I was terrified for the first time in my life.

He made me watch as he placed the noose around the head of the hooded figure. He pulled the rope a little to see if it would hold the weight. Satisfied with his handiwork, he placed his hand on the lever and shifted it down. Immediately, the rope was stretched taut by the deadweight at the end, as it dangled a few feet into a cavity that appeared within the raised platform. The head of the limp form had snapped back and was slumped at an odd angle, like a splintered bough that dangles precariously on the last few strands of phloem. He was satisfied that the rope continued to hold the weight of the figure, without causing any decapitation. When he loosened the knot, the hooded figure dropped to the floor with a loud echo. I warily picked up the battered, hooded dummy that had been subjected to countless such experiments, and handed it back to my father.

Father always used to say that hanging a human being required talent and dexterity. A skillful hangman would ensure that death was instantaneous. Father was a hangman of great repute, not only because he was skilled, but also because he conducted his work with extreme professionalism. He never bragged about his executions and never talked ill about any of his colleagues. He personally handled the disrobing and cleaning of the corpse before every postmortem. He believed that every human being, no matter how evil, deserved a respectful death.

It was not only his ethics but also his stature that compelled his colleagues and his superiors to respect him. His six-foot, muscular physique inspired terror in every prisoner, especially when he donned the garb of the hangman, with his hooded head, black robes, and polished black shoes. He was a handsome man during his younger days, with thick, luscious dark brown hair, intense amber eyes, and a powerful countenance that made people, especially women, look at him twice. He was like the Indian doppelganger of the handsome Gregory Peck, who always overshadowed everybody else in any Hollywood movie when he made an entrance in a scene. As he aged, his tall frame started stooping over inch-by-inch and his once beautiful face was now etched with the scars of grief, loss and experience. His hair had thinned with time, leaving only a few strands that covered the sides and back of his head. But his eyes could still pierce through the toughest criminal like a rod of hot iron through solid wax, and make them tremble in their prison-issued footwear.

When his services were not required, he would spend hours in his spacious workshop stuffing and shaping gunny bags, and then practice the process of hanging people of different heights, weights, and builds. The workshop was like a second home to my father. He even had a couch-cum-bed in one corner, which he used occasionally when he worked late into the night. The workshop was a half-an-hour walk from our home, which was in the southern part of the city. Whenever father had a hanging to conduct, he used to spend the entire evening prior to the hanging practicing the procedure so that it would go smoothly. Slender-necked people required a different rope length when compared to thick-necked ones. The heavier the person, the thicker the rope had to be. He used to share these insights with me because he knew that one day, I would be following in his footsteps and would take on the mantle of ‘the hangman.’

My friends used to ask me how I felt about my father’s line of work. When I was younger, I would shrug my shoulders and tell them that it was a job like any other job. But as I grew up, their questions started to disconcert me. Father must have noticed the shift in my attitude whenever he used to discuss new angles to the art of hanging because when I was fifteen, he sat me down at the table in his workshop and asked me what was troubling me. I remember blurting out, 'How can you be so detached after you hang somebody? Does it not prick your conscience? How do you live with yourself every day doing what you do?' He reflected on my questions for a few seconds, and then said something unexpected, 'Because I know.' He smiled when he saw the confusion swimming in my eyes and placed his calloused fingers on my unblemished hands. 'You will know what I mean when you take over from me,' he said. Maybe it was the mystery behind his words or his enigmatic smile, but from that moment on, I knew that I wanted to be a hangman.

What I didn’t know at that time was that my father was slowly and agonizingly withering away like an aging house that had stitched cracks and was coating up with green mold. At the age of fifty, he looked like a seventy-year-old man. Friends and relatives assumed it was because of the rigors of his line of work. They were not completely wrong.

The day finally arrived when my father could no longer fulfill his duties. Arthritis had set in a long time back, but he was waiting for me to complete my college degree before handing me my livelihood. To my father’s credit, he had me learn the ‘ropes’ from when I was eighteen and I had just finished school. Now I was twenty-four, and I looked forward to finally discovering the meaning behind those mysterious words that my father had uttered so many years ago. Father never agreed to reveal anything more, no matter how much I badgered him. He would always be cryptic in his reply, 'When the time comes, I will tell you everything.'

