I Am an Executioner (11 page)

But at any rate, no: those eyes staring at me from that newspaper, familiar though they seemed, were not—could not be—those of R. It was with regret that I came to this conclusion, for what a solace it would have been to know that R. had achieved such a success. How elating to imagine that those blurred and garbled markings—not just those markings, but my whole life,
the world—had unknotted into crisp and legible clarity, full of happy meaning! What an amazement to consider that the boy had been purposeful all along, and his scribblings had only lacked that audience capable of understanding them. A pity: our R. was no genius but a madman, at whose center were not the secret keys to mathematics but a garble of nothingness.

No, this was not R., I told myself. But then why did I find myself inquiring into the cost of a passage to America? Why did I secretly sell a necklace from my wife’s wedding trousseau? Why did I need cash on hand, if not to purchase a ticket? I had never, before that time, seen the great deck of a cruising ship, nor the wild, deep, transforming ocean, nor the gray towers of cold and sunless Boston. Why, then, did I picture these things as feverishly as if they were my destiny?

(… Why indeed? Was it he in the photograph, or was it not? Did I travel to America and meet him there, or did I stay in India, to father some child, who authored another, who created a third, who perchance gave birth to you? What is it, Rajesh? You hack, you tyrant: Don’t leave off the story here, blame you! Conclude it!)

I AM AN EXECUTIONER. TELL ME
,
is it disgusting? Something too shameful? When I am engaging in a practice of useful caring benefits, on your behalf and with your monies? Short times ago when freshly married, I brought home my new wife, Margaret. Prior to our wedding day, Margaret and I had met only in the computer, where we were enjoying delightful interchanges. But when she realized of my profession, she became so angry: “You dupe! You ape! You trickster! You foul and dirty person! I never would have agreed to marriage had I known!” Nose-jellies meantime were squirting from her nose.

In our small and famous country, I am Chief Executioner. In fact, Only Executioner. Is it a small post? A foul and dirty post? An ape’s post? I could not meet Margaret’s bloodflushed eyes and tearglistening face, so I aimed my eyes to the cockroach in the roomcorner. “Quite plainly I told you,” I told her. “I am civil service member, rank four, grade seven, serving in Ministry of Justices, Punishments, Appeals, and Probations some fifteen years, making such-and-such monies per annum, including pensions and associated benefits. It is tricky maneuvers to catch a wife at my age, also being one time divorced, but please don’t call me a liar.
Life of truth is its own reward
, my papa always
he told me. Even your mummy-daddy were smiling to hear of my job. To be frank, your mummy-daddy were most eager to marry you off, using wordings for you like ‘winter chicken’ and ‘Christmas cake in the month of January,’ to which I personally took exception. For you to this point go on complaining, dear Margaret, when you are perhaps occupying no such position, and after everything already is good and settled and nothing to be done, is moot, silly, and not at all fair. Wipe.” I stretched to her my kerchief for her nose-jellies.

“Pah!” she spat, spanking down the kerchief.

May I speak frankly? In those moments, the chiefest goal of my mind had been to make the marriage totally official, come what may. I was paining very much to do it. So long it was since I had a wife! (Or anything of that nature.) I tried to change away the subject of my job. I brought my eyes to face-to-face her. To my lips, I yanked up a smile. “Margaret, you are such a plump and pretty bride,” I told, holding toward her the imaginary mirror of my palm. “Always brides are sad on the wedding night. It is so charming in its way, and not at all unusual. You are only missing mummy-daddy. And maybe you are little wary regarding the supermysterious duties and requirements of the wifehood. I assure you, dear Margaret, it is only so much pleasure there. Softest and darkest of the pleasures. Do you like chocolates? Do you like sweet curds? Wifely duties are like that only. Come on. Let us retire now to bedroom, and I will show to you. To start us up, will you demonstrate some of your athletics, calisthenics?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked to me.

“In your computer profile, you wrote up you are enjoying such exercises daily?”

