The Other Side of Crime- 2

 The Other Side of Crime- 2

My heaven collapsed so fast!

Every coin has got two sides. 

The stories the convicted female prisoners told about the reasons and causes for committing the crimes, their experiences in prison, the lessons learnt, their hopes and expectations- form the crux of these articles.

I am sharing the stories they told me in first person. It is just their version of the crime, their side of the story. May be they are true, may be false. I leave it to the readers to decide. 

Happy reading!

 

How wonderful was my family life! Such a loving and caring husband, two intelligent and smart daughters! My husband was a businessman and I lived like a queen in a palace like house with cars, servants, drivers and gardeners to do all my bidding. My children were studying at the best school in town and both were toppers in class. It was all of a sudden that things turned topsy-turvey for me.

My husband died in a car crash. It was a sudden cataclysmic shock for me. I think I too died in my mind for a few days. Time and days passed by where I lived in an unconscious stupor at a house filled with relatives and friends. Slowly as reality sank in me, I assumed that these people at my house will console and help me to live on. On some black moments I too wished to die and join my husband in heaven, but the faces of my daughters pulled me back from that wish. After the funeral when people started to leave us, I was faced with another huge shock. Troubles come in heaps, it is said. I came to know that the business empire, our properties, vehicles and every material thing we possessed were pledged to some financial institution or bank. My husband’s life was a big lie- he was living in luxury on borrowed funds. We started losing everything one by one. Those people who crowded around us just disappeared when they too got wind of the news of our huge debts. Who would be so giant-hearted to take care of a penniless widow and her two daughters?

On top of all this, some men who looked like hired gangsters started frequenting our house with demands of repayment of loans that my husband owed them. “He has to give us Rs five lakhs. When are you going to give it?” “Give us the ten lakhs immediately or face eviction.” “This car is actually ours. We are taking it.”

I was just eighteen when I got married. My education stopped after twelfth standard. I have no idea of the business my husband was doing. I knew no accounts or complicated maths. Still I went through all the documents, records and bank statements carefully to find out what went wrong. Those goons were correct. We are neck deep in debt. Everything is pledged. Then that nagging doubt reared its head. Was it really an accident? Or did he commit suicide out of despair? What will I do now? Why did he leave us in such a mess? Should I tell this to police? No, if police finds it to be suicide then we will not even get the motor accident claim due to us! I knew that the car which was driven by my husband got hit by a truck on the highway. That truck could not be traced so far, but there were witnesses who saw the incident. I buried my doubts and decided to believe that it was an accident.

I was totally confused about our future path. I got some money from my brother and the old mother. I sold all our gold ornaments, silverware and brass articles. Still, the amount was not enough to pay back all the debts. The house was already pledged, so it could not be sold. A small respite ensued; still I worried every day and night about the future of my daughters. I could transfer them to a Government school to avoid the heavy monthly fees, I could take a rented accommodation, I could beg the people I know for loaning money, but none of these provided a permanent solution. Yes, I could take a job.

I started hunting for a job. For someone with just plus two as education, the jobs I could get were that of a hotel receptionist, sales girl or phone attendant. The monthly income from such jobs will not even sufficient to buy grains. I tried my luck with my relatives who all spurned me. “We have given you enough. There is no more that can be spared.” They were at least frank towards me. Only my bed ridden mother sympathized with me and gave me money willingly. After a few months, I could not find anything of value at home which could assuage the hunger pangs of our tummies. That was when I decided to go to my husband’s friend and long time partner in business. He owns a few hotels in town. I expected him to help us. I have heard of his good and humane character also. He gave me an appointment promptly, but when I told him of my problems, his demeanor changed. “What can I do to help? My business is suffering because of recession. I also have a lot of loans. Besides, I do not have any vacancies that fit you at present. You have lived a good life, how can I give you small jobs such as cleaning?” He shrugged me off. I was at a breaking point by then. So, I started to cry shamelessly in front of him.

“Sir, I will take any job, cleaning, sweeping, kitchen work or cooking. If you do not have a servant at home, I can work as one too. I will do any work, I’m that desperate.” I clarified.

