Original Author: Ramprasad Singh

(A freedom-fighter, a noted writer and editor, Ramprasad Singh (1904-1985) was born at Seepurapatana under Mahanga P.S. in Cuttack District. He has written more than 13 fictions and many short stories. Associated with Matrubhumi, he was its editor for a long time and also worked as PRO under Govt of Odisha from 1952 to 1962. He died on 23.10.1985)

The night was dark. It was drizzling. The wind was hissing. From behind the leaves of a banyan tree on the frontage of the scaffold-cell inside the Cuttack Prison, a fire-fly appeared glowering intermittently like the looming eyes of a phantom. In the sward of the scaffold platform, two stridulating grasshoppers were chaotic.

Locking the Number-Keyboard fixed on the wall, the bell-Jamadar returned from the other end. Hung by a thong from his shoulder, a bell resonated in regular notes. He was carrying a lantern in hand; its light was mapping out a devil’s picture of him on the wall.

At one side of the veranda of the scaffold-cell another warder was standing with a lantern in hand. As soon as he saw the Jamadar approaching, taking two strides forward he affirmed voluntarily –

“Huzur, everything is fine.”

The Jamadar raised his lantern. As soon as the light trailed into the cell, he asked, “What the criminal was up to?”

Supporting the iron-railings of the cell-gate, the criminal was standing. Prison attires had enhanced his natural mien; he had stopped shaving from the day the order of execution was upheld and his moustache had grown about four-finger length. From behind his moustache and below his lustrous temple his two sharp and penetrating eyes were visible.

The lantern’s light had gleamed the criminal partially luminous, making him appear a person belonging to a domain that was half-light and half-dark. Hidden in Jamadar’s bosom under his uniform, a ruthless sigh came out. “Hum” he muttered, as in soliloquy.

As the Jamadar started walking, his shadow started walking on the wall outside the scaffold-cell as well, with his bell resonating. Taking a turn, he proceeded towards the Prison Hospital.

The scaffold was on the way. Everything seemed perfect. No one knew how many people it had cuddled in death’s fold, how many it had deported to the other world, a world unknowable to anyone; but how perseverant was the law to banish men to that unseen land! Was it foolishness? If at all it was, it was then a monument, a ferocious demon and was an embodiment of that foolishness!

Yes, the Jamadar was heading for the Hospital. The scaffold was on the way. It was his responsibility to check its perfectness because the execution would be carried out as soon as it was morning. It was he who was to certify if the noose was perfect or not, if cream and ripe bananas were rubbed perfectly on it or not, and if sand-bag, more than the weight of the criminal, was tested or not! Since he was a human being, it was his responsibility to keep the scaffold impeccably in order to kill a human being like him.

Going closer to the scaffold, the Jamadar raised his lantern to examine it; but could not look at the three rafters. An icy wave sizzled through his spine; a horror stirred him. He felt that the grass that grew on the sward closer to the scaffold platform was, as if, pointed like the iron-nails that butted his feet, piercing the robust shoes he had worn. At a fox trot, he jumped to the road made of chips, and headed straight for the Hospital.

The Hospital warder, who was also a watchman, was an oldster. He asked in Hindi, “Jamadar Saheb! Mizaz thhik hai na?” “Are you fine?”

Wiping his perspiring face with his left-hand shirt sleeve, he muttered faintly, “Hum.”

(2)

All that belonged to him – his land, plough, bullocks and, above all, his house – was auctioned. How Jaga Padhan would survive? He left for Kolkata.

All this he had lost within two years of his marriage.

His decrepit mother had left for the heavenly abode after she had solemnized his marriage. She was the only one who had survived to be looked after by him. What more was there to feel about? But there was another one who was also to be cared for. Had she not dreams? Fie to his manhood if he, being the husband, was unfit to care for her wishes! But with what means?

Soon after Haara’s arrival as a newlywed, the zamindar Balaram Santra’s covetous eyes fell on her. Loads of vegetables were delivered at his home followed by sarees, as and when Balaram desired. When commodities had started to arrive at his home involuntarily upon Haara’s arrival as a newlywed, Jaga, in a nutshell, started regarding her as an embodiment of goddess Lakshmi.

