She repeated the same story to four police, who arrived at noon, and bound her arms, and led her away to jail. She suffered it to be believed that she had murdered the child in cold blood, and thrown her down the well. Jasoda’s case was unusually simple; there was but a brief trial. The culprit offered no defence, and had apparently no friends. It was known that she had always hated Taramonnee and her mother; she had found the former alone, had slain her,—and was glad. Her own mouth destroyed her. The village was in a ferment. The court was crowded; Jooplee and her people were ravening for revenge. As for Jasoda’s kindred, they knew she must be hanged—which thing was worse than suttee—disgrace instead of glory would cover them! When asked if she had aught to say, Jasoda stood up before the judge, a beautiful young creature, with the passionate dark eyes and the regular features of her race, and the form of a Grecian nymph, and answered distinctly—
“No, my lord sahib, I care not for my life; and, if it is the will of the sirkar, let them take it.” To herself she said, “Better this end than the other; the river is low.”
As Jasoda lay under sentence of death, her venerable grandmother bestirred herself to save her. She was a shrivelled, hideous old hag, with a ragged red chuddah over her head, and she sat at the gate of the judge’s compound daily, and cried for the space of two hours without ceasing.
“Do hai! Do hai! Do hai!” i.e. “Mercy! mercy! mercy!” She then adjourned to the cantonment magistrate’s abode, and shrieked the same prayer outside his gates; and finally to the civil surgeon’s, who was also the jail superintendent; and to him, for this reason, she devoted one hour extra, and her voice never once failed. Thus much for being the scold of the village! There was intense excitement in the neighbourhood as the day of execution drew nigh, and lo! one evening, when a great gallows was raised on the maidan, there were already collected thousands of people, precisely as if it were some holy spot, a scene of pilgrimage—all attracted by the same desire—to see a woman hanged!
It was indeed a grand tamasha. The crowds far surpassed in numbers those who assembled at the yearly feast. The local inhabitants noted with complacency the hundreds of total strangers who came for many miles on foot, on ponies, or in ekkas. Old Sona ceased now to scream and beat her breast. She felt like one of the actors in a tremendous tragedy, and was the object of a certain amount of curiosity and attention—a position that was entirely novel, and—alas! alas! that it must be chronicled—secretly enjoyed. The sun rose on the fatal day—the last sunrise Jasoda would ever see—the great prison gates opened, and a body of police marched slowly forth. Then came Jasoda, walking between two warders. There was a murmur among the throng. She was surprisingly fair to behold, and for once in her life she wore a dress like girls of her class. A wealthy and eccentric woman in the city had sent it to her. Yes, she was as fair as the newly risen dawn. She stood and steadily surveyed the immense expectant multitude. She recognized the eyes of many people from her own village fixed upon her with a mixture of interest and awe. She beheld her old grandmother, and her brother, and Moonee, and Pathoo, and Jai Singh, the son of Herk Singh, who had compared her to Parbutti herself and to the new moon. It seemed to her that to be the centre of interest to so vast a throng was almost as fine as a suttee! The last moment arrived, and the superintendent asked her if she had anything to say, any bequests to make.
“Bequests!” and she almost laughed. “Truly I have nothing in the world save a few rags. But thou mayest give my body to my grandmother; she seems sorry. I have nothing to say. The child hurt me, and I struck her. I meant not to kill her; nevertheless, she died; that is all. She is dead, and I shall soon be dead also.”
Jasoda’s fortitude did not fail her—no, not when her arms were pinioned, her petticoats tied about her feet, the cap drawn over her face. She never once quailed or trembled.
When the body had been cut down, and the crowd had dispersed, the superintendent sent for the old grandmother, who came, dry-eyed and fierce.
“It is somewhat against rules,” he said, “but I am going to grant you the girl’s only request: she said you were to have her body—take it away, and burn it!”