I had grown up to be taller than my father, with the same shock of dark brown hair, a brawny build that came from years of helping my father in his workshop, and the same penetrating gaze that could set a woman’s heart on fire as well as prompt a mugger to think twice before accosting me. I was ready to step into my father’s shoes.

On the eve of my first day at work, I accompanied my father to his workshop on his request. On reaching the entrance, he turned around to hand me the keys and said, 'This workshop is now yours. Use it well. Use it wisely.' I opened the door to the workshop and let my father in, remembering the many times he had done the same for me. When we were both seated at the withered wooden table, my father took out from the satchel he was carrying, a worn-out, leather-bound book that had a padlock, and handed it over to me along with a brass key. I gingerly slid the key into the tiny slot of the lock to open it and realized it was a journal containing details of each and every execution he had carried out, including the date of execution, name, height, and weight of the prisoner, and other details. His gnarled finger pointed to a comment written towards the end of the list. It read ‘Guilty.’ I looked up at him questioningly, and I saw the same enigmatic smile playing on his lips.

He clarified, 'Because I know. I know because I have a special gift that has been passed on from our forefathers, who were also hangmen. You will also know because you have the same gift. But this gift is both a blessing and a curse.'

'What gift? What will I know? Dad please, please don’t talk in riddles.'

'When I enter the walls of the prison, I am also blessed with the power to see the deeds of the person I am going to hang. When I see the condemned for the first time, I get visions of the crimes they have committed. I know the reason they are condemned.'

I was not expecting this. It left me dumbstruck. I looked at him with an expression akin to incredulity and asked, 'Are you saying that you can see all the crimes a condemned person has committed? Everything?'

'Yes, I can see all the horrible things that they have done. You asked me a long time back why hanging people doesn’t prick my conscience and how I could live with myself every day. It is because of this gift.'

I pondered over this revelation for a while. It was both exhilarating and petrifying. To possess such a gift was almost unheard of, other than in fairy tales. How did our family come into possession of these powers? Why did my father keep this a secret? He could have been rich and famous with such powers.
Father must have read my train of thought, because he said, 'We are not allowed to reveal this gift to anyone other than to our progeny who will continue the duties of the hangman. I did not tell you when you were younger because you would not have understood how sacred this gift is, and I also was not sure whether you would decide to become a hangman.'

'What happens if somebody knows that I have this gift?' I asked him.

'You will lose it,' he replied back curtly, and then added, 'Not only that, this gift is lost forever to our future generations.'

'Oh!' I looked at him sheepishly, wishing I had not asked him the last question. Then I remembered something he had mentioned earlier, 'Dad, you said that this gift was both a blessing and a curse. I understand why it is a blessing. How can it be a curse?'

I saw his eyes fleetingly glisten with unwept tears. For the first time in fifty years, I could sense how tormented my father was. He did not cry, nor did his voice break when he next spoke, 'Because every once in a while, I hang somebody who is innocent. I cannot do anything about it because I cannot reveal that I have this gift. So, I endure this pain. And the price I pay for hanging an innocent is that I age one year sooner.'

My mind was swirling with so many questions by this time. It was then that I understood why he looked older than he actually was. 'How many innocent people have you hung Dad?'

'21. And I still remember each and every one of those 21 faces, in spite of having executed 306 people during my lifetime,' he revealed.

'How is it that we have these powers? It’s not normal.'

'We are similar to psychics or people with a sixth sense. The only difference is that our powers come into play when a certain set of conditions are fulfilled, and of course nobody else knows about it.'

'Did Mom know about your powers?' I had lost my mother when I was ten years old. My memories of her were fleeting, but they were good memories. I knew my father had loved her very much. After her passing, he had never looked at another woman. Instead, he had invested all his energy into his work and in bringing me up.

'No, son. Nobody, other than the family members who were destined to become hangmen, was told about these powers. Whenever you choose to marry, you cannot reveal this secret to your wife.'

I nodded in understanding. I felt like there were so many unanswered questions still churning through my mind. This was going to take me a while to absorb.

My father got up. 'Well, I will leave you to get ready for tomorrow.' As he approached the door, he turned around and added, 'Hanging somebody, no matter how evil he or she is, is not easy. Just remember that you are performing your duty as dictated by the courts of this country. Whenever you are in doubt, just remember that.'

