“Ridiculous! Couldn’t
you find a better case? Why? Is all well with this place? What’s
wrong with her? Why did you put her in the dock?”
“It’s a suicide case, Sir. Last Sunday…on the beach rocks…when she
attempted to end her life…damn her…. She took breath out of our
lives, Sir, …She drove us to our wits’ end.”
“She? Attempted suicide? What?”
A crow-nest weighed down by the countless crimes hatched over
there…a fertile womb of sins…a house inhabited by spirits, a place
that smacks of hooch and reverberates with the awkward sneers of
street lumpens… a lake where ashramite cranes cant… a box where lies
come to fruition…and a second gallows for the innocent and hapless…
that’s what a court is!
Society will always be on its guard, and doubly so, when it comes
tête-à-tête with wild and untamed shrews. It put up bars around and
incarcerates. But what stood behind the railings of the dock of the
right Hon’ble ’s court was an eerie, shadow-like accused that was
hardly visible.
She was not an un-tamable shrew, an impish M.P. or a Sophia Loren.
Neither was she a society lady nor a lady student. She was just an
old woman -- just ’a’ woman --- a nameless nonentity, glamourless,
forsaken and uncared for.
She was not a resident of a rosy, mosaic bungalow abetting the sea
sands nor her abode was a sea-blue villa. It could just be a sty on
the verge of any city drain or a hut amidst a ‘smuggling square’
abounding in adultery and deceit.
Her hair never had the touch of any shampoo, cream or pomade. It was
totally dried up and matted.
Her skin never basked in bathing salts or washing lotions. It
resembled the scum on the surface of boiling cane-juice. She donned
no derelon sari or decoron blouse. In fact she had no blouse on,
exposing her sagging breasts dried-up to the bones of hunger. What
she had on was not a rich diaphanous cloth, but a coarse forty-count
rag of a cloth standing like a shame on her honour and barely able
to conceal it.
She had no beetles flapping their wings on her eyes, nor were her
eyes goldfish. They evoked or invoked no other passions but pain and
insult. They were worn out globules… worthless stones…mere glass
beads.
Life was shuttling in and out of her body with every breath. But it
seemed clinging on to her eyelids somehow. Beaten to pulp by life,
bearing the brunt of old age and hardly able to stand on her legs,
she had a cadaverous look. And when she spoke, it was as if the
rattling of a skeleton was heard than her speaking.
Hers was not an isolated or a singular case. In this land of ‘jamboo’,
the Indian sub-continent, and particularly India, it is a common
spectacle (spectre) wherever you go. She was an emaciated, helpless,
destitute old woman struggling desperately to wriggle out of that
dock when the society scorned at her in anger.
“This Oldie? It is surprising to hear she attempted to end her
life,” he remarked loudly, what he thought within himself, caressing
his shining balding head in disbelief. He was not young but the
shades of youth were rather lazily receding from his face. One could
easily guess looking at him that baldness had set in rather
prematurely. He resembled a smooth, round, and plumpy toy gobbling
up coins. Hiding his face in his palms, he lost himself in thoughts
briefly. He appeared a very passionate familial man seasoned by the
ebbs and tides of life.
“What is it? This old woman and your complaint against her? It is
all silly nonsense. I’ll dismiss this case.’ He roared at the police
in anger.
The Head Constable froze in fear. Drawing his right foot across to
the left, stamping it on the floor with a thud, and saluting with
his shivering right hand, he said, “What is it that we can reply if
you say so, Sir? But, god damn her, don’t count on how she looks
like Sir, my god, you don’t believe it, she danced like an Arab
horse on three legs on the seashore. We had to sweat out to take
hold of her.”
“Is it? I never heard
of any old horses dancing on their legs. Rascals!” he blew hot on
the police and turning towards the old woman, asked gently, ‘look at
me oldie, the police allege that you attempted a suicide. Is it
true?’
“I am not able to understand what you ask me about, Sir. I am an old
hag,” she replied.
‘What I mean is that on last Sunday… at the beach rocks…they say you
tried to end your life by falling into the sea. What do you say?’
“What the Head has said is true, your grace! I tried it on my own.
Nobody forced me.”
‘Then you admit that the allegation is true?’
“Yes, my child.”
‘What made you to take this extreme step, oldie? Don’t you know it
is a crime to try to end one’s life?’
“Crime? What crime? Strange, indeed! What did I attempt to do? Any
theft? Adultery? Harming anybody in any way? When living had become
such a burden, I just wanted to put an end to it. And you call it a
crime? Tell me, Sir, what’s wrong with me?”
