Jailbird Jabbar
ABOUT THE STORY In 2007, the Naxal activist Vernon Gonsalves was arrested by the Maharashtra Police and charged on 18 counts, including that of waging guerilla war against the Indian state. Six years on, though now acquitted in many of these cases, Gonsalves continues to languish as an undertrial in Nagpur Central Jail, after a stint in Mumbai’s Arthur Road Jail. If something fruitful has emerged from his long incarceration, it is words. In Gonsalves’s short story “Jailbird Jabbar”, the narrator—an “old class-strugglewalla”—tells us the story of Jabbar, one of the thousands of adolescents in Mumbai who live freestyle on the street, make a living from its many systems of trade, bootlegging, and barter, and sometimes fall foul of the law.
Young, high-spirited, cocky and vulnerable by turns, laughing almost as soon as he cries, Jabbar has a striking worldview, a vast bank of experiences, and an unforgettable voice, rendered beautifully by the writer in a distinctive staccato patois of three- and four-word sentences (“Full strength I put.” “Gaandu nasha it.” “Job he’s got.”). Sticking close to the protagonist’s testimony and the contours of his moral universe, the narrator succeeds in producing a portrait that is at once miniature and mural. His story is alive to both the vital spark of a human being trying to keep himself alive in adversity, and to the contradictions and bad faith of a world that has produced and preyed off such a human being—including, as we learn towards the end, the perversity of a criminal justice system that is invested in presenting juvenile delinquents as adults. When the narrator dreams at the end of meeting Jabbar at some point outside jail “in a new, more just society”, we realise that the first space of such an imagined new world is usually propaganda—or literature.
WHEN HE CAME, he came quietly, instinctively trying to slip silently into our lives. Crouched in the chappal corner, was he trying to meld faceless into its dirtiness? But who could escape that face, grimy, with sweat, tears and mud streaking both cheeks, and those darting beady eyes missing nothing? His answers, at that time, were mostly in nod mode, with bits of words thrown in, and then those expressions that only come so easily to the eyes of the young.
Why was he here, in the maximum security barrack? Because he’d daringly tried to escape past the Lal Gate—the main gate of the jail—beyond which lies the free world. Breaking down, he explained, “That old barrack. Next to the jail hospital. I hid under the mud. In the rubble truck. No one saw.”
No one, that is except that khabri, eager to earn some brownie points with the jail staff. Jabbar got dragged out, clobbered and was made to run round barefoot in the hot noon sun until he fell, or pretended to fall, unconscious.
Now as punishment he’d been consigned to the maximum security Anda Barrack—that forbidding structure, with its seven doors and gates leading up to tiny windowless cells. Next door to, yet a world apart from, his most recent home—the Baccha Barrack with its TV, fans and open concrete patches.
HUMANS, ESPECIALLY THE YOUNGER of the species, adjust quickly. His past perhaps made it all the easier. Our cell community too found no problems in welcoming him.
The prison veteran and cell elder—a carpenter-turned-fisherman-turned-gold- robber—probably saw a potential recruit.
The butcher-turned-drug carrier saw the guy who’d wash his clothes and sweep and swab the cell. There was a minor hiccup when Jabbar proudly proclaimed his profession as gutter-saaf. It was pragmatically resolved with plenty of soap and a long spell of force-bathing.
For me, an old class-strugglewala, what was appealing was the demographic profile—exploited class, oppressed community, youth and maybe some more.
Lone dissenter was the one the media had christened as SMS Don. With a thousand-odd lewd SMSes to minor starlets under his belt, a polyandrous wife also wedded to an aging Bollywood star, and an ego that had survived the numerous beatings of inmates and staff, he thought he deserved better. What if Page 3 heard he was sharing cell with a sewer cleaner? But, being a particularly low-life prison type, his dissent didn’t count for much. It had to remain confined to maneuvers to avoid knocking sleeping space with the newcomer.
That honour fell to me—sufficient material basis to sprout a friendship of sorts.
THE ANECDOTES soon started, shy and sly at first, but quickly picking up an insistence that demanded sole attention at story-time.
The rule book says that the biographies of 16-year-olds ought not to be crowded. But exemptions seem available to those perched at extremes of the social ladder. And as Jabbar’s stories spilt out over the following days, one couldn’t help but wonder. Can horror tales stop being horror tales just because they get repeated over and again in the lives of lakhs of street kids?
It wasn’t as if they had some special stamp of greatness. His stories in fact were most commonplace and everyday. My wondering thus was no wonderment. It must have been more the disquiet that comes from knowing that for some, such stories are simply normal and compellingly true.
