by Jigna Vora
Around four months after joining Mid-Day, I received a call from the senior officer from the Compound. He confirmed that the time was ripe to break the Pradeep Sharma story. I filed a story without mentioning Sharma’s name. The story read that a decorated encounter specialist was about to be arrested in a fake encounter case. I was excited that I was finally going to get a byline of Mid-Day’s front page. But to my shock, the story was confined to a single column at the bottom of page number four. That day, I barged into editor Shishir Joshi’s cabin.
‘What on earth is this?’ I said. ‘This story was page-one material!’
Shishir uncrossed his legs and looked up from his laptop. ‘Why do you think so, Jigna?’
‘This policeman is the most feared encounter specialist in Mumbai Police.’
‘But you haven’t named him in the report.’
‘He hasn’t been arrested yet. How can I name him?’
‘That is exactly why the story is not on page one,’ he said in a calm tone.
I turned around in a huff and left, pretty sure that the story would have been a page-one story at Mumbai Mirror or any other newspaper for that matter. A few days later, I received an unexpected call from Hussain Zaidi. He inquired about the story on Pradeep Sharma. I nonchalantly replied that it was a story that came my way, and I had pursued it. He realized I had no idea of the feathers I had ruffled, and hung up.
In the six months that I worked with Mid-Day, I had only one page-one story. It was a sting operation involving a public prosecutor from Mazgaon accepting bribe. I felt lifeless at Mid-Day. The reporter inside me was in a state of turmoil. I had witnessed the dull office come to life only once during my stint. It was the day when Benazir Bhutto was assassinated on 27 December 2007. I was asked to get a quote from a famous lawyer, which I dutifully did. That day, reporters weren’t allowed to leave until the edition was sent to print. But some of the editors did not even leave the comfort of their cabins.
Perhaps the best part of working with Mid-Day was the food in the canteen.
I started looking out for newer opportunities. During those days, there were murmurs about Deccan Chronicle taking over the Asian Age and that they were sprucing up the reporting team. Hussain Zaidi was the resident editor at Asian Age. In March 2008, I called him and asked if he was looking to hire a court reporter. I was not sure if he would consider me for the vacancy. To my surprise and relief, he asked me to come over for an interview.
10
THE OUTSIDERS
The day I was remanded to judicial custody and sent to Byculla Jail, my lawyer asked me to contact Elizabeth, a Nigerian inmate, in case I needed any help. He had said it without any further explanation, but I knew he meant I had to go to her in case I was harassed too much in prison. Fortunately, the fact that the inmates and cops both knew I was a journalist helped, and I was saved from any major harassment. They believed I had influential contacts, and never crossed my line. So, I didn’t go out searching for Elizabeth.
Barrack No. 2, where I was lodged, had no Africans. They were all housed in Barracks 3, 4 and 5 on the first floor. A few days later in mid-December, during a routine visit to Dr Khan, the jail doctor, I inadvertently ran into Elizabeth. She was a young woman, about twenty-four years old, with curly hair. I was surprised to find out that she could speak in fluent Hindi and Marathi.
After some perfunctory conversation, she herself told me why she was in jail.
‘They arrested me at Mumbai airport,’ she said in Hindi. ‘I was carrying drugs.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Six years, almost,’ she said.
‘And how did you learn to speak Hindi?’
‘Oh, there’s a story behind it,’ she said.
Apparently, the police officials at the Mumbai airport had detected tiny pouches of drugs that she had swallowed. This was her first trip to India as a drug mule. After her arrest, she had been brought to Byculla Jail. For most inmates, a court hearing is scheduled every fourteen days, but foreigners like Elizabeth often have no lawyers. She also did not receive any support from her embassy and her first court visit was scheduled only three months after her arrest. This too was made possible because of the fellow Africans lodged in the jail who had helped her get a lawyer. Once she settled down in the prison, some of the fellow inmates whom she had befriended promised to teach her Hindi. She was told that if she could communicate in the language with the judge, she might be released early. Elizabeth was a fast learner. Her Hindi training went on for days.