‘Oldie! It is a crime to try to end one’s life and you committed
that serious offence.’
“What else is left for me? That was the only option I had,” she
said, with a heavy sigh.
‘Why so?’
“The man who took my hand was in his grave long ago. And as for the
son if you ask, his wife drugged him and eloped with a worthless
fellow. Can you call her a daughter-in-law? Devil take her! She is a
slut. A bitch. I am outliving, like a raven, all my near and dear
seeing them all die before my very eyes. Enough! I can’t drag this
life any longer, Sir. And what should I live for? And what do I have
to live on? My vision has already failed me. Age has hunched my
back. Of late I have developed some serious problem in my abdomen
and the pain is so excruciating and unbearable. It is sapping all my
energy left. Tell me, my child, how long can the neighbors help me?
And in this great city, what door is open to me for shelter? Why
should I live, after all? Already half-dead with starvation, seized
by disease, becoming a burden to one and all and forsaken by god,
what does my life worth? What do you expect me, my child, other than
ending it? Instead of dying of hunger every second, I thought I
should better be relieved of all my suffering, once for all, by
plunging into the sea. But you say it is a crime. Why? Are the poor
forbidden from ending their lives? Is there any loss to this world
if I die? On the contrary, it will be ridden of some of its burden.
When I was desperate to live, they starved me and when I decided to
end it, they dragged me here calling it a crime. Strange are the
ways of these people. What did I do to deserve this harassment?
Under the circumstances what do you want me to do? Die? Or, not to
die?” Shaking with emotion and wailing heart-rendingly, she looked
up to the Magistrate folding her arms above her head in prayer. She
narrated her suffering with grief, pain, anger, and envy and
breathing heavily of exhaustion, she sunk over the railing of the
dock.
Like the Christ nailed on to the cross, the Magistrate leaned back
into his chair. Her story lay heavily on his shoulders like a cross.
For a while he lost himself in thought. When he opened his eyes he
saw the Public Prosecutor passing by. He shot a sally at him, rather
suddenly, asking “for truth, what was her crime?”
The Public Prosecutor answered matter-of-factly, “attempting
suicide.”
‘Silly,” said the Magistrate.
“Inhuman. Barbarous,’ added an old vakil going through his brief and
awaiting his turn.
“Why so?” Public Prosecutor expressed his surprise, turning back and
standing near the horseshoe bar.
“Don’t be so surprised? Law can’t lay hands on people who succeed in
committed suicide. Which means suicide is not a crime. Only
attempting it is. When the attempt was successful you can do
nothing. IPC is silent about it. But, if for any reason the attempt
failed midway through, and the subject survived, you damn him
alleging he committed a serious offence. Doesn’t it look silly to
punish one’s failing? Isn’t it funny that man’s failure is victory
to jurisprudence?” The Magistrate bursted with a boisterous guffaw.
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor,” the old vakil stood up hesitantly,
adjusting his Zari headgear and sagging old gown, looking up to the
chair for permission.
“Please proceed. It will be interesting to hear the interpretation
of law from a senior vakil like you,” the Magistrate said nodding
his head in assent.
“Did the oldie really commit a crime?” He initiated the debate.
“What’s it called otherwise? Isn’t it a crime to try to take away
one’s life?” retorted the Public Prosecutor.
“If somebody wants to end his life, after all it is his will. So
long as it does not take away someone else’s life, why should you
bother about it? Why should the govt. bother about it?”
“Why not? In the beginning this crime has religious overtones. God
has created man using all his skill and commended him to live. It is
a crime upon Him to disobey throwing his edict to winds. Society can
never put up with such sacrilege and hence, cognized it as a
punishable offence. And the government installed by such society, by
corollary, started punishing people for doing such an offence.”
“There you are! You say ours is a secular state and in a social set
up where the very mention of His name rings alarm bells, don’t you
think it is funny to punish people alleging they committed a
sacrilege? Doesn’t the social institution we live in stand in stark
contrast to the type of constitution we have adopted?” taking a dig
at the Public Prosecutor, the old vakil feigned a mischievous cough.
The Public Prosecutor, who never expected that the argument would
take such a turn, was taken aback, but soon recovered to answer,
“Well, what I mentioned was how the crime was being perceived
initially. With the decline of the hold or sway of the religious
heads over their followers, society started treating it as a social
crime. Society needs every individual. And so long as life lingers
on, one should serve to better the society he lives in. The
perception of the society is that human life is valuable. It cannot
tolerate any attempt on it from any quarter. That is why society
treated it a cognizable offence” diverting the tone and tenor of the
arguments.
