The Last Stage

By Shankhoneel Ghosh

The stage was set. I stood on it, with a noose wrapped around my neck, in a waiting full of suspense. My hands and feet were uncomfortably secured by plastic ties at the wrists and ankles. A black bag-like cloth covered my head, through which, when I opened my eyes, I could dimly see the audience on the outside. My audience.

About ten feet from me, I could see my judge - the one who had passed the sentence in front of a packed courtroom, which did not know whether to be stunned into silence or into cheers. Did anybody wail? I don’t want to know. The judge now appeared to be reading something from a yellowed hard-bound book with small letters embossed in golden colour on its faded black leather cover. He was reading aloud to me, rather, at me. I could catch only some muffled words from what appeared to be a last rite in legalese.

In our times, books on law and religion have become one, and the state has taken over the mantle of the god. I could think of more valorous times where the judge himself used to be the executioner, or as the saying went, “The one who passes the sentence must swing the sword.” But now, as I was placed, I could hardly overcome my long acquiescence that modernity has outsourced the executioner's job to a different class of professionals. Let it be as it is - or so I thought.

Some distance from the judge, almost near the end of the prison yard and with his back to the prison walls, stood the lawyer, the one who had fought for my defence in court. I had grown close to him, attaching myself as one does to a father, for he had been a glint of hope during those long, dark days of battle. In the end, when he had failed me, I had become at first weary, then resentful of him, often urging him to turn over to the prosecuting side and leave me on my own.

Some distance from the lawyer, also in the background, stood a few - three or four - uniformed men, appearing watchful in their duty; unerring, unwavering. I could remember similar men like these, whom I had had the fortune of meeting over the past forgone time. Both in their politeness and their hostility, they knew no bounds, which, though seemingly unpredictable at first, I had soon grown to realise that there was a certain clockwork-like mechanism at play in the lives of these men. They were the loyal servants of the deity, whose book the judge was still reading out to me.

I trained my vision back upon him, for now he had stopped - probably having finished - reading and turned his gaze up at my face, or at least where my face would be if it was drawn upon that black mask. Perhaps I did not want his eyes to meet mine, even by accident, so I shifted my head a little upwards and turned to the sky. It was still daytime - still, because the sky was darkening, and grey clouds were gathering above where we all stood. But the light was disappearing fast. That got me exasperated a little as I fervently began to hope that we would be done with all this before the rains descended on us.

At that moment, I heard a pair of footsteps behind me, footsteps that I could have said were heavy and nervous. They cautiously walked around my back to my left side and stopped at a couple of arm-lengths away. I straightened myself, for I remembered having told myself that this was the moment that I had been waiting, no, preparing for. I looked ahead and saw that the judge had taken a few steps backwards, now holding that leather-bound book by his side. I gazed across the prison yard one more time, and saw the silhouettes of the audience, the ones I had seen moments ago, but who now looked a little duller - perhaps because of the fading daylight - their bodies limp with resignation.

At that moment, the person next to me moved a little, his hands seeming to grab onto something heavy and cold, and I had my heart skip a beat. As I heard the old woody trapdoor beneath my bare feet start to creak, the last thing that I felt was, as I closed my eyes, then opened them, and then closed them again, a drop of water fall on my cheek, and the mask begin to cling to my face.

By Shankhoneel Ghosh