Chronicle of a death foretold

As in Delhi, so in Lahore, the leaves on trees are in their green shiny splendour when they burst out in February. By April their bloom is gone and in May they are plain dull. If he could see a tree from his death cell, Sarabjit may have watched its leaves wither with a sense of foreboding. His death was certain. Its intimations hung in the Kot Lakhpat air like a bad omen. The vile behaviour of the assigned killer squad, his fellow death-row inmates, their ugly jostling, their abuses and their warnings that they would get him soon, were all meant to make him die a thousand deaths before the inevitable. Sarabjit knew he was a marked man. That’s why he wrote to his sister that he saw death dancing over his head. Death orchestrates a range of emotions. Its certainty must have made Sarabjit cogitate. His life was short, the actual liveable life was just a score plus years, another score were spent in the Kot Lakhpat. And every night he must have thought of the two young daughters whom he had cradled in his arms as children, but missed out seeing them blossom. His eyes must have misted over as he thought of his family, especially his sister who was championing his case like a fearless lioness.He was a helpless man in chains. Otherwise, he had felled many a foe in the fields of his village, They were, of course, playful challenges of a village wrestling match, their memory brought a smile to his parched lips every time he thought of his youth and of his joy at pinning down yet another friend.   Presently, there was the reality of a cramped cell and its putrid smell. There were the noises too; the shouts and the taunts of the assigned killers who were staying in the cells around him. Sarabjit must have found sleep difficult till exhaustion forced his eyelids shut. But just before sleeping he must have nodded sadly to himself and repeated what he had been telling himself for the last 23 years in Kot Lakhpat; ‘This is hell.’When they came, they were accompanied by the state. Two armed prison guards were standing by just in case things got unruly; after all Sarabjit was strong of body. But the guns were not needed. The iron rods were enough. The blows were surgically delivered with the sure hand of professionals who knew which part of the brain to attack, and what length of spine to rupture. They did their job competently and dragged him to his cell to bleed. In the two hours before his death and before he was pro-forma taken to the hospital, Sarabjit must have wondered about the irony of his situation. With a name like Sarabjit he was meant to conquer all. But here he was; lying defeated and prostrate on the ground. Would he have felt relieved at this final release? Or would he have raged impotently at his cruel fate? Perhaps, in his last moments, he felt betrayed by the country he loved. He may even have thought bitterly that his was a ‘chronicle of a death foretold’. Yet he was not saved. Before closing his eyes one last time, he would surely have thanked his family; his sister, his wife and his daughters who wailed for him loudly and often to the nation.Sarabjit’s was not a long journey; most of it was spent anyway in the Kot Lakhpat jail. He had not planned it to be so, circumstances had contrived it that way. But he had one regret all through his incarceration; if only he could rewind time and see his daughters grow up. For the rest he was resigned to what the fate had slated for him.Still, if by some miracle the dead could come back to life and Sarabjit was there to see the crowds at his funeral, their vast numbers may have brought a smile to his lips. Perhaps he may even have thought that his sacrifice had been worth this moment. On the other hand, on seeing the leaders push ahead of the crowd, he might have cynically shaken his head and said to himself, ‘they are jostling for political advantage even as my body is being consigned to flames.’And then, he would have wondered whether anyone would visit his family once his ashes had been scattered in the village wind.  Indeed, death opens many wounds. Sarabjit may even have whispered angrily to the politicians among the mourners, “Why mourn from a distance? If you are serious, come close to me and say in my ear that you are sorry. Had you really tried, I could have lived.”Sarabjit has gone. His memory too will fade away. That’s the way it is. But even as he was dying, the nation died many deaths with him. For a week Pakistan kept up the charade that prayers could revive him. We in India believed them. We didn’t even ask for the medical report which would have told us that our prayers might bring relief to his soul, not to his butchered body. But even as the nation grieved believingly, it asked itself questions. What do we do to prevent future Sarabjits from happening? How do you deal with a neighbour like Pakistan?There are no easy answers to the questions that we have been asking for the last 65 years. The real challenge for Indians is whether we must be tolerant of a neighbour so murderously intolerant of us.The author is a former ambassador. He is an artist and a novelist. Views expressed are personal.