Souls In Torment

For the 250-odd inmates at the Yerawada Female Jail comprising 124 undertrials, 126 convicts and three detenues, Time is the jailor, the most revered inmate...the great leveller. In the best of moods, it becomes a Muse, a grey manure for thought. Twenty-year-old Ranjana cast aside her childhood after she was convicted for life and turned to toying with tormenting thoughts. Which flowed as poetry when put to paper. As did 36-year-old Rooksana Khan from South Africa: Qaid hain hum tumhe kya bataye, zindagi kis tarah jee rahe hain, maut ne hum ko mara, ahe gum, zindagi ke sataye hue hain (what shall we say about this walled-off life; killed by death, tormented as we live).

In the last decade—1986-96—three times more women have been convicted than men in Maharashtra. Victims of inexplicable rage before turning to gruesome crime, of the 654 women prisoners in the state, 48 per cent have been convicted for murder. Most are mothers-in-law convicted for setting ablaze little-loved daughters-in-law—Sarla is the only one who killed her mother-in-law. Others have been caught in cases of gold and drug smuggling—Indian women and their ‘phirang’ counterparts. Closed in by walls erected in 1928 and uniformed in pale green saris, they serve a punishment far worse than the one meted out by the system. That inflicted by the society of which they were a part in the not-so-distant past. Again and again, as unchanging as the 5.30 am to 6.30 pm routine in their prison, an unforgiving milieu tells them that women with a prison past have no future. "There are many whose husbands have remarried and very few families come visiting. Now, a woman would never do something like this if her husband is even convicted for life," says superintendent Swati Sathe.

In a society that finds it difficult to forgive, much less forget, being a criminal is bad enough. Being a woman means no reprieve. "Please don’t mention the state I hail from," pleads a young college dropout serving her life sentence, "our people back home will never forgive us." And yet some find strength in confinement. Under the blazing gulmohur trees, toddlers take their first faltering steps and hearten their mothers. Four-month-old Krishna is one of the 23 young innocents permitted by law to stay with their mothers inside the prison. For every 10 women, there is one mother-child duo.

Others are not so lucky. "Please grant me permission to see my children," writes Parvati to the superintendent. Her children are grown up and by prison rules, not allowed to see their mothers every day. "The sorrow is more because they have to live without their children. That is why we are creating a greenhouse in the women’s prison, so that it would help replicate the act of nurturing," says M. G. Naravane, inspector general, prisons (Maharashtra).

They have learnt of ways to utilise their time effectively. Some seek solace in songs—Pardesi, pardesi, jaana nahin; Achcha silla diya tune mere pyar ka.... Except for a few, library books from the male prison go back unread. Septuagenarian Sabira, whose entire family comprising her husband and son are behind bars, does crochets; others like Swiss-born Tanya make cards. Rooksana does a bit of fabric-painting. "There is so much talent here, but the means to encourage it are missing," says Tanya. There are others who work in the garam masala-making unit, the only one of its kind, which sends food to prison kitchens across the state. There are also the chalk-making and candle-making sections, an umbrella-making and repairing unit and a tailoring section which makes uniforms, sweaters and mufflers for male convicts.

PROLONGED proximity in the jail factory culminates in blood-thick relationships. M. Singh sends his mother Rs 300 and her barrack ‘bahen’ Rs 100. With the forging of new friendships, however, also springs unavoidable hate currents. Lives of quiet desperation find violent voices on unbearable days. "The foreigners are more aggressive than the Indians," says Naravane. "They are educated, aware of their rights and have seen the world, unlike our own who haven’t stepped beyond their own familiar world." "Can you send us some foreign periodicals and magazines? We want more out of living here than just being asked dal khaya, bhaji khaya," complains a group of Africans who speak Hindi and Marathi fluently. Naravane has a stern reply: "Prisons can’t be made more comfortable than homes." 

Discord erupts occasionally over demands for a doctor, medicines, or the distribution of essentials. For some, Vipasana is expected to perform miracles. But even as the women meditate in between breaks, religion is not encouraged. Nor ‘unhealthy’ relationships. "I do not spend the nights here," says Y.A. Samant, jailer for 19 years in Yerawada, "so I do not know. Even if these things happen, one can’t do anything without proof." And so the fanless four barracks are cramped emotionally with unfulfilled desires and physically with overcrowded human beings. The last might change. Since the number of women prisoners is 1.14 per cent more than the capacity in Mumbai and Pune central prisons, women’s prisons are likely to be set up in Kolhapur, Nashik Road, Aurangabad, Amravati and Nagpur.

There is a loneliness in numbers. Gangubai breaks into inconsolable tears for no apparent reason. The foreigners are luckier—distance and diluted bonds induce more familial forgiveness. Naziana’s hip-length hair is washed and tended by shampoos sent by her folks in Mauritius. A Sri Lankan grandmother, appealing against a Rs 1 crore gold-smuggling case, says: "Our family is very rich and we have shops in Dubai and Mumbai. My family sends me money... they eagerly await my return. But most of the others here are very poor and lonely." A fortunate few dip into the PPC (Prisoners’ Private Cash), earned from either hard work at the factory or an extra bit of money sent by compassionate relatives.

 Remorse is rare; acceptance of guilt, never. Always, the clamour lies in turning the clock back. But violent Time, having devoured the faint traces of youth, mockingly turns its back.