BUT BEFORE THE TALE some background to put the story in its context:
Protagonist: Abdul Jabbar s/o Anwar (or maybe Akhtar) Sheikh.
Age: Approximately 16 years, could be 17.
Place of birth: Mumbai
Place of Residence: A strip of road bordering Jagjivan Ram Western Railway Hospital, alongside Mumbai Central Station. Stone’s throw from Nair Municipal Hospital.
Place of sleeping: Outside the corner STD booth.
Place of Origin: Madhubani, Bihar (get off the train at Darbhanga)
Place of worship: None really, sometimes go to Haji Ali.
Place of Pilgrimage: Ajmer Sharif, made four trips so far, three ticketless.
Place of Education: Urdu Municipal Primary school, for a few months, cut short by some vigorous stone-throwing to protest teacher’s scolding.
Head of household: Ammi, mother of Jabbar.
Occupation: Molkareen, or domestic servant, at sundry upper-middle-class houses in surrounding buildings.
Income: Rs 1500 per month, with extras for festivals and crisis, plus leftovers when sparable.
Assets: Duplex zhopada at above mentioned address, hand-me-down TV at said zhopada.
Other household members: Abba, father of Jabbar, second husband of Ammi; tailor and still having a battered sewing machine; currently an alcoholic, gets battered regularly after drinks.
Chotu: Brother of Jabbar, younger by a year or two, earning and responsible—responsible enough to have twice beaten up a drunken Jabbar to bring him to his senses.
Choti: Sister of Jabbar, age nine or ten, trying to continue school as well as manage home, trying also not to lose her head on her doting eldest brother.
Extended household: One married step-sister, now resident near Nizamuddin Station, Delhi, and two Ammi-dependent married step-brothers and families, including Bhabhi, who aborted after a well-aimed kick from Jabbar.
FROM SMALL ONLY Ammi started calling me Govinda. When I was a baby only, she saw how I look like him (him, you know him, the one with Salman in Partner), and she knew that I’d one day become a star.
The name stuck. Nobody in our zhopadpatti has ever called me Jabbar. But I’ve still to act in films. Once one chap promised. He’ll give me a role he said. As extra. I gave him 50 rupees. He gave his number. Mobile number. I tried and tried. It never worked. Total nallaa.
But don’t I look good? If there’s enough soap and water. And if I scrub hard. Then I’m quite fair no? And see my skin. So smooth. Only these scars. Know any cream for these scars?
When I was arrested I had long hair. Like John Abraham. Exact like him. The boys even used to call me Hagraa John.
I see all the films. All that come to Maratha Mandir. After interval the watchmen allow us—if it’s empty. If it’s houseful we do black. If you want you can get tickets. Just take my name. Ask for Govinda.
And my singing is good no? Also my dancing. Like Salman no? Nobody taught me. I learnt simply by watching films. My body also was like Salman. After jail it’s gone down. With this charas and all I spoilt it.
But I’ll do exercise. I’ll build my body. I’ll become a star. Ammi will see. She’ll be very happy.
ON OUR ROAD you learn survival early. At four, or three, or even earlier. If you can’t fight, they won’t allow you to even play. I was strong from small. My one punch ... you know, I would have smashed that jailor’s face that day. But what to do! This is jail. Even when you come in for the first time, you have to teach yourself to become smart like a kaala topi—a repeat offender.
When I was seven, or maybe eight, what Ammi was getting wasn’t enough. I and Chotu were always hungry. I started picking. In the beginning it’s difficult. So many things in the garbage. You don’t know what is good, what is useless, what will give money. But I learnt fast. I’m fast, you know.
Starting time I picked anything. Plastic, paper, tin, anything. You don’t get much. But at least I could eat something, on my own. Sometimes you get some stuff you can take home. Sometimes there’s good food also. And if you get iron, great. Once I got 12 kgs. Next to that garden. Quickly I hid it. The bangaarwala gives good money for iron. If money remained, I would buy something for Choti and even sometimes gave Ammi money.
Nowadays I don’t do picking. Only if there’s some metal. Keep an eye open. Do a shot early morning. Take it straight to the bangarwalla. He gives good money, you know.
These days I do gutters. Even sewers, going in manholes. Work is work after all. I’m not begging from anybody. But I don’t do credit work. No tomorrow payment for me. Same day, hundred rupees. In the evening, in my hand. Otherwise I won’t take the work. Who has seen tomorrow?