“Anything, eh?” He scratched his chin and stared vacantly at me as if in deep thought. A lightning of fear passed through me. Still I replied firmly. “Yes sir. Anything except selling my body.”

“Do you have passport?” That was his next question. I answered in the affirmative.

“Then I will give you a job. But it is in Dubai. You should go there next week. My men will give you the instructions. Just leave your phone number and pack up your bags.” He said.

I was so relieved that I almost touched his feet in gratitude. Dubai! That means I will get a good salary. My children can continue to study in their public school. We need not shift from our house. I will ask someone to stay at my place to take care of the kids. I was on cloud nine with joy at the prospect. A week later a car and driver came to drop me at the airport. The driver gave me the ticket and visa as well as a big packet. “Please keep these in your bag. They are pickles. Since carry bags do not allow eatables, you have to put them in the check in bags. Someone will collect it from you in Dubai.” He said. He also gave me the phone number and details of the person who would pick me up from Dubai airport.

When I reached Dubai, a man was waiting to pick me up. When he dropped me at the small one bedroom apartment, he took the pickle bottles from me and said he would call me soon with further instructions. The apartment was well furnished and the kitchen was fully stocked. A Philippine lady came to clean up and cook food for me. I was comfortable in every way, except that there was no work for me to do. I waited for the promised call for two days and not getting it, called all the phone numbers I knew. No one picked up my calls. That apartment had no phone and my cell phone had no facility to make international calls. Thankfully, I had a few dinars with me, so I made a call from a call booth outside to the hotel owner who sent me there.

“Sorry, the job I arranged for you didn’t come through. It is better that you get back until I fix up another job for you there. Don’t worry; I will pay you a month’s salary in advance.” I was puzzled, still I agreed and waited for the man to take me back to airport. I came back to my house much to the delight of my kids and the hotel owner gave me fifty thousand rupees as advance salary. Within a fortnight, he sent me again the tickets saying that it is time for me to go there. The same driver came and handed me the packet of pickle bottles to place in my check in bag. I instantly got suspicious and refused. I opened and checked up the bottles, there were three huge bottles which were sealed. From outside they did look like pickles, but I was reluctant to carry it with me. Then the hotel owner called me over phone.

“Hey, don’t worry. You are right, there is heroin hidden inside the pickles. But you will not be caught. Women are respected a lot in Arab countries, they will not be suspicious of you. Also, there are no equipment to detect heroin in check in bags and sniffer dogs will get only smell of pickles. And I will give you one lakh rupees for each trip. Don’t you want to repay all your loans?” He consoled me. I believed him. Thus knowingly, I became an international carrier of heroin. For a few years it went on without any problems. On one trip, I got detained by Customs who opened my bag and checked the bottles.  I didn’t know that they monitor bags of frequent travelers to a single destination. They got suspicious of the bottles I took each time, which the X-Rays screened. 

I was arrested and sent to prison. After trial, the court convicted me for ten years of imprisonment. I am in jail for six years now. I have filed an appeal in the high court which is taking a long time to decide. Both the customs officials and the police asked me repeatedly about the source from where I got the drugs. I refused to reveal the name of the hotel owner. I will never reveal his identity. Because, he is taking care of my daughters now. He is paying the fees of my advocate. And he promised to give me a respectable job once out of the prison cell.  I go on paroles every six months. My eldest daughter is a law student now. Now I am living for them. They should not suffer because of my misdeeds. They should get to high places, get married to good boys and live happily. They have suffered enough already.

The Other Side of Crime- 1

Every coin has got two sides. 

The stories the convicted female prisoners told about the reasons and causes for committing the crimes, their experiences in prison, the lessons learnt, their hopes and expectations- form the crux of these articles.

I am sharing the stories they told me in first person. It is just their version of the crime, their side of the story. May be they are true, may be false. I leave it to the readers to decide. 

Happy reading!

 

The Other Side of Crime- 1

“I didn’t do any crime, please believe me”

I swear I haven’t done any crime. My advocate assured me that I will be acquitted by the court. I stood waiting at the accused box inside the court, the ever shining beam of optimism weakly trying to push out the darkness of apprehension within my heart. The judge refused to look at me as read out the verdict.

