by Ram Govardhan
Is the end of this journey the beginning of the other? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be the greatest escape he would have ever enjoyed? Isn’t David going to swing from the hangman’s noose within a day? As the halter tightens, aren’t his wriggles and exertions going to fall flat before life gives up? His body, already lifeless, after the mandatory minutes, would go taut and, when they remove the hood, untie hands, legs and set them free, will he still be he or it? Like any other inanimate thing, isn’t David more likely to be called it than he? And, isn’t our language profuse enough to call it variously: body, dead body, stiff, corpse, carcass, and cadaver? And, in well-mannered circles, remains?
Why should he bother about semantics? Or why should he worry about the disgraceful end of this birth? Doesn’t every journey of every life on earth end in sad or bad enough circumstances? Even when someone has led an adequately solemn life, aren’t the offspring sufficiently capable of rendering the old man’s death scandalous?
But, first of all, why is he so inquisitive about the hereafter? Hasn’t he shrugged off suggestions of afterlife all his life? Is the dread of death triggering all sorts of hopes to cling on to something to somehow make it even if it is a mere possibility? Wasn’t he tremendously successful in an impoverished nation where, for everyone who made it, thousands are left behind? If that feat was abundantly phenomenal, what’s wrong in expecting another miracle when the gallows are in your face?
Why is he so fascinated with the moments between the beginning of hanging and the final gasp? Is there a ring of truth to the belief that, just before the finality of death, a sort of ‘life review’ blazes through mind in which life-changing moments flash in quick succession? Of course this journey has gone horribly wrong, but, armed with such priceless hindsight, with a bit of luck, can’t he set his next one right?
Or why is he suddenly so seized of the so-called eternal journey of the soul? Even if he has read enough of Russell, given the circumstances, isn’t keeping sanguine hopes alive the way forward? Is it true that a lifeless body is soulless too? Can soul exist after brain, or its alter ego, mind, had perished? If souls can hang in thin air, why on earth would they make our bodies their home? And, if there is indeed an afterlife, how do we deal with it when we are no more? Is there a mystic who can unravel the highway to the wondrous spirit world? Has anyone savoured the blissful realm of afterlife? Can we access the hereafter through yogic reflection or other meditative techniques that are on discounted sale? Has anyone accessed afterlife while being alive, or is it accessible only to the dead and gone? If yes, wouldn’t they need some sort of intelligent contraption like brain to log in? But who on earth is allowed to take one’s brain with him after he has kicked the bucket?
Hasn’t David treasured his body and kept it so fit right from his adolescence by subjecting it to all sorts of slimnastics, aerobics, parallel bars, and calisthenics? If afterlife turns out to be a life without this body, however sweet the next world may be, how could he embrace it? Wasn’t he lucky enough to have been born to such gorgeous parents, inheriting such a handsome body? Why would he even entertain thoughts of entering an ugly body in next life? Or why should he accept an afterlife that is formless? How can you relish the pleasures of the world without a physical form to receive them? If it’s really going to be a formless existence, wouldn’t he wish to end the whole cycle of life and consciousness here and now?
If perishing is an inescapable law of nature, why is soul an exception? And if soul is material and tangible enough to measure and, as the western physician claimed, if it indeed weighs 21 grams, where does it reside in the human body? Or, are the 21 grams distributed evenly undetectably throughout the frame despite being a quantifiable material?
Or is it going to be the factual end of journey, is it going to be the eternal oblivion where death is the truest end of life and consciousness? Or will it be the infernal hell, the kingdom of Hades, for him to live among the devils and condemned spirits? Or, since he was born in India, is afterlife nothing but a reward and punishment system that goes by Chitragupta’s database?
On the eve of hanging day, does it matter as to who appropriates which of his acres, estates and paddy-fields that he had passionately accumulated? Or which of his wives usurps which of his favourite farmhouses? Or which of his children cursed him to no end? Or which of his mistresses prayed for his long life even after knowing about him? Or which of his employees swindle from which of his companies?
Is he a fool to expect his wives and children to travel a thousand miles to take his body? Hasn’t he ruined their lives irreparably? Haven’t they abandoned him? Or was it he? Either way, hasn’t it been over five years since they saw him last? Why should they forgive him now, or posthumously, even if he has made their lives secure? Isn’t dignity more precious than all the wherewithal he has bequeathed? Why should he boil if all of them discard his surname despite his blood in their veins? Hasn’t someone asked what’s in a name? He asks, what’s in a surname?
Does it really matter if his handsome body was dissected for the medicos to know how chain smoking clogs up the tubes? Or how loss of cellular immunity causes irreversible havoc? Or how the envenomed malignancy travels through the body, dismembering limbs, causing recurrent upper respiratory tract infections, and spreading the extent of tuberculosis, toxoplasmosis of brain, candidiasis of trachea, and esophagus?
What’s wrong in meeting the few visitors waiting to have one last glimpse of him? From the squares of mesh that separates the convicts and visitors, given his failing eyes, can he see them clearly?
Why should he be annoyed if the whore he frequented is first in the queue to see him just a day before he goes to the gallows? Should he cry when she laments her gratitude for gifting a swanky bungalow in the heart of the town? Or should he thank her for bringing Bill Withers, Tracy Chapman and Santana’s albums even if it’s his last day on earth? What is the point of her tears? His tears? And what if she says she will end this journey and join him in heaven a little later? How charitable is it of her to expect David to be in heaven? The point is, isn’t she alluding to the next world?
Isn’t the woman standing behind the whore very familiar? Is she the woman whose family of four was subjected to the ‘rarest of rare’ crime that he committed in a fit of rage? Why is she here? Does she really wants to see someone who had wiped out the whole of her family? Wasn’t she behind the family lawyers to push the case to higher and higher courts, up to the highest one? And weren’t they after him until execution was pronounced? Or, has she come to spit on him one last time?
“How can I forget what you did to my family? But I am forgiving you,” she said, “Will you pardon me for all the curses I called upon you?”
Isn’t she a great soul to have travelled all the way just to forgive him? Weren’t her words benevolent enough to move seasoned criminals? Can anyone be more gracious? And will he not be a fool not to believe her even it was for a day? Or night?
Isn’t such a graceful gesture, a good enough idea to catch few hours of wholesome sleep even though it is the last night of this journey?
How courteous are the guards who woke him up, gave him a fresh set of clothes, and asked him to have a bath? Aren’t they wasting new clothes just before hanging him? How polite are they in wee hours while serving him tea, breakfast, and tea again? How merciful of the jailer to have granted him a piece of paper and pen? Or, was the officer so sure that David will never use the pen to kill himself?
He has a piece of paper to write and the right of last wish; isn’t this having and eating it too in prison parlance?
An hour after daybreak, the jailer wondered why David wrote ‘Afterlife? There must be one’ on the piece of paper? Why did he cry ‘Afterlife’ as his last wish? Is there a way to know without journeying to meet David in the next world?
Ram Govardhan’s first novel, Rough with the Smooth, was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize, The Economist-Crossword 2011 Award and published by Leadstart Publishing, Mumbai. His short stories have appeared in Asian Cha, Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore, Muse India, Asia Writes, Open Road Review, Cerebration, Spark and several other Asian and African literary journals. He lives, works in Chennai, India. Email: ram.govardhan@ymail.com