I’m the best. Everyone calls me. The buildingwalle know. If nobody can do it, Govinda can do it. My numberkaari—that is, my co-accused—once he tried fixing a gutter for two hours. Then the buildingwalle told him to call me. I went right in. It was fully choked. I shoved and shoved with both legs. Full strength I put. It became loose. Water came rushing, suddenly, whoosh! Now the buildingwalle say to call me only. Only Govinda knows how to clear the gutter line.
Give me your address. You know any work I’ll come. I also remove rubble. But that depends on how much there is. I only say how much after seeing the stuff. Once we had to bring from ninth floor—without using lift. Tore our arses. That Sahab was happy. Gave fifty extra.
Muhammadbhai also calls me. His chai table is right at the main gate at Bombay Central. Runs whole night. Only in the night. I’m good at catching customers. I pull them right next to the table. I know to make chai. First-class. But he keeps me for getting the customers. For that I only am good. He doesn’t keep me on the galla also—the cash till, that is. Once he had to go somewhere. He told me, “Look after the galla, I’m just coming.” I took some cash out and got one or two quarters. Had a swig, called the customers, had a swig, called the customers. Muhammadbhai wouldn’t have known, he had so much cash in that galla! But I think that chap who makes tea did khabrigiri. Muhammadbhai didn’t say anything. But he never kept me on the galla afterwards.
I ONLY HAVE BOOZE—GM. I don’t touch anything else. Charas and all is only here in jail. Must have some nasha no? Hah, tambaaku-beedi-cigarette I have, but you can’t call that nasha. No brown sugar, no whitening solution for me. Solution is the worst.
On our YMCA maidan, they used to take charas. I would not sit with them. It doesn’t make you high. It gives you a low. Gaandu nasha it. For me booze any day.
Whenever there was money it had to be booze. My favourite was that country bar in that Kamathipura galli just behind Alexandra. Great chakna-bhajjias to be had there. Sometimes we’d sit at the maidan—on the parapet wall, with a khamba, or full bottle, of GM and bhajias in the middle. Aha, best with a cool breeze blowing across the maidan. Gives a better kick.
But booze makes me a tiger. Must fight when I’m high. See this cut. Just missed my eye. Three of them together were hitting Abba. Abba was in the wrong. I also hit him when he troubles Ammi. But how can I let outsiders beat him? I would have finished them. But one chap came from behind. Smashed that bottle on the side of my head—just above the eye.
Once I saved my numberkaari. If it was not for me, he would have died. He fainted and fell. He’s so thin no. I smashed them with a plank and chased them away. What a way they were bleeding.
I killed a dog once—I was drunk then. That was not good. It was bad no? I did wrong. That curse has landed me here—in this murder case.
Or it might be that crow. It took my kabab packet and flew off. Full packet— not one or two pieces. I was very hungry. I went wild. I waited for my chance. Killed it with one stone. It may not be the same crow. But why did it take my food? I killed it and it cursed me. I still get bad dreams. It is coming after me and I am running. But why did it take my food? Did I do wrong? Am I cursed because of that? I am in the right no?
YMCA MAIDAN is our main spot. It’s a great place. There’s this building of Christian lok on that side. Sometimes they would give me money for watering the plants. Nice people. All my English words I learnt there.
Sundays we’d play cricket. There in the maidan. Ours was Bihari Eleven. Far far teams—we’d take matches with them. I’m not good at bowling. But my fielding, you should see. We won most of our matches. Or almost most of our matches. What fun.
I met Hamida first at one cricket match. She had worn pants that day. She was looking beautiful—she always looks beautiful. I had put my T-shirt. I also was looking good. I had returned that day only from Delhi and I was not playing. I had just had a bath and had scrubbed well. I was looking fair and my lips were red-red.
She had come with my friend’s sister. I was alone. I was sitting on the parapet, by myself, watching the cricket match. They were giggling, but I ignored them. Then they started pelting me with little pebbles. I had to challenge them. That began our love story.
Afterwards we met many times. In that garden. Sometimes we went to Chowpatty. She brought her small sister sometimes. Then my friend also would come. On the beach, what fun we’d have.
One day she challenged me to carry her. You know, I lifted her in two hands. That whole bridge I carried her. Like this only. That bridge you know—next to Grant Road. Everyone was looking at us. She thought I wouldn’t carry her. As if I get scared.
She only has palm-juice taadi. No hard drinks. No solution, nothing. When we met, we would have taadi and she would get high. Only little nasha. Never ever full tight.
