“Madam, maine kuch nahi kiya madam. Mujhe yahaan se nikaal lijiye,” Sitaram Shahi, a prisoner inside Tihar, wept tears of desperation to me. This was my first time inside Tihar Jail, or inside any jail for that matter.
I was on a team of Law students from our college who went to Tihar for a free Legal Aid Clinic. Tihar was full of undertrials whom the police had arrested for petty offences. Many of the accused were poor, didn’t have the resources to hire a lawyer, and were languishing in jail for much more time than their crimes warranted. With an average of 16,000 inmates at any given time, Tihar was teeming with prisoners. The administration wanted to clear these longstanding cases for petty crimes which lawyers did not have the time to attend to. So with a bid to clear space, they came up with the idea of recruiting final year law students for disposing off these cases.
We had to clear several security checks and a pat-down by a lady-officers before the enormous iron gates of Tihar jail opened for us.I wasn’t quite expecting what I saw once we entered the premises of the jail. The first thing that struck me was how sparkling clean it was. Our Legal Clinic Clinic was started a few years after IPS officer Kiran Bedi had launched massive reforms in the jail, so this was the new avatar of Tihar we were introduced to. She believed in the philosophy that criminals could be reformed, and deserved to live under humane conditions. Under her administration, Tihar had undergone a complete overhaul.
Two police officers showed us around the Jail. Beyond the gate, is a massive compound with paved roads and manicured green lawns. At the center of one of the lawns is a circular water-feature with a couple of water-fountains. Tihar straddles an area of four hundred acres, so its not possible to take a tour of the whole jail in a few hours. The officers took us to the carpentry and weaving units, the meditation halls and the prayer halls. Graffiti with encouraging words like “Jeevan mein haar manna sabse badi kaayarta hai,” “Vishwas ke bina vikaas nahi hota” were painted on the walls. They did not take us to the cells where the inmates are locked up.
Despite the sanitized and organized environment, there is a heaviness in the air that you just cannot escape. It’s almost as if the collective sadness of the place floats in the air and descends on your shoulders. The inmates, who are not deemed to be dangerous, perform all the cooking and maintenance jobs in the jail. Dressed in white kurta pajamas, with stony faces and vacant looks, they go about their activities silently—cooking, grinding wheat, raking dead leaves. Though I knew that some of them are convicted of heinous crimes, yet it was really hard to see so many individuals–shackled, deprived of their freedom and their chance at living a full life.
The officers seated us on cane chairs near the fountain. Two inmates, who worked in the kitchen, brought us chai and hot aloo-pakodas. I felt uncomfortable to be treated like a guest and enjoy pakodas in that oppressive environment. It just felt so out of place.
After tea, the officers took us into a drab room with some rickety tables and chairs, and asked to wait. After a few minutes, they brought in the undertrials. The undertrials were wearing normal clothes unlike the convicts who wore kurta pajamas. They allotted each of us on the Legal Aid team with one case each. The police officer brought one of the convicts to me—he was about fifty years old, barely five feet tall, with stained clothes and grimy hands and feet. It has been fifteen years since that day, but his troubled face is still crystal clear in my memory.
I looked at his papers—there were charges of theft against him. He had already been in Tihar for eleven months. I asked him why the police had arrested him. He started weeping almost instantly.
He said, “ My name is Sitaram Shahi.I am a tailor from Saharanpur in UP. I came to Delhi for a nephew’s wedding. The day after the wedding, I boarded a bus in Delhi’s ISBT Terminus to go home. Suddenly, the person sitting in my adjoining seat made a hue and cry that his wallet was missing. He claimed that it had three hundred rupees. The police came and arrested me.”
“Why did they arrest you?,” I asked.
“The man accused me of stealing his wallet. So the police searched my bags and found a wallet. But that was not his wallet, it was my wallet. Maine kuch nahi kiya Madam,” he wept.
“Did your wallet also have three hundred rupees?,” I asked.