On the day of the hearing, Elizabeth was taken to the court, and when the judge called out her name, she folded her hands and bowed in an elaborate ‘namaste’, just like she had been taught. The judge appeared pleased, and he smiled and asked her another question. In response, Elizabeth parroted the next line that was taught to her.
‘Teri maa ki chut.’
Before the horrified judge could speak, Elizabeth dropped the next shocker.
‘Teri maa ka bhosda,’ she shouted.
The people seated in the court burst out laughing. The judge yelled for the police to drag Elizabeth out of his court. She didn’t even realize what she had done wrong, and only kept repeating what she was taught. On the way back to jail, in the police van, a woman constable explained to Elizabeth what she had said and the consequences of her actions. On returning to Byculla Jail, Elizabeth got into a fight with the inmates who had played this joke on her. After that, Elizabeth did not get a court hearing for six months. But that made her determined to closely observe and learn the local language. And her effort showed clearly. I had lived in Mumbai most of my life, but Elizabeth’s Marathi could put mine to shame.
The Africans were the strongest close-knit group in the jail. The other inmates had branded all Africans as Nigerians. But these women were from various countries of the African continent, some that I had never even heard of. Born in poverty, most of these women had got on the wrong side of the law for small amounts of money. Many of them had HIV, because of which some inmates stayed away from them. Almost all the inmates would suffix their name with the word ‘mumma’ while addressing them, especially the elder women, to show respect.
Over the course of my term, I befriended a lady called Melody Mumma who had been incarcerated for ten years. She was in her fifties, tall and thin, and a motherly figure for the others in her group. She and her boyfriend had boarded separate flights to Mumbai and Delhi respectively. Both of them were carrying drugs that were a part of a consignment that Melody’s son-in-law was shipping to India. And both of them were arrested. Melody was sent to Byculla Jail, and her boyfriend was sent to Tihar Jail.
‘There’s a lot of poverty back home,’ Melody Mumma said. ‘So, I agreed to carry drugs to India for 500 dollars.’
‘You risked a jail term for such a low amount?’
‘In my country 500 dollars is a lot of money actually,’ she said. ‘We are so poor that some girls don’t get food to eat, and they have to solicit customers for as little as two or three dollars.’
That explained why most of these women had HIV. They were forced into prostitution to feed themselves and their families. And since they were not educated about the use of protection or safe sexual practices, they ended up contracting this deadly disease. The irony was that they were unaware of their condition until they landed up in Byculla Jail, where a blood test was carried out mandatorily. This is when most of them were told that they had HIV. The inmates infected with HIV received free medical treatment and support from various NGOs who worked with the jail authorities. Melody Mumma confessed that they would get no medical treatment in their own countries.
‘Jail is better than home,’ she said. ‘We get three meals a day here. And this place is more hygienic.’
But that did not stop her from praying for her release. Her boyfriend had managed to secure bail from Tihar, and he was trying to get bail for her. She often read from a book called Prayer Rain, by Dr D.K. Olukoya, which she claimed was the
most powerful and practical prayer manual ever written. Melody Mumma would often wake up at 3 a.m. and whisper prayers while reading from the book.
‘If you read this book,’ she said, ‘you will get bail soon. You are a good soul.’
Melody Mumma also gave me a copy of the Bible. The thing with jail is that it makes you cling to the smallest glimmer of hope you can find. I had never fasted all my life, but in Byculla Jail I began fasting to please the gods, in the hope that I would be set free. I also started observing maun vrats (silence). In those periods of silence, I would not speak a word to others around me. And I started reading from Prayer Rain. These little trysts with spirituality gave me the strength to tide over the difficult times. When I left prison, I purchased a copy of Prayer Rain, and continued reading from it on the nights I could not sleep at home. A year after I was released, Melody was convicted for carrying drugs. But since she had already spent more time in jail than what her sentence provided for, she was set free.