Ours was true love. She’s the only one I’ve kissed on the lips. She also liked my lips. She’ll definitely be thinking of me. I know. She came to the lock-up also, I think. But the police drove her away.
Once when returning from Chowpatty, she was in solid mood. She grabbed my hanky and shoved it in her kameez. Then she dared me to remove it. Straight I put my hand. Then we went behind the tempos. In the corner. Against the wall. Next to the gutter. We made love. There only we slept. At three o’clock I quietly slipped off to the STD.
She married Raju. He’s a Hindu. Tochanwalla he is. Works on those vans that take away vehicles for wrong parking. Can’t blame her family. Why have a chap who’s cleaning gutters?
When I came to know, I don’t know how much I drank. Fully charged I got. Yelling at the top of my voice in front of her zhopadpatti. Took a blade and slashed here—my forearms. See—one, two, three, total seven times. Not small nicks. Real deep cuts. These scars are my love. I was bleeding like anything. But they were not at home. I came to know only afterwards.
I still meet her. She still loves me. She begs at that Nagpada signal. I meet her there. Once I went there. She saw me and came running. We were only chatting. Don’t know from where that Raju came. May be his van was going from there. He slapped her and dragged her by her hair, giving her bad words. I could have easily bashed him. But what could I do? She’s his wife no.
MY MARRIAGE didn’t last. Not two days. When we went to Bihar they made me get married. Her teeth were sticking out. On the first night we made love. But I didn’t even kiss her on the lips. Her teeth stuck out so much.
When we came to Bombay, her brothers even did not send her to our house. They had heard about Hamida. They forced me to give talaq. As if I care.
There are other girls. Solution-wallis are always after me. They need money no. First it was 18 rupees, now it is 22, for one bottle of solution. They put little on their dupatta. Then they hold it on their nose. Can’t stay without it. All the time they need it. They are ready to do anything for their nasha. For that only they sleep with everybody. I never never do solution wallis. Never.
Shaheen is there. But I don’t know. Before my arrest, just before, I had gone to Bihar. Reached Bhabhi to her village. I told Shaheen to come to my house and wash the clothes and help. Anyway she also works in the houses in the buildings. If she came, Ammi would come to know her no. Slowly we could get married. But she came one-two days, then stopped. Now I don’t know. After arrest who knows where’s she. What difference it makes?
I DON’T KNOW when I came into crime. Actually I’m not into crime. Lifting some iron from here and there. You can hardly call that crime. You can call?
From young only I used to do the Bombay Central trains. Specially Rajdhani and Shatabdi. Rush in the coming-in train. Catch anything left. Plastic bottles, newspapers, anything. Then you can sell it. Sometimes, some purse is left. Money you get. That is not crime but no? And mostly we would do it for food. What food in Rajdhani! Anyway they throw it.
When I was twelve or thirteen, we used to also catch seats. In rush season what demand there is! All trains. Money is lot. I used to get drunk so many times. Tell me if you want a seat. No problem. I won’t take money from you. Won’t get drunk.
Actually mostly our trouble with police was after getting drunk. Some fight and then we’d land in the chowky. Get thrashed and sent off. Sometime get caught drinking at YMCA. Police would swing their lathis. Break the bottles. Drive us from the maidan.
Hah, sometimes we used to force new comers at YMCA to cough up money. “From where’s this cash? Robbed it no? Out with it or we’ll send you off nangaa!” But that we only do sometimes. Not everybody. That too only when Tony is there.
What I did was flicking things from sleepers in the maidan. Wait till they’re fast asleep. Numberkaari would keep watch. Shoes is easy. Get 30-40 rupees. I had a sharp blade. I’d go up slowly to a sleeping guy. Then quietly slit his chor pocket. Like this, with two fingers, gently pull it out. If he got up, then do dadagiri on him. “You think you’re too great. Catching us for nothing. We don’t need your chutta paisa you know.” He’d have to quietly keep his mouth shut.
One day I got a mobile. Good one it was. Didn’t know where to sell it. Tony gave me only hundred. Said that’s all he got. I am sure he duped me.
But I never had police trouble. Actually police all know me. Agripada chowky, Nagpada chowky. Even the Nagpada Commissioner knew me. During time of need nobody comes to help but. I did khabrigiri for them. Not big. Don’t think wrong about me. Only small khabrigiri—gambling and all. No big loss to anybody.
Before this case I had only one case. That because one boy’s father complained about me. We had hit his son. His father said he was only nine years old. Actually he was bigger.
