Punishment:

Babu stopped in his tracks. His fifty-nine-year-old, beedi abused lungs needed a break. He let the full-length mirror prop against the prison walls and took a breather. Tonight, as he set up the most grandiose punishment his life would ever see, his hands were free from their usual coating of talcum powder. He looked into the dirty mirror and stared at himself for a while. His beefy arms contrasted with his rather splindly legs. His hair, ever immaculate was parted in the middle. It had been almost 30 years of carrying out the harshest punishments the country had ever seen. Babu was a hangman, or a ‘jalaad’ as he was more colloquially called. ‘Punishment’, he thought of the word and chuckled to himself. Murder is more like it. To the world, Babu was an executioner, a servant of the government, a great father, a devoted husband and a generous neighbour. But Babu had a terrible secret, he kept away from everyone. Babu was also a serial killer. Since a teenager, he had an insatiable need to kill, to watch life leave the eyes of his victim, to hear the last gasp of breath. To feel like God himself, when he killed someone. But Babu was also a practical man. Unlike the cheap serial killer stereotype, Babu did not enjoy solitude. He enjoyed a comfortable home, going back home to the loving arms of his wife, to the chatter of his noisy kids. The dichotomy made him creative and Babu made his hobby, his job. He became a ‘jalaad’, providing murder services but legally. Like any other glamorized job in the world, his job also sucked out the idealism out of him. Was it a murder, he questioned himself every day for thirty years, if it was government sanctioned? Was it really a homicide, if the victim knew the fate that would befall on them? They didn’t even call them ‘victims’, they were ‘criminals’. But here Babu ached to be the criminal. He has a ritual before each execution, he would shower, shave and then apply talcum powder on his palms and test his grip. Sometimes on his son’s cricket bat and sometimes on his wife’s belan. Today had not been very different, he just left off his grip exercises. Today he wouldn’t need it. Three days before his retirement, Babu decided he wanted to have his last kill. Go out with a bang. He lugs his large mirror and starts walking through the dark steep stairs of the prison. Today he would commit his last murder and it wouldn’t be a punishment. Today he would hear the last gasp of air, see the last look of unadulterated panic. Today he would finally become a real serial killer. He finally reached his destination, set his mirror straight and smiled at himself. As a serial killer, he was unable to feel any compassion towards his victims and today would be no different. Feeling electricity run through his every nerve, he cracked his knuckles. Tonight, wouldn’t be punishment. Tonight, would be a cold murder. Tonight, the victim’s eyes wouldn’t be shielded with a black cloth, tonight would be his first and last murder.  Staring at himself, he fits the long noose around his neck. He stands at an edge of the hole in the ground. Smiling, he performs his last murder, jumping into the hole. Next day’s newspapers read- ‘YERAWADA JAIL JALAD HANGS HIMSELF AFTER 30 YEARS IN SERVICE. IN GUILT FOR YEARS OF PERFORMING EXECUTIONS, BABU, THE JALAAD PUNISHES HIMSELF.’