Usha Maa, the warden, had told me that the Africans were extremely difficult to control during the first few days of their term.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘They are all drugs addicts,’ she said. ‘The withdrawal makes them agitated.’
‘How did you restrain them, then?’
‘The severe cases are sent for rehabilitation at J.J. Hospital.’
*
I wasn’t used to taking naps in the afternoon, but I would feel so lethargic in jail that I would sleep for three hours every afternoon. At nights, when the inmates would gather to watch ‘Voice of India’ on TV, a song-based reality show, I would doze off right in the middle of the programme. At times, I thought that my mind and body had adopted sleep as an escape. But the inmates told me another story. In order to maintain order, the jail food was laced with sedatives, they said.
When I was reporting, gangster Abu Salem and terrorist Ajmal Kasab had made similar allegations about the jail food. At that time, I had laughed it off, thinking that the criminals were trying to simply create a fuss. But now, I had doubts.
During a visit to Dr Khan, I asked him if my fears about the food were true. He vehemently denied it. But Usha Maa seemed to agree with the rumours of the sedatives. ‘They lace the food with some chemicals to put off sexual desire,’ she said. ‘Else the entire jail will be full of lesbian activity.’
Usha Maa advised me against talking to an African inmate called Yusuf Mumma, who was said to be in a lesbian relationship with another inmate. Inmates having sex with each other wasn’t uncommon in Byculla Jail at all.
The African inmates would be very happy when any inmate would walk out of the Byculla Jail after acquittal or bail. This was unlike the local inmates, who only reserved jealously for each other. The locals would hurl the choicest of curses on those who were about to get their freedom back. The Africans never complained about the quality of food. Since they could not bear the spice of Indian cuisine, their food was prepared separately, and though it was as bad as what was served to the rest of us, it was still better than what they could eat back home. They also actively participated in the Holi celebrations conducted by Pragya Singh Thakur. They were a lively group who stood with each other through thick and thin. For Christmas, they procured grapes and managed to ferment it into wine, which was given in small quantities to all inmates. We sipped on the wine while the Africans sang ‘Jingle Bells’ and other carols. On New Year’s Eve, the Africans would throw a sort of a party after taking due permission from the authorities. They would sing songs and dance the night away. I was amazed at the sight of this celebration in jail. But these gatherings served as a good distraction.
The Africans would plan their hospital visits in advance. Going to J.J. Hospital was a chance for the African women to meet their male counterparts from Arthur Road Jail, who would arrange a visit at the same time. Once, I arranged for a check-up at J.J. and sent word to my sister-in-law and my son Nishil to meet me at the hospital. As the police van drove me to the hospital, I passed by the famous Almas Restaurant. I loved the food, and it was my place of choice to catch up with my sources when I was a journalist. The mere sight of the hotel made me hungry. When I reached the hospital, Nishil was already waiting with a packet of chicken biryani from Almas. I was touched by his gesture, but I had given up on non-vegetarian food in the hope of securing an early release. Though I did not eat the food, I hugged him for the care he had shown. I put on a strong face for him. If he saw me crying, he would feel all the more miserable. We spoke a lot for two hours, until the cops came. Then it was time to go back to the barracks again.
Once a month, the court magistrate would visit the jail for an inspection. On these days, the quality of the food would be extremely good so that no inmate could complain about it. The jailer would often make it a point to introduce me to the magistrate. But for me, the introduction would always be an embarrassment, given the fact that I was a journalist who was now in prison. I would look at the floor, and answer the magistrate’s questions in monosyllables, unable to meet his eye. I dreaded being introduced to the magistrates so much that I would pray for a court visit to be scheduled whenever their inspection was due.
*
One day, after the bandi, a constable came up to my barrack. ‘Jigna,’ she said. ‘IG sahab has called you to his office.’