I just sat there as he walked out the door. A couple of weeks back, he told me that he was planning to go on a pilgrimage after his retirement and visit all the holy places that he had never been able to visit. I was surprised because I had never pegged my father to be a religious man. But after today’s revelations, I could only assume this pilgrimage was to atone for the 21 sins he had inadvertently committed. I looked around the workshop. All the tools of our trade were neatly bundled into a leather bag that my father had carried to work for the past 40 years. This bag was now mine to carry. My gaze fell back on the journal that my father had left on the table. I picked it up and flipped through the entries, looking for a specific word.
‘Innocent’

The date for this entry was marked as August 5th, 1978. She was 35-years old and was found guilty of murdering her husband. Her name was Sarah Antony Thomas. I ran my fingers across her name trying to picture her face, but my mind remained blank like a dark, moonless night.
I closed the journal and secured it with the padlock, and slipped the brass key into my wallet. I carefully placed the journal into the leather bag and got up to leave the workshop. I had a big day tomorrow.

Next day morning, I wore the new uniform that my father had ordered for me. I was slightly taller and more broad-shouldered than him, and could not borrow his old uniform. I applied some gel to set my hair neatly. I checked my reflection and was satisfied with my appearance. As I made my way out, my father accompanied me to the gate in silence. I turned to him as he placed his hands on my shoulders. He said, 'Remember all that I have told you. These young shoulders now carry the fate of our future generations.' I patted his hand reassuringly and walked out the gate.

                                                                                                               ***************

I didn’t have to wait too long for my first execution. When the prison warden informed me that a hanging was scheduled in two weeks’ time, I was both worried and excited. I was still slightly skeptical about my so-called gift. But I was also curious to know whether it had, by chance, skipped a generation. I nervously opened the envelope that the warden had handed over to me. I was to hang Lokesh Yadav, a child rapist and murderer, and as per all accounts, guilty of the crime. But, I would know when I saw him. I requested the warden permission to see the prisoner as soon as possible so that I could make my preparations. It was not an unconventional request, and so the warden sanctioned a visit for the very next day.
I would have preferred to have my father around as I prepared to visit the prisoner the next morning. But he had started his tour of the holy places, and could not be reached.
The warden ushered me in as soon as I reached the prison. He escorted me to a single-window room that looked into another room.
'You can observe him from this room. He won’t be able to see you because this is a one-way mirror,' said the warden, pointing at the glass-cased window. 'Good luck.'
I turned to the window, waiting in anticipation, as the warden walked out of the room. The observation room that I was looking at was bare of furniture, except for a single table and chair. The fluorescent lighting was harsh, and there were no dark corners in the room.
The door opened slowly, and Lokesh was escorted in by two officers. His hands and feet were handcuffed with chains, and he shuffled as he walked towards the chair. His long hair was matted and unkempt like the orphaned seaweed found on the seashore. His week-old stubble didn’t help improve his appearance. He was heavily built and around five feet tall. I still could not get any visions as I watched him settle into the chair. Did I have the gift? Had it stopped with my father? As I pondered over this possibility, Lokesh looked up and straight at me with his unseeing eyes through the one-way mirror.
I felt a knife ripping through my skull. My mind went blank as my head pounded with a searing pain. I saw a girl, probably nine or ten years old, cowering in fear. Her hands were tied behind her and she was whimpering in fear. A shadow loomed across her, and then I saw Lokesh pull the trembling girl roughly into his arms. The hunger in his eyes was palpable. He took a couple of strands of her hair and inhaled their scent deeply as if they were garlands of jasmine. His eyes closed in blissful rapture. The little girl was struggling and screaming, trying to escape his iron grip. But she was powerless. He cupped her mouth to muffle her voice, and started whispering in her ear as he placed her on the unmade bed. In one swift gesture, he ripped her clothes off. He was already naked. He did not pause. The girl’s muted screams echoed across the room as he plundered her tiny body. After he was done, he did not stop. He went at her again and again until she was still and lifeless. His energy spent, Lokesh, dragged her bruised and bloodied body off the bed and wrapped it in a plastic sheet. He sat down to light a cigarette as he contemplated his next move. He picked up her body and put it in the trunk of his car. He drove to a nearby quarry and dumped her body into the depths. I couldn’t see anything more as the images became blurred. The pain started receding as I regained my sight. Lokesh was still staring at the mirror. A shudder slithered down my spine as I relived the images that had tormented me a few moments ago. So, this was how the visions were going to be, I thought to myself. I took out the journal from my bag, unlocked it, and turned to the page where I had made an entry for Lokesh. I wrote ‘Guilty’ at the end of the page. Without looking up, I put my journal back into my bag after securing it and walked out of the room. The next time I saw Lokesh was on the day of the execution.

