Murli's Fate

Murli’s Fate

"It is said that no one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails. A nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens, but its lowest ones."
- Nelson Mandela

Murli recoiled in horror when the scarred face grunted into his own.

“Arre, please …. don’t do this to me … I will do whatever you say, puh ... please, please.” he breathed into the evil ear.

Raghu bent closer and grabbed Murli’s neck in a vise.

“If you dare to come in my way again, it will be the last thing you'll do!” The menacing tone and the ugly sneer on his face conveyed this message even more forcefully in Murli’s mind.

This was Murli’s second year as an undertrial in the prison. He sat dazed in a corner, as far away from the filth of the open toilet as he could. Down near the bottom of the pecking order of the jail which he was put in with 20 other inmates, that wasn’t too far. It would have to do for now, he reflected.

Over a year ago, he had been arrested and thrown into this place by a pair of policemen who thought he was the culprit in a roadside scuffle. He did not believe he was, but the details of the incident had already begun to blur in his mind. A road rage incident that had caused him to beat the victim in the eye had caused him to end up in prison … even now, he could not believe that this had caused him to be incarcerated while his parents kept running from pillar to post to try and free him - and were still doing so.

He was about to doze off when he was startled out of his reverie by the crude banging of a ladle on an aluminum tray. It was lunch time, and he knew better than to be late even by a minute. He had seen how the supervisors had, just yesterday, beaten up another inmate black and blue for being 30 seconds late.

I cannot afford that thrashing. I will die!

He made as if to dash for the grilled door, but was tripped by Raghu, who was waiting for him. Falling headlong, Murli stretched out his thin arms to break the fall - but felt a crack in his right arm as he went down.

I broke my arm!

No one around him would even acknowledge his fall, and, before he knew it, he was being crushed under strong legs that went over him and out of the door while he lay whimpering and sobbing, clutching his right arm with his left as best he could while the pain increased by leaps and bounds over the next few minutes.

***

Murli had come to this prison thinking that he would be released within days. After all, his "crime" had simply been a small misdemeanour that would not even have come to the notice of the cops, but had done because the other man was the son of a politician who wanted to "put him in his place", as he had put it.

The policeman who had "taken" him into custody and presented him before the station-in-charge was very clear that the other person was an important man and had told him (the policeman) to "give this 'lout' a taste of his own medicine". The station in-charge, a middle-aged, pot-bellied man by the name of sub-Inspector Ranade had looked him up and down and then smiled unsympathetically. He had barely listened to his side of the story, and then asked his subordinate to "lock the @@@ up!"

After a night's stay at the police station, he was shifted to this prison, where he was kept in solitary confinement for 3 days and then brought to this very room where he had now spent more than a year. During the year, he did see some good things happening too. There would be literacy and numeracy classes, some vocational courses, and even the daily morning assembly with prayers. While these were good in their own way, Murli found no pleasure in them as he kept feeling he was unfairly imprisoned.

When his parents visited him - as they first did after a fortnight of his arrival at this place - they sounded very tired and dispirited. He had tried to lift up their mood by talking about the positive experiences he had had, and even remarked that all this would make him a better person. This had caused his mother to smile a little - but it was a forced, artificial expression, and Murli had twinged inwardly.

Their last visit had been a week ago. They told him they had taken up the matter with their local councillor, who had promised to help as best as he could. However, they had been warned that they were up against a vendetta-seeking, malicious son of a member of the legislative assembly, and he could not promise anything. Murli had held his mother's hands and pumped it gently to convey that he understood the position he was in and did not blame anyone for it but himself.

***

When he came to, he found himself in a chair in the prison’s medical clinic. His arm was in a sling, but it was still paining like hell.

“Nurse! Sister!” He called out to a nurse who was passing by. She did not glance at him. He sat there for an indeterminate time before an orderly came with a tray containing his meal served on a half-bent plate. It looked no different from the meals he had every day. Food fit to throw into the bin had he been at home – but food like this was the norm in prison. Indian dal that looked like yellow water, chapattis that looked as though they had been carved and lifted out of an asphalted road; and some squishy rice that had been splashed onto the plate. An inadequately cleaned piece of onion and a single green chilly completed the contents of his plate.

He held the tray in his injured hand, balancing it against his folded leg and ate what he could. It was a dismal, unsightly performance, with the rice and the dal falling back into the tray more than going down his gullet. He simply could not break the chapatti with one hand, and resorted to holding it between his hand and his teeth to bite a bit of it. Before the fourth morsel could be eaten, the entire tray slipped out of his hand and crashed to the floor.