But Haara was overwrought. The stream of her thought flowed in a different way. As she went to the pond for bath, the zamindar’s eyes trailed behind her. No doubt, she was beautiful; but was she more beautiful than the zamindar’s wife? She was a wife of a farm labourer; but what about the zamindar’s wife who was wealthy?

One day, Jaga had gone to plough his land. Haara was busy cooking green leaves and two ridge-gourds. An old maid-servant of the zamindar came at this time.

After returning home, Jaga tethered the bullocks in the cow-shed and finished his lunch. Haara narrated the day’s incident to him.

Next day morning, the maid-servant brought a saree from the zamindar’s home. Jaga was sitting on the doorstep. In anger, his face was scarlet. Snatching the saree away from the old maid’s hand and throwing it on the ground, he trampled it under his feet. Picking it up again and handing it over to the servant he said, “Give it to your master.”

Hardly within six months and six fortnights of the incident, all his belongings were auctioned. Jaga had to leave for Kolkata.

(3)

Jaga was awarded with the capital punishment. Was there any alternative to it for killing the zamindar? It was last night of his life. He was told that he would be executed at cock crow.

Once awarded with capital punishment, the criminal cannot come out of the scaffold cell. Before going to the scaffold platform, he cannot see the clear sky; it was mandatory for him to stay in that small, suffocating cell where he would take his bath, eat and sleep.

A warder would always keep an ineluctable watch on him from outside. Until executed, he cannot escape from the eyes of the ever watchful law. He would die; but, before death, he was altogether a different entity; he had no relation with the outside world. What relation there could be for a kid with the outside world, who was offered as a sacral to a stone termagant? Was there anything more worthwhile for him than to drain his blood to quench the thirst of devilish onlookers?

It pertained to the matters of law – was it not? Law can execute men, kill them; but can all the powers of law of the world, if put together, create a man – let alone its power to create a live limb?  What was the use of such a law? Who would find out its justification? Whoever would endeavour to find it out was sure to fall through the red eyes of law!

Jaga was confined to the cell. Every limb of law was maneuvered to kill him. He was a poor farmer. He did not understand law. How would he have felt evoked to respect it like a law-abiding citizen? Simply he had understood that he would court death as soon as it was cock crow.

Before evening and as per the law, a pundit came to recite to him the Bhagavat and Hari’s name. For this job the pundit was getting his fees regularly from the Prison administration. Jaga made him return. When an indubitable truth of life was destined to sink in death, why should he have taken shelter of falsehood by pledging himself to the fleeting notions about dharma, god and the next life? With his hands folded, he asked the pundit, “Why should I spend the last day of my life in deception when god and dharma are protected in the hands of the wealthy zamindar? What would remain of me after death that I’d listen to Hari’s name?”

Carrying his books, the pundit departed. To recite the Bhagavat was his business. Unlike the other men of business, he was also adept in the true significance of dharma as narrated in books. It was simply a deception, a big falsehood – a big fraud. Whether did he confess it openly or not, he was aware of its false applicability in daily life which, at least, should not be doubted.

(4)

Revisiting the cell, the bell-Jamadar had left. The rain had stopped; but the dark clouds had yet enshrouded the sky.

The last hour of the last night came for Jaga. Since evening, he had a sound sleep under a blanket. Getting up around the second quarter of the night, he had stood beholding the window rails looking at the beclouded sky.

Unlike the other days the warder, who joined the next shift, came to the window and asked, “Jaga, haven’t you slept?”

“No” Jaga replied gravely.

Looking back, the warder found his eyes afire. Stepping two strides back, he stood as if hypnotised.

“Jamadar! Will you listen?” Jaga asked. “It’s my last night. I shall tell everything. Will you listen?”

The warder was dumbfounded. He had seen many criminals awarded with capital punishment. At the last hour, some had cried their hearts out; some had sat mute; some went mad but Jaga was not that stuff. He was different. Bewildered, the warder kept looking.

“Will you listen?” Jaga repeated. “My Haara was extremely beautiful. Do beautiful wives suit our kind of poor families? It seldom matters if she was beautiful, but why did she marry me?”

