Punishment: Page 3

CHAPTER III

Chhidam had instructed his wife to tell the police, "My sister-in-law had rushed at me with a fish knife. I picked up the cleaver to protect myself but can't say how it suddenly struck her." Ramlochan had thought this up; he had also instructed Chhidam about the proof and articles he would have to show in support of the statement.

The police came and started investigations. It became rooted in the minds of the villagers that it was Chandara who had killed her elder sister-in-law; all the witnesses made statements to this effect.

When the police questioned Chandara, she said, "Yes, I have killed her."

"Why did you kill her?"

"I could not stand her."

"Was there a quarrel?"

"No."

"Did she hit you first?"

"No."

"Did she ill-treat you?"

"No."

Her replies shocked everyone.

Chhidam was overcome with anxiety. He said, "She is not telling the truth. The elder sister-in-law first …"

The inspector told him to shut up. Every time she was questioned, Chandara stuck to her statement. She denied that her elder sister-in-law had attacked her first.

One does not get to see a more stubborn girl. Every muscle in her body was straining to go to the gallows; it was impossible to hold her back. What kind of desperate pride was this! In her mind, Chandara was telling her husband, "I am leaving you and surrendering my youth to the gallows; my last tie in this life will be with it."

Held as a prisoner, Chandara, like an innocent petty agog curious village bride, left her home forever and went away along the ever-familiar village path through the marketplace, by the ghat, past the Majumdars' house, post-office, schoolhouse, and under the gaze of all the acquaintances, with a lasting imprint of stigma. A bunch of boys followed her, and the village girls - her friends, and companions - peeked from the parting of their veils, from their doors, and from behind trees and shuddered with shame, contempt, and fear as the police led Chandara away.

Chandara confessed to the crime before the deputy magistrate. There were no allusions in her statements about the elder sister-in-law ill-treating her in any manner.

But that day, Chhidam went into the witness box and started crying. "Oh my lordship, my wife is innocent," he said with folded hands. The magistrate rebuked him and, checking his outburst, began questioning him. Chhidam told the truth and related the incidents as they had occurred.

The magistrate did not believe a word of what Chhidam said. It was because the primary reliable witness, Ramlochan, had testified, "I had reached the scene of the crime almost immediately after the murder. The witness, Chhidam, told me everything and pleaded with me to suggest some way to save his wife. I did not say anything. The witness asked me, 'If I say my elder brother demanded food but did not get any, so he killed his wife in anger. Will that save my wife?' I told him, 'Be careful, scoundrel, don't say a single untruthful word in the court – there can be no greater sin than telling a lie.'"

Ramlochan had made up quite a few stories at first to save Chandara. But when he saw that she was acting stubborn, he thought, "Oh my, I could be held for perjury. I had better say only that much that I know, nothing more." So, Ramlochan said what he knew and did not hesitate to exaggerate a bit.

The deputy magistrate transferred the case to the sessions court.

Meanwhile, all the worldly affairs — farming, buying and selling, and sobbing and laughing — continued as usual. And, like all other previous years, the monsoon rains fell over the paddy fields ceaselessly.

The police brought the accused and the witnesses to the court. Many people sat in front of the Munsif Court waiting for the hearing of their own cases. A lawyer has arrived from Kolkata to argue a case about the ownership of a section of boggy land behind a cookhouse; as many as 39 witnesses are present on behalf of the plaintiff. Hundreds of people have come to the court with great expectations to settle their hair-splitting land revenue claims; they think their cases are the most important in the world and nothing else matters. Chhidam is staring out of a window at this everyday busy life; everything is like a dream to him. A cuckoo, perched in a banyan tree in the court compound, is calling out from time to time — the cuckoos don't care for courts and the law.

Chandara told the judge, "Oh sir, how many times should I repeat the same thing!"

The judge tried to explain, "Do you know what is the punishment for the crime that you have confessed?"

Chandara said, "No."

The judge said, "The punishment is death."

Chandara said, "Oh sir, I fall at your feet and beg you to give me that punishment. Do as you please; I can't bear this any longer."

When Chhidam was called to the witness stand, Chandara turned her face away from him.

The judge told her, "Look at the witness in the face; how is he related to you?"

Chandara covered her face with her hands and said, "He is my husband."

"Doesn't he love you?"

"Ah! He loves me very much."

"Don't you love him?"

"I love him very much."

When Chhidam was questioned, he said, "I am the murderer."

"Why did you kill your sister-in-law?"

"I asked for food, but sister-in-law did not give me any."

Dukhiram fainted when he was summoned to stand as a witness. After recovering from the faint, he said, "Sir, I killed my wife."

"Why?"

"I asked for food, but she did not give me."

The judge, after questioning them extensively and after hearing the other witnesses, was left with no doubt in his mind that the two brothers were trying to take the blame on themselves because they wanted to save the woman from their family the disgrace of hanging. Chandara had remained firm on her statement. From the police to the sessions court, she had said the same thing and not altered her statement even a little bit. Two lawyers had voluntarily argued on her behalf and tried their best to save her from the death sentence, but Chandara had defeated their efforts.

The day when a small very young dark girl left behind her dolls in her father's home and came with her round face to her in-laws' house, who among those present on the wedding night could have imagined that things would come to such a pass! Her father had died a contented man, thinking, "Whatever happens, I have at least provided a good home to my daughter."

In the jail, a few days before the execution, a kind-hearted civil surgeon asked her, "Do you wish to see anyone?"

Chandara said, "I would like to see my mother once."

The doctor said, "Your husband wants to meet you; shall I bring him here?"

Chandara said, "My death!"

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