“Say so, Mr. Public Prosecutor! Life is charming even to a tiny
little creature like a sparrow. So long as it can muster few grains
for food, it longs to fly under the shade of this azure sky, in the
serene ambient verdure world for long. Tell me, who wouldn’t love to
live if one could? Did you imagine why the same world, which looked
so lovely, a veritable heaven, a Brindavan, or a Nandan Van to the
sparrow, seemed quite a hell to the oldie? You can’t, perhaps, argue
that she attempted to end her life knowing that ‘this world is a
myth and family life is a gutter. It is sooner the better to get out
of this bodily entanglement’. For, she is neither a philosopher nor
a theosopher. She is after all a destitute, desperate to survive.
Hunger, thirst, disease, hardships, pleasures, compassion, jealousy
and hatred must have besieged her just as they did you and me. But
never did we entertain the idea of committing suicide where as she
did. Why? Did you spare a little thought as to why? “To have a
companion is a blessing in adversity,” is what Cervantes said. For a
person lost in the bouts of grief, a word of sympathy is Manna. When
empathy, a helping hand, is not to be seen around, life becomes an
unbearable encumbrance. And that’s exactly what she was deprived of.
An urge to live is biological. It is connate with life itself. The
desire to end life shoots up sometime later. You say the life of
this old woman is invaluable to the society and issue a dictate that
she should not end her life. Good. But when society cannot help
support her life, what right has it got to forbid her from getting
relieved of her burden? When she was reeling under stomachache, did
the society douse her pain with an ounce of medicine? When she was
starving of hunger, did any govt. help her with a glug of gruel?
With nothing to feed on, to take shelter under, and no word of
sympathy coming forth from any quarter, and instead, being looked
down upon in this world, how could she live? And what for? Why at
all? Do you have insurances, Sir, for the disabled in your society?
Homes, Sir, for the poor? Pensions, Sir, for the aged and destitute?
On what ground can the society call her attempt an offence, Sir?
Why, has the society had all rights but no duties? Creating such a
horrible environment around, isn’t it inhuman to commend her not to
die? Isn’t it monstrous?” argued the old vakil most animatedly.
Unable to stand the heat of arguments and the counter arguments, the
old woman fell unconscious in the dock.
“My learned friend has dwelt extensively upon ethics. But, for sure,
he knows it himself that according to law it’s an offence to attempt
suicide. He is only trying to highlight the lacuna in the Law,” said
the Public Prosecutor nonchalantly.
“God and righteousness have lost their color and sound in the
language these days. Whatsoever be the science, or justice, it
should never stand in the way of humaneness. It should never reduce
to inhumanity. The British who authored our Penal Code have long
stopped treating suicide an offence and dropped it from their list
of offences. I can’t suppose that the honorable Public Prosecutor is
unaware of this,” smiled the old vakil brushing his bushy moustache.
‘I see. How can it be a crime in India when it is not so in Britain?
Are people different? Their thoughts different? Can justice be
different to different people and different nationalities? That is
why somebody called law an ass,’ commented the Magistrate with an
air of sarcasm.
“True. True. If the people who govern it are a little bit wiser,
they can ward off the kicks of its hind legs,’ repartee’d the Public
Prosecutor.
“Don’t worry. All of us try to govern it, for that matter. Forget
about it for the present, but say why it hasn’t been abolished in
our country as yet?” solicited the Magistrate, with the feeling of
hurt palpable at the repartee.
“Because, there is value for human life in this country, still,”
replied the Public Prosecutor.
“Oh! Oh! What a value! What a value to human life! If some one were
to die of starvation, ‘die if you should. But die a natural death.
Die a prolonged death but never try to end it prematurely,’ is what
your government says to him. Isn’t it? There is a great merit in
this argument,’ the Magistrate hurled another sally derisively.
“Since Your Honor raised an issue of Jurisprudence, I ventured to
present my opinion. I am not presenting the case on behalf of the
government. I only tried to put forth the basic tenets of
Jurisprudence before you, Sir. I have nothing to do with this case.”
The Public Prosecutor left the scene.
‘But, I have,’ asserted the Magistrate turning suddenly serious.
