An Unlocked CELL BEHIND Prison Walls

Every visit to Arthur Road Jail, India’s most sensitive lock-up, can be an adventure in itself

Mateen Hafeez | TNN

It was an eye camp for undertrials in the country’s most sensitive prison, Arthur Road Jail. Not exactly an eye-popping assignment, but a worthy excuse for the motley tribe of crime reporters to enter the highsecurity hub.

I walked past the main gate towards the smaller padlocked one where a pot-bellied constable with a walrus moustache asked, “Whom do you want to meet?’’ I flashed my press card and he ambled across to open the gate. “How many times a day do you unlock this gate?’’ I asked.

I don’t know if he was joking, but he tonelessly offered, “Around 500 times.’’ His colleague mechanically added, “Switch off your cellphone.’’ I promptly did so.

Blame it on my heightened consciousness in top-security settings or the eclectic nature of the inmates at Arthur Road Jail, but each visit there has been an adventure in itself. I bumped into a convict sweeping the courtyard. I asked him for directions to the eye camp, but he only glowered back. Then he discovered I was a reporter and a strange misery crossed his face: “Aap mera ek kaam kar denge kya ?’’ he pleaded. He wanted me to ask his relatives to come meet him. I asked, “Can’t you ask the jailer to call your relatives?’’ He simply scooted off.

At the hospital (which looked more like a dispensary), there was a long queue of undertrials in jeans, trousers, lungis, shorts and whathave-yous. I focused on a known face—a man in jeans and black Tshirt who was an accused in the 1993 serial blasts case. In his early 30s, he was always clean shaven, sported gelled hair, and wore neat footwear and ironed clothes. I killed the urge to ask Hazrat (as I call him) the secret of his natty appearance, and instead queried: “Do all these men have eye problems?’’ Hazrat, the cool bhai, answered: “Most have come to collect the free sunglasses.’’

He then introduced me to a “special’’ person. “Bhai, yeh newspaper se aaye hain,’’ he told a man in his early 50s. I recognised the salt-and-pepper-haired gent from his news photos. He was also an accused in the serial blasts case and had been deported from the UAE. Here’s a real bhai, I said to myself. Surrounded by half-a-dozen cronies, he looked at me sharply before unexpectedly asking, “Aren’t you the journalist who got bashed up by a gangster a few years ago?’’ I said “yes’’ and added that I had filed a police case. The bhai took out a madein-Yemen Rothmans and lit up. Half his cronies followed suit.

``Why don’t you write about the stinking toilets, broken rooms and stale food here?’’ he asked. Pointing to a police constable, he added, “These babas (constables) are corrupt. They provide everything if they are paid. I have told my men not to pay them a single paisa. If they ask for a bribe, I will talk to their bosses.’’

A famished-looking criminal, wearing a dirty, reeking T-shirt, stopped by to ask for a cigarette stub. “Take it and get lost,’’ one of the cronies growled. Dozens of other petty criminals watched the bhai’s battalion. One gathered the courage to say, “Bhai, we need your help to fight our legal cases. We are poor. We have been framed.’’

“I am not Haatim Tai to shower money on others. However, I will see what can be done about you,’’ the bhai replied and asked one of his men to collect the details. This was how gangsters enlisted men. Offer a small favour, forge a bond.

Hazrat brought me back to the real world. “Write about the doctors here,’’ he said. “We have two. One is a child specialist and the other has come from a post-mortem centre. They give the same medicines for everything, without listening to the patients’ problems properly.’’ It was apparent that Hazrat was using me to flaunt his ‘connections’ to the people around.

When the meeting ended, Hazrat asked to use my mobile phone. I tried to shake him off by saying, “My phone’s not working because of the mobile-jammer installed here.’’ But he persisted: “The jammer is of low quality and dysfunctional. It seems you don’t want to give me your mobile. It’s OK, but remember how D K Rao (a gangster) had used a phone and three SIM cards before the crime branch seized them?’’

Hazrat said he was writing a book on the jail. I wished him luck and left to get details for my story. After collecting information, I switched on my cell just for kicks. Within seconds, the metro editor called. “Do you have a story?’’ he asked. I don’t remember my answer. I was still digesting the fact that my cell phone was working inside Arthur Road Jail.

mateen.hafeez@timesgroup.com

(This is the 13th and the last in a series in which TOI reporters speak of an unforgettable experience during their assignments in the year that has just ended.)

The Times of India, January 6, 2008