“Yes Madam,” he said. His story did not sound all that convincing. The constable next to me whispered, “Yeh log bahut jhooth bolte hai Madam..aap vishwas mat karna.”
My client started said crying even more. “Madam,” he said. “I have been here for eleven months. My wife and children don’t even know that I am in jail. In my village, they are probably thinking I am dead.”
I kept a professional front but I felt for him. The maximum imprisonment for petty thefts of that nature was three months. Even if Sitaram Shahi was lying to me, he had already spent eleven months in Tihar without a trial—effectively more than three times the punishment he was due, if he had indeed been convicted of the crime. “Justice delayed is justice denied”—so profoundly true, I thought.
I told him I will do what I can. I only had to fill up some simple forms. After around two hours, the officers in charge took us to another big hall. A judge was already waiting for us. Each of us had to stand in front of the judge and present the case to him. To my client, I represented hope, the only chance to get out of Tihar. I did not have the heart to tell him that I was only a law student, not a seasoned lawyer—and this was the first time I was ever presenting a case before a judge. I felt nervous.
The cases allotted to us were for minor offences. So unless there were any complications associated to the case, the judge released the accused after a short hearing. I presented my case briefly—I emphasized on the fact that he had already served eleven months. The judge asked me a few questions which I was able to answer. Then he signed a document and said, “Released. Next case.” A wave of relief swept over me. I turned towards Sitaram Shahi and smiled. Tears were streaming down his face. The fifty year old man fell on my feet, his hands still tied with rope saying, “Bahut bahut shukriya, Madam.” I was mortified. I grabbed him by the shoulders and told him that I was just doing my job, there was no need to touch my feet.
Once the hearings were over, all the undertrials now freed, were seated in vans waiting for them. Sitaram Shahi pressed his face against the window, a big smile on his face, and waved to me for as long as I could see him.
The officers led us to the gate and after signing out, the guards opened the gates of Tihar to let us out. I heaved a sigh of relief. I had never really savored the blue skies, the heat and noise of Delhi traffic, the dust in the air, and my ability to walk free as I did on that day.
***THE END***
“Madam, maine kuch nahi kiya madam. Mujhe yahaan se nikaal lijiye,” Sitaram Shahi, a prisoner inside Tihar, wept tears of desperation to me. This was my first time inside Tihar Jail, or inside any jail for that matter.
I was on a team of Law students from our college who went to Tihar for a free Legal Aid Clinic. Tihar was full of undertrials whom the police had arrested for petty offences. Many of the accused were poor, didn’t have the resources to hire a lawyer, and were languishing in jail for much more time than their crimes warranted. With an average of 16,000 inmates at any given time, Tihar was teeming with prisoners. The administration wanted to clear these longstanding cases for petty crimes which lawyers did not have the time to attend to. So with a bid to clear space, they came up with the idea of recruiting final year law students for disposing off these cases.
We had to clear several security checks and a pat-down by a lady-officers before the enormous iron gates of Tihar jail opened for us.I wasn’t quite expecting what I saw once we entered the premises of the jail. The first thing that struck me was how sparkling clean it was. Our Legal Clinic Clinic was started a few years after IPS officer Kiran Bedi had launched massive reforms in the jail, so this was the new avatar of Tihar we were introduced to. She believed in the philosophy that criminals could be reformed, and deserved to live under humane conditions. Under her administration, Tihar had undergone a complete overhaul.
Two police officers showed us around the Jail. Beyond the gate, is a massive compound with paved roads and manicured green lawns. At the center of one of the lawns is a circular water-feature with a couple of water-fountains. Tihar straddles an area of four hundred acres, so its not possible to take a tour of the whole jail in a few hours. The officers took us to the carpentry and weaving units, the meditation halls and the prayer halls. Graffiti with encouraging words like “Jeevan mein haar manna sabse badi kaayarta hai,” “Vishwas ke bina vikaas nahi hota” were painted on the walls. They did not take us to the cells where the inmates are locked up.