“Pah!” Margaret spat again. She ran into the bedroom (my bedroom) and bolted up the door. The doorslamming sent Catty to scurry under the sofa, leaving me solo in the room. Still there was a smile in my face, for what purposes anymore I did not
know it, so I wiped it off. I thought: She is not very much a shy and blushing bride, my Margaret, nor is she on the saucy side. She is bolder than I imagined, and not at all demure. But only so much time could I give to such a pang and a heartache, because next day it was my serious program to care for a new prisoner.

A new prisoner in the death row always brings excitement. Although it means lot of work and challenging duties, whatever said and done, those chaps are often the chiefest friends of me. So after the big crash-crash of Margaret’s distressful objections, I was eager for a return to the comfortable death row, even though the new prisoner was so unusual, a young girl and very quiet.

I woke up early next day, night’s darknesses remaining everywhere. I had contented himself with sofa-sleeping, and wearing only yesterday’s clothings, such was the difficulty imposed on me by my Margaret. Catty only waked to care me, ruffling my leg in little tippy steps. Margaret I could hear making some rustlings in the bedroom. I cut the bits of chicken and feeded it to Catty and was off. By 5:00 a.m., already I was in the prison. I clicked the lights in the death row, and swept nicely. That girl was the only prisoner there. When I reached with my broom of her cellroom, I stopped and looked on her.

Normally in the life, people always marvel how I am maintaining cheerful demeanors and positive outlooks despite what they are perceiving as disgusting and upsetting responsibilities called upon me by my duties. For example, just now a little girl sat in the floor of her cellroom instead of the cot there. She was scratching the nose-crusties and itching the short hairs, gazing round with bewildery looks. Normally she oughted to be in the schoolhouse studying quietly, or picking flowers under the sunshine rays and playing hopscotch games with her mummy-daddy-friends. She had none of the eye twitchings or evil grimacings like sometimes
persons of guilty conscience will demonstrate. It was very odd the situation, and true it made me to fill my head with thoughts.

When first this girl had arrived in here, she dragged along the heavy chains. The guards on either side was lifting her up by the arms, and beneath the jute-cloth frock, her little feets was not even touching the ground. I myself looked to Warden with wonder. My eyes was asking: This is like a big and serious criminal? For the death row? But Warden never explained to me. He only slapped me the back of my cranium. “Look strong. Are you become a woman? A dog ate all your testicles? If you show fear, she will be walking on top of you.”

So I had only to execution that simple girl some days hence, no questions could be asked. But did this lead me to conscience-pangs and depressions? Nothing could be further off from true. I reminded to myself: If the deathrow prison is a good place for me to work my days, then it must be a good place for little girls to stay, isn’t it so? Even when fate will happen shortly, life is the life, whether in prison cells or sunshiny hillsides, and I provide the good careful honest execution and it’s a good thing for all the concerned. I tell no lies, I am the good friend to them, and sometimes they are even thanking me.

Not many people are capable of pursuing such unpleasant work day after day with alacrity
. (I am reading now from my semiannual psychologic review paper issued by Ministry office.)
Although his tone and manner are frequently disturbing, he does not demonstrate visible or dangerous indications of stress
. How happy am I each time to read this: that some higher-ups had recognized that for me, executioner is a service and a calling, if not one of the higher of the callings, then certainly one of the humbler of the callings, but a calling all the same. On the top of which, it is the only calling for which I am qualified and also providing sufficient remunerations. It is in this way only, and with such attitudes, that I consider it and pursue it.

So, as I pushed the mop besideways that girl’s cellroom, I
showed the shiny smile with good alacrity, displaying nil and zero indications of alarming distressfulness. I rested the mop against the wall and put my hands on the cellroom bars.

“Remind me of your name, little one?” I asked, smilingly. She looked up to me like I am a Frankenstein standing there, then crouched off away from me.

“Don’t be scaredy. Is this your first time in our capital city? Did you come from some country place? What an excitement!”