Taking shape of an image, a big question appeared before his eyes. Once again incandescent, his eyes became slowly smoky. Two drops of tears rolled out of it. Falling silent for some time and wiping his eyes with the tail of his prison kurta, he said, “She loved me dearly. On the days when there would be no rice to eat, she’d feed me first with whatever little she would have. ‘I’ve eaten’ she’d say, remaining without food.”

Jaga could not proceed further. His voice was cracking.

Suddenly a lightening passed through him. In anger, he uttered gravely, “A badmash! A saitan!”

As if, his livid eyes emitted sparks! He had clutched the iron railings with such a force that his finger bones were prominently visible in the lantern’s glow.

Being calm after sometime and looking at the clouded sky lugubriously, he went on, “I lost my land and all that I had. I got no food to eat. Haara was emaciated. Looking at her, I felt something rocky stuff stiffening me. For a living, I left for Kolkata. Requesting for fifteen days leave to the work-sardar and borrowing twenty rupees from him, I came to village to meet Haara. Reaching there, I found people gathering at the pond as if it was a market place. Like a freshly bloomed lily, Haara’s dead body was lying at the pond’s side. Later, I gathered that she had died of drowning since the previous night.”

Again he fell silent; again two drops of tears streamed out his eyes.

“I went home. Sir, it was a vague home. Impassion ruled its emptiness. A friend of mine visited me and told me that the zamindar had sneaked into my home at night and Haara, on the same night, committed suicide by jumping into the pond. I couldn’t bear the rage of fire that seized me.

“My friend went to his home to fetch me a handful of flattened rice. Picking up a chopper in hand, I headed towards the corn field. There was a screw-pine hedge on a piece of waste land. The zamindar was coming from the other side. Scuttling towards him, I struck a lethal blow on his sconce and chopped it off into two halves. Hot blood splashed my chest, face and hand.”

A shadow of satisfaction adumbrated his face.

“The police arrested me” he drawled. “The case went on. The zamindar died, but his wife was alive. The government Counsellor fought his best for my execution. Pumped with sufficient money by the zamindar’s wife, another advocate helped the Counsellor. I’m a poor man; how I’d have got money to pay for the advocate fees? The proclamation was made that I’d be executed. This, in a way, is however good.”

Again he fell silent. A glow of light, by then, piercing the dark clouds, had embellished the eastern sky giving vent to a serene morning. The morning star was efflorescing from beyond the enshrouded sky.

Looking at the sight affectedly, Jaga uttered, “Its good. But I’m unable to understand what my offence was? I’ve killed. Yes, I’ve killed the zamindar. He was a tyrant. He killed Haara. I’m poor; I’m a farmer. Does it mean that a woman like Haara should not have adorned my house? Why then he killed her? He killed her. I killed him. What offence did I commit by killing him then? Again I ask with my ear-splitting voice – where lies my offence that I’m awarded with death sentence?”

Accompanied by five other warders, the Head Jamadar reached the cell-door. The cell was unlocked.

Four persons strained Jaga’s hands to the back to fetter it. “Why do you fetter me?” Jaga asked. “Am I afraid to die? After all, what is left for me in this world that I’d feel feared for my life? Brother, I’m a poor man; a farmer. I’ve fought against hunger and starvation and have fought against all odds. Death is an everyday companion to us, rather very close! Am I rich, am I a zamindar that I should be alarmed of death?”

Did anybody listen to him? Before execution, his limbs would be tied; it was the law. Accordingly, he was tied.

(5)

A fettered Jaga was forced to stand on the scaffold plank. The gaol authorities, the authorities of the Royal Government, the witnesses and the Police stood in a row in front of him.

The order was read. The Jamadar proceeded to cover Jaga’s face with a black mask.

But looking at Jaga’s face, he stepped back timidly. His two retinas seemed glowing like the filament of an electric bulb.

At the far horizon, the morning star was yet seemed efflorescing. “Wait a moment” Jaga said, looking at the amazing sight. “Let me finally see the star.”

“Time ho gaya” “It’s time” the Jamadar’s scoff was heard.

The black mask was put on. The noose was put on Jaga’s neck. The Prison Superintendent signaled. With a thud, the scaffold plank dropped. Before coming to a halt, the rope shook two or four times from the scaffold hollow to the rafters. Everything had then come to an end.