‘On what count can I punish this old woman? If I sentence her, this
seventy plus oldie will suffer hell in jail. She loses all her
freedom of movement. She will have to lead the life of a corpse
amidst jail walls. She will have to attend to all menial chores in
the homes of jail officials. She has to toil hard. Freedom is man’s
only boon. She will be deprived of even that. Won’t it be inhuman on
my part to sentence and put her in jail? Society holds no sympathy
for her, or the governments. But then, if I acquit her, who will
take care of her? Who will feed her? Call her to a shade? Which hut
will provide her shelter? Who will attend on her when she wriggles
with pain? The only medicine available for the poor in this country
is the holy waters of the river Ganges; and the only doctor is God!
Should I throw this old destitute, staring at her grave, back into
the same pitiless society? Into the world that spurns her? Leave her
to the care of elements? And what if she makes another bid, unable
to put up with her life? Then the same cycle of police, courts,
jail! My goodness! It is inhuman to set her free in such a society.
God! What a dilemma I am beset with! Damn it! What did I say? God?
Who is this God? In a secular state, He is a fish out of water. A
criminal abandoned by society. And a criminal commends no respect in
any court of law. Should I, then, send her to jail? Or, set her
free? My God! That is the question. Oh! There He is again. Like a
pricking conscience, He surfaces again and again. Hasn’t all this
trouble arisen because of Him? With umpteen blemishes and
incongruencies, why should He create this world at all? Why should
He confer life and put us to every conceivable hardship? There is a
serious flaw in the scheme of His creation. Somebody said that God
is a great poet and His creation, a work of art. It’s nonsense. His
poetry boomeranged and alienated people away from him. In my
opinion, creation, God, justice, righteousness etc., etc., is all
rubbish. Let us forget about our opinions for the present and
dispose off this case. According to law, the old woman did commit an
offence and she admitted that on her own. So the issue should be
settled as per the provisions of law. OK. That can be done in no
time. Let us pronounce her guilty but acquit her,’ the Magistrate,
riven by the dilemma, went into a long soliloquy before pronouncing,
at last,
‘You oldie! I am
convinced that you are guilty of the alleged offence. But taking
cognizance of your being a woman, and a very old woman at that,
and your past record, I acquit you. Here I give a letter to the
Destitute Home with instructions to admit you there. You can go,
oldie, I acquit you. You are free to go.’
There was no response
from the old woman holding the bars of the dock.
‘Oldie, you can go. I set you free,’ he repeated.
The court peon walked up to her and callously tried to lift her up,
saying contemptuously, 'get up! Get up! Seated cozily in the dock,’
and tried to drag her out. Leaving the hold of her bars, she
collapsed to the floor.
The Head Constable who was standing near by rushed up to her.
“Damn it! Sir, she kicked the bucket!” he declared.
“Ah!” it was Magistrate’s turn to get surprised.
‘Oh! We tried her on the charge of attempting suicide? We killed
her. What do you call it? A murder or a suicide? My God! My God! I
am a criminal. A murderer. A murderer,’ he ran, deranged and bitten
by conscience, into his chambers wailing, laughing, drying his eyes
and muffling up his face with the loosely hanging gown.
The body of the old woman was lying in state in the court’s premises
under the shade of a tree. She no longer felt the Sun or shade.
There’s neither honor nor dishonor. There were no pangs of hunger or
thirst anymore. Society is no longer interested in her. Justice,
righteousness, crime, punishment, courts, societies, and governments
can no longer exercise their power over her. She had passed their
realm.
So long as she was alive, she was a problem to the society.
And after her death, she is a nightmare!
December 4, 2005
Telugu Original: Sri M. Rama Koti
published in Andhra Prabha weekly (17-7-1968). Translated by: NS
Murty & RS Krishna Moorthy (late) Twenty years after the publication of this story by Sri Rama Koti,
a renowned lawyer at Visakhapatnam, the prime issue raised and
discussed by him in this story, whether the right to life is of the
citizen or of the state, has come up for hearing in legal terms,
first in the Bombay High Court in the famous SRIPATI DUBAL Vs State
of Maharashtra (1987 Criminal Law Journal page 743) which upheld
that the right to life conferred by Article 21 of the constitution
includes the right to end it (the same as the one held by the
author); and later in the Andhra Pradesh High Court in the famous
CHENNA JAGADEESH Vs State of Andhra Pradesh (1988 Criminal Law
Journal page 549) which held that the individual has no right to end
his life. And finally, in the famous GIAN KAUR Vs State of Punjab,
The Supreme Court upheld the view of the AP High Court declaring
that the right to life under Article 21 does not include the right
to extinguish it.
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