‘Then?’ and then suddenly glimpsing the light through his fear, ‘Is Baba . . .’
The warden didn’t answer.
Shekhar ran to Baba’s cell like a devotee running to a temple that has been devastated by an earthquake . . .
Someone was speaking, ‘He got up in the night and cried for an hour. He used the wall to help him stand up and then went and lay down and said, “Let’s go now!” That’s all.’
It was the guard who had been posted for the night. Restlessly Shekhar went inside the cell. Yes, he had guessed right, there was a new aphorism written in an unsteady hand on the wall . . .
Shekhar Page 40