Despite the sanitized and organized environment, there is a heaviness in the air that you just cannot escape. It’s almost as if the collective sadness of the place floats in the air and descends on your shoulders. The inmates, who are not deemed to be dangerous, perform all the cooking and maintenance jobs in the jail. Dressed in white kurta pajamas, with stony faces and vacant looks, they go about their activities silently—cooking, grinding wheat, raking dead leaves. Though I knew that some of them are convicted of heinous crimes, yet it was really hard to see so many individuals–shackled, deprived of their freedom and their chance at living a full life.
The officers seated us on cane chairs near the fountain. Two inmates, who worked in the kitchen, brought us chai and hot aloo-pakodas. I felt uncomfortable to be treated like a guest and enjoy pakodas in that oppressive environment. It just felt so out of place.
After tea, the officers took us into a drab room with some rickety tables and chairs, and asked to wait. After a few minutes, they brought in the undertrials. The undertrials were wearing normal clothes unlike the convicts who wore kurta pajamas. They allotted each of us on the Legal Aid team with one case each. The police officer brought one of the convicts to me—he was about fifty years old, barely five feet tall, with stained clothes and grimy hands and feet. It has been fifteen years since that day, but his troubled face is still crystal clear in my memory.
I looked at his papers—there were charges of theft against him. He had already been in Tihar for eleven months. I asked him why the police had arrested him. He started weeping almost instantly.
He said, “ My name is Sitaram Shahi.I am a tailor from Saharanpur in UP. I came to Delhi for a nephew’s wedding. The day after the wedding, I boarded a bus in Delhi’s ISBT Terminus to go home. Suddenly, the person sitting in my adjoining seat made a hue and cry that his wallet was missing. He claimed that it had three hundred rupees. The police came and arrested me.”
“Why did they arrest you?,” I asked.
“The man accused me of stealing his wallet. So the police searched my bags and found a wallet. But that was not his wallet, it was my wallet. Maine kuch nahi kiya Madam,” he wept.
“Did your wallet also have three hundred rupees?,” I asked.
“Yes Madam,” he said. His story did not sound all that convincing. The constable next to me whispered, “Yeh log bahut jhooth bolte hai Madam..aap vishwas mat karna.”
My client started said crying even more. “Madam,” he said. “I have been here for eleven months. My wife and children don’t even know that I am in jail. In my village, they are probably thinking I am dead.”
I kept a professional front but I felt for him. The maximum imprisonment for petty thefts of that nature was three months. Even if Sitaram Shahi was lying to me, he had already spent eleven months in Tihar without a trial—effectively more than three times the punishment he was due, if he had indeed been convicted of the crime. “Justice delayed is justice denied”—so profoundly true, I thought.
I told him I will do what I can. I only had to fill up some simple forms. After around two hours, the officers in charge took us to another big hall. A judge was already waiting for us. Each of us had to stand in front of the judge and present the case to him. To my client, I represented hope, the only chance to get out of Tihar. I did not have the heart to tell him that I was only a law student, not a seasoned lawyer—and this was the first time I was ever presenting a case before a judge. I felt nervous.
The cases allotted to us were for minor offences. So unless there were any complications associated to the case, the judge released the accused after a short hearing. I presented my case briefly—I emphasized on the fact that he had already served eleven months. The judge asked me a few questions which I was able to answer. Then he signed a document and said, “Released. Next case.” A wave of relief swept over me. I turned towards Sitaram Shahi and smiled. Tears were streaming down his face. The fifty year old man fell on my feet, his hands still tied with rope saying, “Bahut bahut shukriya, Madam.” I was mortified. I grabbed him by the shoulders and told him that I was just doing my job, there was no need to touch my feet.
Once the hearings were over, all the undertrials now freed, were seated in vans waiting for them. Sitaram Shahi pressed his face against the window, a big smile on his face, and waved to me for as long as I could see him.
The officers led us to the gate and after signing out, the guards opened the gates of Tihar to let us out. I heaved a sigh of relief. I had never really savored the blue skies, the heat and noise of Delhi traffic, the dust in the air, and my ability to walk free as I did on that day.
***THE END***
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