A year went by and every prisoner I had hung had been guilty. I had added four new journal entries after Lokesh. When my father had returned from his pilgrimage, he did not ask me anything. He must have known that I would be able to handle it. I only hoped that I would never have to hang an innocent person. But that was not to be.

His name was Gautam Behera. He had been found guilty of murdering his ex-girlfriend, who was also his college classmate. The warden, who was now my good friend, told me that the dead girl’s family was very influential and had seen to it that Gautam got the death penalty. I had read about this case in the newspapers around two years back, and Gautam had repeatedly denied having killed her. But the evidence against him could not be ignored. The knife had his fingerprints. His clothes had been covered with her blood. And the most damning evidence was that her roommate had walked in on him holding the knife over the dead girl’s body. The prosecution had an open-and-shut case. The defense lawyers were weak and could not counter the strong arguments put forth by the prosecution. Gautam was sentenced to death.

Like in the case of every execution I had handled till now, I got the warden’s permission to observe Gautam. On the appointed day, I was escorted to the same room with the one-way mirror. Gautam was already seated in the chair, hunched over by the weight of the chains. I needed to see his eyes. I tapped gently on the window. Gautam looked up, startled. I waited for the visions. There was nothing for a couple of minutes. Then I felt a different sensation. I felt light and giddy. I was being drawn towards a bright light and then suddenly, I was in a brightly-lit apartment. I saw a twenty-something girl sitting with her laptop, engaged in a web chat session. It was the victim, Gautam’s ex-girlfriend, going by the pictures I had seen in the newspapers. She was very pretty, with long, straight hair, large, expressive eyes, and a cherubic face. She was chatting with somebody called Loveleen. I heard the door to the apartment open with a bang, and another girl rushed into the room screaming in anger.

“Preethi, you bitch! How could you sleep with Rakesh? I trusted you. He broke up with me today and he told me everything about the two of you!”
Preethi, who had now turned away from the computer screen, looked scared and shocked. “I made a mistake Shalini. I should have told you earlier, but I couldn’t. I was too ashamed of myself. I’m sorry!”

“Sorry is not enough, you tramp! By the time I am done with you, you will be sorry,” saying that, Shalini whipped out a knife and lunged at Preethi. Preethi twisted away in the nick of time, but her leg got caught in the wires lying on the floor. She fell to the ground face-down, and before she could move away, Shalini had plunged the knife between her shoulder blades. Preethi screamed in agony as Shalini twisted the knife away and stabbed her a second time. I watched in horror as Shalini vented her rage on Preethi’s now limp body. I saw a movement on the laptop screen and realized that Loveleen had witnessed the entire scene. But she did not utter a word, lest she drew attention to herself. She made a movement and the web chat window was closed. What she did not know was that Preethi had been recording the chat.

Shalini had left by the time I turned my attention back to Preethi. Preethi was still breathing, but barely. Her hand was holding a mobile, and I saw her thumb frantically search the keypad for a number. She pressed the number ‘2.’ I could hear a male voice pick up the call and say her name. She moaned in pain, but could not bring the mobile to her ear. Then he cut the line. Preethi breathed her last a couple of minutes after that. And Gautam rushed into the apartment fifteen minutes later. Preethi had called Gautam in the last few minutes of her short life. The rest, as they say, is history.

I was gently brought back to my senses. Not only did I know that Gautam was innocent, I also knew who the real killer was. I was looking at a very subdued and forlorn version of Gautam as compared to the Gautam I had seen in my vision. His eyes looked desolate. He seemed to have already surrendered to his imminent fate. But something in me could not come to terms with this injustice. There had to be a way to save him. I needed to discuss with my father today.

When I reached home, I directly went to my father’s room. He had not been keeping well.
'Dad, I need to talk to you about something.'

My father observed me for a few seconds and stated, 'You met an innocent today.'

I was not surprised by my father’s uncanny observation skills. He could always preempt my thoughts and speak my mind.
'Yes, I met an innocent man. And I also know who did the crime!'

My father looked surprised. 'What did you say? You know who did the crime? How?'