When the Magistrate saw me he sent me for medical check-up. The doctor took my X-ray. He said I was fifteen years old. That was just before Id last year.
I was sent to Dongri jail. It’s for children. It is easy to escape from there. But when I climbed the wall, one baccha started yelling out. I jumped back inside and pretended I didn’t do anything. Anyway in few days my lawyer released me.
Don’t tell anyone. That case is 377. I didn’t do anything to that boy but the police made a false case. I mean I didn’t really do anything. Just taught him a lesson to frighten him properly. I’m hardly a homo! But if others in the jail come to know, they’ll do anything to me. Now the police clerk is telling me to plead guilty. Says in juvenile court I won’t get any punishment. I think I’ll do like that only.
This murder case is also all false. Where I can do murder. That Tony did it. They can’t get him. So they put us in. Sairah also. Poor thing. Nobody for her she got. And such a sweet baby she got only 6 months. Sairah stays on the maidan only. She used to drink with me—GM. With the other boys also. Simply they put her also in jail. Just like that. Her baby likes me. I feel like crying for her. She smiles so nicely. So fair she is. Don’t know how she’s in the jail. Poor child!
WHAT YOU THINK? I’ll get out? I’ll get bail? Ammi will try something. Anything. As long as she’s there she’ll do something. They are giving for our zhopda a flat in Mankhurd. You think we’ll get 2 lakhs for the flat? They’re saying like that. Then we can give the lawyer. Otherwise who knows.
If I get out I won’t do crime. Even for eating. I can get food anywhere. I know so many places. Anywhere you can get free food. I liked that bataarkhana at Sandi Sadak. Moreland Road. Good Food. If you sit outside early you get. Not much. But ok, chalta hai.
You think I’ll get sentenced I won’t get death no? What if I get life? I don’t want to get old in jail only. I’ll get out no? I’ll get out no?
JABBAR ACTUALLY HAD NO BUSINESS landing in Arthur Road Jail at all in the first place. The police knew he was a juvenile but deliberately put his age as eighteen. It saved them the trouble of handling the paper work of both criminal as well as juvenile courts.
This little piece of convenience (or pure malice) of the Crime Branch, however, spelt doom for young Jabbar and his numberkaaris. Being presented at the juvenile court would have saved them from Arthur Road Jail (Byculla Women’s Jail for Sairah) and would have meant a maximum three-year sentence at a government Special Home or Observation Home. Being tried at the criminal court now meant many years in jail as undertrial. And if they chanced to encounter a hanging judge, the possibility of a life, if not a death sentence.
The criminal court magistrate should have asked for age verification, as Jabbar, Sairah and another of his numberkaaris were clearly underage and look it. But he had got himself so inured to police fabrications that accepting them as truth came by rote to him.
I made application after application for Jabbar to be medically age-verified. They all got the black hole treatment characteristic of the Indian criminal justice system.
The first application crashed on the screen of that innovative instrument of judicial torture—the video conference. The accused are not produced in court until the chargesheet is filed. On court dates they are merely taken to a video conferencing room within the jail, where they see some magistrate on the screen who is usually not even their magistrate. When Jabbar told the cameras that he wanted to be medically examined for verifying his age, the on-screen magistrate benignly told him to give it in writing. When, at the next video conference, he took a written application, His Honour smiled and told Jabbar to hand it over to the jail constable manning the VC room on his side. The constable quietly filed the application. It never went out of the Lal Gate.
After three months of video conferencing, Jabbar finally landed in court proudly carrying a fresh application for age verification. Same benign smile. “I’ve committed your case to Sessions. I can’t take your application. Give it at the Sessions Court.”
First date at Session. “I’m the Registrar. I don’t take applications. Give it in court. Next date.”
But next date wasn’t to be for many, many months. Those lower down the food chain often get hit first by shortage—even guard shortage. And Jabbar quickly experienced this. Vidhan Sabha in session—no guard. Raj Thackeray in passion—no guard. Navratri celebrations—no guard. Muharram lamentations—no guard. Chhatrapati’s birth anniversary—no guard. Babasaheb’s death anniversary—no guard. No guard meant no court.
His application grew dog-eared, faded, forlorn, forgotten.
THE DARKEST OF NIGHTS manage to find their flickering diyas. Jabbar’s judicial darkness found light in the form of the vakalatnama of some unknown legal luminary that one day arrived unannounced at the cell-gate. When you’ve managed to marry before seeing your bride, thumb-printing away your juridical fortunes to an obscure entity is no big deal.
