Central Jail No. 1 of Tihar Prisons, Asia’s largest correctional complex, housed 1,330 inmates at the end of 2007, more than double its stated capacity of 565. This fact, combined with all manner of assumptions about correctional facilities in the developing world, led me to anticipate, on my drive out to the complex Thursday afternoon, images of horrific human suffering, of malnourished inmates reaching through steel bars to grab at my clothes as I followed armed guards between rows of cells.
Even if I had expected to tour a model facility, certain elements of my experience at Tihar would have come as a shock. Granted, our press visit was tightly controlled, but nevertheless I came away convinced that inmates who stand a chance of being released from the complex after a speedy trial — a fate that, to be sure, will elude some — might actually emerge unscarred by their stay.
Ravi, a metro reporter at
Hindustan Times, invited me to tag along on the visit, during which he hoped to report a feature story on a new policy at the prison regarding the organization of the inmate population.
First, we met with a high-ranking Delhi Prisons officer, who introduced us to the superintendent, who led us on our tour.
Immediately upon stepping onto the grounds, I noticed that the inmates do not wear uniforms. Many of them sport outfits comparable to that of the superintendent, who during our visit wore a green-based plaid short-sleeved collared shirt with dark green pants.
The inmates seemed relatively free to roam the grounds or lounge in the common rooms, airy spaces that include, among other amenities, a television and Ping Pong table. A sign above the television in one of the rooms read, “The best doctors in the world are Dr. Diet, Dr. Quiet and Dr. Cheerfulness.”
When we entered another of the rooms, the superintendent stopped the tour to take in a few Ping Pong rallies with one of the inmates. He then let Ravi begin his interviews.
As you might have gathered from my description of the facility, Central Jail No. 1 is reserved for first-time offenders expected to exhibit model behavior during their stay in the system. (There are 10 facilities, and some of these are reserved for what Ravi termed “hardened criminals.”) However, the fact that an inmate might find himself in one of the less restrictive facilities, such as Central Jail No. 1, does not necessarily mean that the crime he has been accused of committing was minor.
The first inmate Ravi interviewed has been charged for the murder of a man who, improbably, had been a friend of the Hindustan Times photographer accompanying us on the trip. When I questioned why a murderer would be kept in the same place as inmates being held on charges of theft, assault and dowry crimes, Ravi offered the following explanation: “Obviously, it’s a heinous crime. But in his case he was duped out of money. He’s not criminally bent. He is not a habitual offender.”
The second inmate, a rotund 43-year-old wearing a red-and-yellow plaid shirt and khaki pants, was also being held for murder, having been accused of killing a family member over a financial dispute. As Ravi interviewed him, I had my eye on the other inmates crowding around us, hoping, I imagined, for a chance to plead their case in a public forum. The backlog in the courts here means some inmates, once charged, will endure years of incarceration before their case is heard.
After this interview, we headed across the grounds and back to the office of the superintendent. As we strolled down the main walkway, inmates cleared out of our path and stood still alongside it, staring at our somewhat eclectic crew: Ravi, myself, the HT photographer, the superintendent, his attendants and, lastly, a member of the National Human Rights Commission, who conducts regular reviews of the prisons.
There are two images that, it could be argued, wielded undue influence over my perception of the complex as a whole, which was surprisingly positive. The first is that of the human rights commissioner. His presence reminded me that, although the prisoners themselves appeared downtrodden, their surroundings seemed astonishingly livable, even obscurely welcoming.
The second is that of two maps above the television set in one of the common rooms — India on the right and the world on the left. The notion, which the maps underscore, that many of the prisoners at Tihar might leave the complex and go on to lead productive lives in India and elsewhere is comforting, albeit hopeful. It would also be utterly ridiculous had conditions at the prison appeared harsher than they did.