Now, it was my turn to be surprised. 'What do you mean "how"? I saw the actual killer committing the crime.'

'But that’s never happened to me! If the convict is innocent, I do not get any visions. That is my only indication that the person is innocent. I never see the real perpetrator of the crime!' My father looked flustered and confused.

'So, what does this mean Dad? There must be a reason why I am able to see these things. I even know there is a witness to this crime.'

'I don’t know what it means, Son. I only know that we cannot reveal our secret, no matter what,' he said with finality.

'I know I can do something about this without revealing our secret Dad! Let me try at least.'

Father shook his head in disagreement. 'You are risking everything. Don’t make any rash decisions and regret it later. Think about it and if you still decide to do something about it, I won’t stop you. Remember that if you lose this power, it is also lost to the generations to come.'

I understood what he was saying, but my heart compelled me to disagree with his logic. I didn’t want to argue with him because I had already disturbed him from his rest. I told him that I would think about it overnight and then decide, although I had already made my mind up.

I did not sleep. I was on the Internet reading through whatever information I could find about Gautam’s case. The police had not done a thorough investigation because Gautam had been caught red-handed. They had not confiscated the laptop or checked its content in detail. They had not questioned Loveleen. In fact, there was no mention of Loveleen anywhere in the news.

Time was less. I decided to send an anonymous letter to the defense lawyers so that they could at least request an extension to the execution. I did not reveal much, other than to inform them that Loveleen was a witness to the crime that Gautam was convicted of and that they should check Preethi’s laptop for the evidence. I ensured that I wore gloves so that the letter was free of fingerprints or anything else that could lead their investigation to me. I was taking a huge risk, but I knew that it was worth saving a life.

The day of Gautam’s execution arrived. There was no reprieve and no news about any new evidence mentioned anywhere in the news. I had already resigned myself to the fact that I would have to hang him. I went through the usual activities surrounding the execution. I checked the rope length and ensured it would support Gautam’s body weight. The trapdoor was oiled and ready for the event. The hood that would cover Gautam’s head during the execution was neatly folded and placed nearby. Everything was set. I accompanied the warden and the priest to Gautam’s holding cell. He had just finished his final meager meal. He seemed calm and composed, ready to meet his maker. I walked into the cell and placed a reassuring hand on his skeletal frame. 'Let’s go, kid,' I said.

He stood up and walked slowly along with us as we made our way to the gallows. I felt the tension in the air as marched in silence. He did not say anything as I walked him up the flight of stairs to the raised platform.

The warden asked Gautam if he had any last words as I removed the shackles that bound him. Gautam shook his head silently. There was nothing more to say.

I made him stand over the trapdoor, and slid the hood over his head. I then secured the knot around his neck. I moved into position to operate the handle that would open the trapdoor from under Gautam’s feet. I waited for the warden’s signal.

The shrilling buzz of the phone near the gallows made everybody jump out of their skins. This was unusual. There was barely one more minute for the time of execution. Had my ploy worked? The warden quickly grabbed the phone from its handle and listened to the person on the other side. He did not say anything as he continued to listen. At the end of the call, he just said, 'Yes your honour, understood.'

He turned to me and said, 'There has been a development. That was the judge. He has stayed the execution.'

My heart soared with happiness. I didn’t know what the results of my actions would finally be, but I did not regret what I had done. I helped Gautam back to his cell. He looked confused and relieved. I later visited the warden to find out what had happened. The warden said that the defense attorneys had received an anonymous letter that hinted that Gautam was not the killer. He didn’t know the details, but it appeared that the defense attorneys had presented compelling evidence to the judge that forced him to place that emergency call directly to the warden.

The next day’s news contained more details about the new evidence that proved that Gautam was innocent. Gautam was released after Shalini’s arrest and confession. Loveleen, who had been afraid to get involved, confirmed that she had been a witness to the murder after she was tracked down. Nobody knew who had sent the letter to the defense attorneys. I hoped it remained that way.

Father did not say anything, and I also did not offer any explanation. What was done was done. I would not know whether I still had my powers until my next execution. I didn’t have to wait too long.

I was to execute a well-known gangster found guilty of multiple murders. I waited as usual in the adjacent room, in anticipation. When the gangster strolled into the room, my apprehensions heightened. Would I still have my visions? Have I thrown away my powers, albeit for a worthy cause? And then he looked at me as he sat in the chair.

I had found my true calling.