It later transpired that it was redoubtable Ammi who had somehow managed to raise ten thousand rupees to engage the lawyer. With the money pocketed and the vakalatnama left thumbed, the worthy counsel however soon moved out of sight. No perusal of chargesheet, no bail application, no application to declare Jabbar juvenile. The last being particularly eschewable, as it could rapidly cut short something potentially lengthy and lucrative.
Ammi meanwhile fell ill. More fatal than the ailment was the loss of income, as one by one the buildingwalle replaced the faithful retainer.
The last straw however was the inexplicable loss of the family ration card and zhopda papers. Such accidents are normally engineered by the pointsmen of builders and developers relocating a slum. Filched documents mean a couple of lakhs more in their kitty via the catastrophe of disqualification for the hut-owner.
Even Ammis have their breaking point. Bihar was probably her port of choice to lay down her head to rest. She moved.
Jabbar’s occasional tears would be silent and sudden. They’d quickly also metamorphose into laughter. Life, after all, must go on.
JAILED COMPANY DONS need shooters. Washing clothes, sweeping-swabbing, cooking, scrubbing vessels, fanning the boss, all these form part of the work catalogue. Jabbar was contracted. “Work hard. We’ll settle your lawyer. When you’re out, we’ll see about work.”
Jabbar went to work. Day 1 included a particularly onerous afternoon fanning session with the Big Man’s brother. Day 2 saw Jabbar unilaterally breaking the contract. Lack of familiarity with corporate discipline and a heavy dose of hurt pride seem to have done the deed.
Jail administrations need kaam-wallas. Cleaning the barracks, fetching and distributing the food, running staff errands means a lot of work. The underage brigade, thoughtfully provided by the police administration and courts, is a large reserve army of free labour. But the Anda does not normally have anyone under-age and labour has to be imported from the Baccha Barrack. The entry of Jabbar into Anda had the jail staff going slurp-slurp. What better than Anda having its very own in-house kaam-walla?
Jabbar however was no easy prey. It needed some months of convincing by various staff levels to bring home to him the joys and powers of the in-house kaam-walla. The final push came from a notably vicious havaldar in the form of an offer he couldn’t refuse. Jabbar moved out of our cell.
He quickly flowered in the new role. Sweeping, cleaning and clearing garbage don’t come difficult to a top-notch gutter safai artiste. Air-guitaring on the toilet broom and drumming on the garbage cans, he added new meaning to worn-out clichés of job satisfaction and dignity of labour.
A kaam-walla has free access to all yards and all inmates. Wider networking means closer contact with all the gangs, better chance to do their odd jobs, more supply of charas and greater post-jail career options on offer. Jabbar started vaguely sensing the goodies the future could hold for him. He even started calling himself Chhota Don in anticipation.
The murder case now became an asset of sorts. “Mai bhi murder mein aaya!” Earlier protestations of innocence were somewhere even replaced by slightly fanciful accounts of a killer role.
Crime however is yet the big bad feudal world, where lords don’t look kindly on presumptuous young upstarts. And Mumbai’s crime scene being multi-polar doesn’t make things easier. Sucking up to one don can be grating to the other. It didn’t take long for the new Jabbar to rub some dons up the wrong way. From there to being dumped out of Anda was a short step.
He was not however sent to an Observation Home for Juveniles, which is where he belongs. He was not even sent to the Baccha Barrack, which is for 18 to 21 year olds.
Jailor wisdom sent him to the Murder Barrack, home to the undertrials charged under Section 302. New school, new teachers, a new education.
WE NOW RARELY MEET. But whenever we do, we remind each other of a pact we’ve made.
After we’re both released we’re supposed to meet at YMCA. He’ll bring the khamba of GM and I the bhajjias. We’ll sit on the parapet and as the cool breeze blows across the maidan we’ll say cheers. And we’ll quaff down the stuff.
But as I struggle through my cases and he battles his, I wonder whether and when we’ll carry out this pact.
Will Jabbar get sentenced? Will he get out? Even if out, will he survive the perils that this society has in store for him?
And me? With the justice system as it is, will I ever manage to get past my cases? Or will I have to wait for the new society to get me out?
Wouldn’t it be just great to meet in a new, more just society? It would promise so much more, to Jabbar, and to me. One niggling doubt though. Wonder whether that tomorrow will be brave enough to rubbish Gandhian versions of virtue.
It would be nice to be free one day, Jabbar and me, jailbirds both, to say “Cheers!” at YMCA.