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| ROAD TO PERDITION | |
| It is 5 pm, July 17, 2002, and I'm near Dasna jail in Ghaziabad. Most things don't matter now: it doesn't matter that I'm a journalist with tehelka.com, nor the fact that I have been accused of abetting poachers whom I only wanted to videotape in the criminal act. It doesn't even matter that I have a wife and a two-month-old child. What matters is the fear inside me. It's black in colour and thick as the Delhi fog. And it becomes impenetrable to courage as I somehow remember forgotten stories of the bestiality within the confines of those impregnable walls they call JAIL. Dasna jail has a looming and forbidding iron gate. The accompanying constables suddenly swoop down on me. One grabs my hair, two grip an arm each, the third pulls the loop of my trousers. The door carved out in the iron gate clangs open with an ominous rumbling sound. I'm pulled inside. I'm now the Dasna jail staff's. They watch me contemptuously as I sit on the floor. I'm a heap of palpitating fear. I'm the pig in the abattoir, I've no esteem. I'm the neck under the state's cleaver, I expect no mercy. I fill forms. I'm pushed out. There are still three more gates to perdition. At gate No. 2 I am frisked, their clammy hands all over me. No papers are allowed inside. So, they take away my currency notes. At gate No. 3 they frisk me again; they now take away my toiletries. At gate No. 4 I'm searched again. They confiscate my cigarettes, they light up right there before me. I walk to a roundabout; it's where the deputy jailer sits. Around it are 12 barracks. I am in hell. I've been assigned barrack No. 5. It has a small compound, and it's milling with people. They stare murderously at me. I look away. I have never talked to killers. Just then Sushil Khaitan sidles up to me. He has read about me in the newspapers. He says he'll be honoured to share his phatta with a journalist. Swineherd's Dormitory Phatta is an exclusive area a group of prisoners carve out in a barrack. It’s like a railway platform with four walls and windows every 30 feet. Our barrack has 250 people sleeping in a space meant for 60. I soon feel beholdened to Sushil, as I watch newcomers struggle to find a six-foot space. They are shouted at and abused until they reach near the two toilets. Imagine sleeping where 250 people defecate daily. The night of reprieve ends at hospital the following morning. They want to measure and weigh me, they indeed keep such mundane statistics. Our minder is a prisoner. I ask the time the doctor would arrive. He’s upon me, hitting me with his staff. Pigs don’t have rights, pigs silently wait in queues. Never ever forget that. I suppose the jail staff get to know about the incident. They don’t want a battered journalist. The jail superintendent introduces me to Bhupinder. I’m to shift to his phatta in barrack no 9. Bhupinder claims to have played cricket for Mohan Meakins, even a few Ranji matches. He has been here on a murder charge for eight years now. And he knows the tricks of survival and how you can have fun. Flowers And Stones With time I learn these tricks. You can make salad. Bribe the guards to smuggle in tomatoes, onions and chillies. But you still need a knife. And knives are a no-no. So you sharpen the handle of spoons till it becomes a kattan, sharp enough to slice. You want to make tea, you want to cook aloo-matar. You need fire. Keep two soap bars parallel to each other, place a dry chapati in between, toss a burning polythene on it. It's your bhatti, the fire searing. Entertainment is just Doordarshan. So you put black ants in bottles and watch them fight. You want to play Chinese-checkers: the floor is the board, flowers and stones your checkers. I have my own survival tactics. I read English newspapers. That's respectable. They borrow city supplements to drool over nangi tasvirs. I have my visitors bring Halidram's bhujia. I share it with them. I request my wife to bring zeera (cumin). They sprinkle it over the curd. I learn to harness my special skills. I write applications to judges. There are many here who can be freed summarily. They are ignorant about it. For instance, you are booked for possessing a knife. Write to the judge and apologise. You have been booked for gambling. Send an application saying you are willing to pay fine. I wrote 100 such applications. The Third Degree Nothing wins me more accolades than my interventions during palti karna. It’s a brutal system of punishment. They string you from a rod upside down. A prisoner hits your feet with a stick. As blood rushes down the body, the victim screams in pain. Sometimes they get him to jog to get the blood circulation going. Then they string him up again. I had the gumption to intervene at least 30 times. I’m respected now even though I’m not here on a murder charge. In November they shift me to hospital. It’s for security reasons. I have a bat purchased. We begin to play cricket in the evening. Prize money: Rs 100. Communion Of Pigs In BJP's India, Hindutva hasn't made inroads into Dasna jail. Hindu inmates perform artis to pictures of deities, Muslims offer namaz. On Diwali, sweets are distributed; on Id, we have phirni, prepared both by Hindus and Muslims in the jail kitchen. Janmashtami is a special day because Lord Krishna was supposed to have been born in prison. It's believed you can curtail your prison term through fasting. Muslims join Hindus in the fast. There are other ways the condemned have managed to keep intact their humanity. Prisoners attend to the sick, rub balm on their bodies, fetch water for them. Pigs have hearts, sir. To Hell And Back I'm granted bail on January 13. Prisoners crowd around me. They have heard it on FM. On January 15, some accompany me through the four gates to salvation. They have tears. I'm a heap of emotions. Have I lost my fear of the state? I'm no pig, sir. I'm dignity. I'm freedom. |
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