A policeman was upon him in a flash.

“You scoundrel, you!” Blows rained on him as he tried to crouch, head between his hands, to soften the impact.

“Bachao, bachao! Help!” He screamed to no one in particular. A lady in a white sari with a blue strap, one of the cleaners, came to him, looked at him derisively and threw a rag next to him, threw some water out of a pail on to the mess by his feet and went away.

Crouching on his knees, he bent to the floor and wiped the mess with his one free hand. It seemed to become even messier. The cloth was too small to soak up the large pool of the watery dal and rice. After an unseemly struggle, he had cleared up most of it, hobbling to the wash basin in the corner to clean and wring the cloth before bringing it back to clean up more of the mess. All the while, whenever he touched his right arm, pain shot up the arm to his shoulder and he winced and cried with agony.


***

Murli recalled his previous days in the prison. Right after he was brought in, things looked very scary, but there were a few inmates who made it easier for him to adjust. Ghulam, in prison for a much more sinister crime (he had assaulted a friend over money owed to him and not returned in time), had proven to be a good companion. Ghulam was tall, burly and quick on his feet. He had taken a liking to Murli and had, with a mix of pity and fatherly affection, chosen to protect him against the darker cell-mates.

I remember his first act of generosity as if it was yesterday.

Murli had just returned from the carpentry workshop that he had registered for. This prison had begun to teach him a new skill, and already, he was beginning to earn some pocket money as well as make some new friends. On that particular evening, he was tired and looked grimy and dirty. When he sat down on the floor of his cell, Ghulam came over to commiserate with him.

"Hey, buddy. How are you?" Ghulam said.

Murli wiped the sweat off his brow and mumbled, "Okay, Ghulambhai."

Ghulam stood up and went and brought him a glass of water.

"Drink this, and wash your face as well."

Murli did as he was told. Ghulam rebuked him.

"Why do you work so much. These people will give you more and more work if you are willing to do it."

Murli smiled wanly and said. "Yes, that is true. However, they have never forced me to work. I am beginning to enjoy it as I am learning a new skill AND making money as well."

Ghulam had lapsed into silence after this. However, Murli remembered his gesture of kindness for a long time.

I really miss him. Why did they have to send him away?

***

"Chalo, chalo, the doctor has come," said a voice close to his ear. An orderly had appeared by his side. He was escorted to the consultation room where he was checked by Dr. Rastogi, the jail doctor. The cursory examination was enough for the doctor to decide that the fracture, although a closed one, would need reduction. He signed some papers and arranged for Murli to be sent for a reduction of the fracture under anaesthesia.

Murli was weeping as he was wheeled into the operation theatre. He was cursing the day he had gotten into a mess over the small incident that had occurred over a year ago. Soon, however, he was on the table and being asked to breathe into a mask while anaesthesia was injected into his vein.

When he came to, he was kept for a few more hours and then transported back to his prison.

The jailor, Ramakant Dubey, visited him the next day and after looking over his papers, assured him that he would do whatever was possible to get him out of prison.

Murli found, to his pleasant surprise, that Raghu was nowhere to be seen.

"He has been sent to solitary, yaar," said one of his many friendly cell-mates. Solitary referred to the single "anda" cells that the prison had where hard-core criminals were isolated to allow them to cool off their passions.

***

Two days later, Murli was first informed that his incarceration was about to end. His parents were allowed to meet him out of schedule. He was even allowed to have food from home.

Fourteen days after this, he was brought before a magistrate and sentenced to pay a fine of Rs. 5000/=, which was paid by his parents. He was discharged.

***

Epilogue:

Murli uses his new skill to renovate his humble abode. He is due to be married shortly, to a simple girl he liked when her photograph was shown to him by a pandit who moonlighted as a marriage agent.

(End)

***

Post-script: Prisons in India are mostly filled with undertrials – 67%, according to one estimate. Reformation activities do occur, and they are often highlighted, but most prisons continue to have abysmal conditions. As the death penalty still exists for the rarest of rare crimes, there are about 3-4% of prisoners waiting on death row, their appeals for clemency at some level of progression. Female prisoners account for less than 10% of all prisoners.

All the experiences related in the above story are based on articles and research available on the net. While the story does paint a dismal picture of India, it is more or less the truth. We do have good jailors and bad ones, and good prisons and bad ones, but the system itself needs overhauling. And therein lies the true challenges that India faces.