I wondered why the inspector general of prisons wanted to see me in his cabin at such a late hour. All sorts of worrying thoughts flooded my mind. Had the Crime Branch officials cooked up more evidence against me? Was my family okay? As the constable led me towards the IG’s cabin, Pushpa Kadam, the jailer, came around with a worried look.
‘What did you do this time?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Did you complain against us in the court?’
I shrugged. ‘No.’
The walk to the IG’s office would have hardly been two minutes from the barrack, but it felt like an hour. Outside the cabin, the constable ordered me to take off my footwear and enter the cabin. I did as I was told, and nervously stepped inside. I was surprised to see Surinder Kumar, the inspector general (prisons), standing up to greet me. He was wearing a chequered blue shirt.
In 2009, while working for the Asian Age, I was part of a media delegation that had accompanied the additional chief secretary (home) to Gadchiroli, a Naxal-affected area in the interiors of Maharashtra. Since this was a conflict zone, the additional chief secretary was provided with Z+ security. Kumar was then posted as the IG of the Gadchiroli range, and he was entrusted with the security of the media delegation, which included four reporters from various publications, including me. After we landed at Nagpur airport, Kumar had personally accompanied me in his official Ambassador car to the village, where we were briefed about various development initiatives taken by the government. A rehabilitation centre for naxals was inaugurated. During our interaction, I had found him to be an extremely courteous officer.
And now I was standing before Kumar as an accused in a murder case. As he stood up from his desk, his eyes fell on my bare feet. Immediately, he pressed a bell and called for the constable who was standing outside his office. He asked her why I was not wearing any footwear. When the constable cited the norm, he advised her to ensure it did not happen to me again. Then I put my sandals back on. Strangely, it felt like a bit of my dignity had been restored. He asked me to take a seat.
‘How did you land up here, Jigna?’ he said.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ I said. ‘I haven’t committed any crime.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am sure there is some misunderstanding. The system has a way of targeting upright people.’
He went on to explain how he had never bowed down to political pressure, and to the lure of easy money, during all his years of service. For that reason, he had often been sidelined from good postings, and he found himself in obscure positions, like this one, that did no justice to his abilities. Even then, he was trying to make a difference with his initiativ
es.
‘You have been here for a month and a half,’ he said. ‘How can we make things better for the inmates?’
‘Sir, the food is really terrible,’ I said. ‘The rotis are inedible. Even if some of us are on the wrong side of the law, we are still humans and our basic need for food must be protected.’
He took notes in his diary. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I will have a copy of the jail manual sent to you. Please read it and let me know what other reforms are needed.’
He stood up again and shook my hand, and also advised me to keep faith in the judiciary. His words lifted my sagging morale, and I was thankful for the respect he had shown to me. Back in the barrack, around 7 p.m., the constable provided me with the jail manual. The next morning, the entire jail was abuzz with news of my meeting with the IG. Many inmates lined up to ask me questions. Some wanted to know if I could ask for favours, some were curious if I was going to be set free. Some were just more friendly to me because of my newly visible connections and some prodded me about what the IG and I had talked about. The topic was discussed for several days and I could feel that the inmates assumed that I had a certain hold. But the attention I had grabbed had not gone down well with Jaya Chheda, who feared losing her hold over the jail.
11
THE RISE AND FALL
Deccan Chronicle was a revered brand in south India. The Asian Age was a publication part of the group, and it commanded great respect too. I was told that A.T. Jayanthi, the senior-most editor of Asian Age, would interview me before a final call on my hiring was taken. In March 2018, while the city enjoyed Rang Panchami, I sat at the office in Todi Industrial Estate, Lower Parel, waiting to be called in. The exterior of the office was like a garage shed. Strangely, a long car covered with a plastic sheet that had gathered a thick layer of dust remained parked in the compound. It was only later that I learnt it was a high-end silver-coloured Mercedes.