Still she sat all silencey. I wondered, what to tell? Should I mention of one special fact, which for some people it is upsetting (my wife) and for others they never believe it until they see it happening to them? I gave a try:

“Little girl, you are wondering who am I? I am not only prison sweeper. I am going to execution you. But don’t worry your head: I am not a rough fellow. I treats my prisoners nicely, if only you could ask of them. Chummy was my last one before you. He was sad and weepy on the last days, but I sat inside there and held his hand like the papa. Sometimes Chummy could be a hard fellow with me, but on the last days he came so emotiony. I asked him, why you don’t allow me to call the priest and so on? Many prisoners find a comfortable thing in that. I asked him, is there anything I can do for you, any messages I can convey to friends and so on? I wanted only to care him. He said, only thing to do is, you don’t execute me. Even while he asked it he was clinging of my hand. Of course, you can look at it as, who else is he going to cling the hand of? I am the only fellow there. Anyway, I said, my good friend Chummy, I am asking you seriously, so don’t funny me. You know what he replied? He said, blast you, you goddamned bastard, go to hell, or something like that and so on. Can you imagine it? After all I have done him. But did he let go of my hand? No. I had to struggle to unsqueeze my hand from him.”

I finished my talking and waited that girl to reply me something, but only quietness came from her face. So I continued
my talking: “Don’t worry, lot of people behave unhappy first time they arrive in here, even the big-time criminals. New place always means difficulty. I myself remember when Papa was gone and Mummy was all by her scaredy and she took us to the new town; I went first time to the schoolhouse and how vomitty I felt when master he scolded me and no friends was there because nobody would friendly me. I played only with my brother-sister, I acted to them the care-for. Why it falls to me, to be the know-person, to be the care-for? So be it, I won’t complain. Anyhow, maybe you don’t understand English, you are the poor uneducated country girl. You need some time to accustomize. Sit there, relax yourself comfortable. Nobody will bother you very much.” Then I smiled her and waved her goodbye.

When I got to home that day, I was little nervous of my new wife, but Margaret already had unlocked the bedroom door. It lightened me big-time. I entered inside to wash up my face and change my clothing. Margaret satted herself quietly on one side of the bed, staring there as if something very interesting in the wall, preventing her gaze away from me her husband. In the mirror, I could not stop my eyes from adoring her rounded bottoms making the big double dimple in the mattress. I wanted only and immediately to take myself up with her, but I had learned from many years back in the first marriage that this is the bad approach when it comes to strategy.

After first wife had left me, I tried to maintain practice by visiting to the friendly house. I liked that house because the girls there was friendly and never minded what was my profession. Even they asked it, still all they did was to friendly me, or flicker the eyelash and say ooh-wah-you-scare-me-you-big-strong-muscleboy, and if they cried or acted real-life scaredy or had bad tempers then Madam would punish them.

But one time there had been a bad happening in the friendly house. Madam had a new lady, one short plumpy girl with whom I liked to do squinchy-squinchy. She had the big mouth,
so Madam all the time was chiding her. “Large stupid fatso,” that girl called to me, making other tongue-droppings, finding herself very funny, even though she was the more fatter one than me. I took it in a stride, so long as she did friendly to me. But one time some new man came there, he didn’t like it none her nasty stupid name-calls, that reason alone he beated her up good. Afterward the man was sleeping, that bruised-up bleeding girl took Madam’s kitchen knife and stabbed him everywhere. Why she did like that? Why she didn’t leave that place or ask Madam, kindly tell this man don’t beat me? Any case, she stabbed him to the death, bloodied up whole of the room, the coppers they taked her away, time came to pass, judge and juried, she showed up in my death row! How happy I was to see a friendly person in the death row, who had been known to me in the good-times-gone-by. But it was not like that to be. In the death row, she was always sour of mood, her tongue was pouty, she would not friendly to me or look my face in the eye, or even call me as “fatso” or other funny wordnames. Her whole liveliness had gone her, making my feelings also to go down. By the time I hanged her, I felt even some relief. At the execution time, Madam and some friendly-house ladies visited the audience chambers, but they did not wave me hello. Could it be they didn’t recognize me none behind my execution mask? That was my first bad warning signal.

Time came to pass, next time I went to the friendly house no one would friendly to me no more! They wouldn’t take my monies, Madam never smiled my face and instead told me to flee out of there before she asked her big bruisy to bruise me.