“Since the crimes committed by the accused are proven beyond reasonable doubt, I convict her of double term life imprisonment.”

I stood frozen as if the earth caved from underneath my feet. The gloom which triumphed in my heart rose to my eyes in victorious waves as I crumpled down on the floor. No, no! I did not do it… I am totally innocent, totally... I was wailing, pleading, but no voice came out.

I was a simple little girl who loved flowers and butterflies. I enjoyed the small joys in life as a child. Though born in a poor family, I knew I was beautiful. Fair and cute with an angelic face, they all said. No one told me that I should study well in school or get an employment in future or even become economically stable. I was taught the little chores that every housewife should know. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, dancing and singing… the last two, probably to please the future husband! Somehow I studied till the tenth class without failing after which my school life stood still. I was still a child even when I became the wife of a Gulf employed man. At those times, it was indeed considered fortunate in my place to marry a man working in the Gulf Countries.

My husband was extremely cruel. He was a sadist who enjoyed torturing me. Married life was hell for me. I used to heave huge sighs of relief when he went back to Gulf for work leaving me with his people. His younger brother was the only one who sympathized with me. It seemed that he could see and feel the various bruises and burn injuries caused by cigarette butts on my body. His old mother ignored my cries of despair. My parents thought caring for the daughters ended with their marriage.

As time went on, I became mother to two children. Still, I dreaded my husband’s return home on leave. Whenever I get news that he will be home for a few days, I would start contemplating death. I stand near the well in the compound, near the electricity post or the stove in the kitchen seriously wondering whether it would be easier to commit suicide than suffer his tortures. Thoughts of my little kids would pull me back from the death-wish though I knew that my hesitation was pulling me deeper into the abyss of misery. Fear makes one less tolerant of physical hurt. That time when he came home, my trepidation led to unbearable pains. He seemed to enjoy that. No woman should experience such horrors from her husband who is supposed to protect and love her. On the third day of his leave, I got admitted in the hospital. He threatened that if I reveal the real reason behind the injuries, he would kill me and my kids. So even when the doctors asked me repeatedly to file a police complaint, I just cried and refused to budge.

After he left, for the first time in my life, I experienced love. I was taken home from the hospital by my husband’s brother in the car. He had a small job in town. He was also getting ready to go to the Gulf in search of a new job. As I sat on the front seat, he kept consoling me and telling how much he understood and empathized with me. I knew I should have considered him as my brother too; I was ethically his elder sister even though age wise, he was older than me. Still, I fell in love with him. He treated me as if I was as brittle as glass, as soft as cotton. His supple and gentle touches made me feel like a bud caressed by the bee to open up to a sweet smelling flower. Till then I never knew that a man could give so much pleasure to a woman. Our love was an unstoppable flow and it just had to happen. We were careful to be as secretive as possible though I never felt any guilt in that relationship. But good things hardly last in my life.

Somehow my mother in law came to know about it. And things took a turn for the worse. She started to attack me at the slightest opportunity. What started as a mental harassment soon became physical. She quarreled with her younger son and packed him off from the house to a distant relative’s house. She started beating up my kids just to spite me. One night she made the little children stand outside the house the whole night just to see me cry.  And she summoned my husband home. I knew she must have told him everything because his cruelty towards me became intolerable. I decided to kill myself then. I had no other escape route. My parents and relatives also accused me of immorality and told me not to approach them for any help.

The night my husband came home was one of extended torture. After beating me till I almost lost consciousness, he left home with my daughter to his uncle’s house nearby promising more torture once he returned. When I could get up from the floor, I took out the sharp knife I kept hidden under the bed and slashed deep both my wrists one after the other. Let him take care of the kids. But let him not marry again, God, I prayed as I lost consciousness. Just before my mind got invaded by blackness, I saw it clearly. Someone came into the room and carried my sleeping little son outside in his arms. Who was that, why and where was he taking my son? I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. I attempted to get up so that I could stop him, but my body was too weak.

The next day I regained consciousness and found that I was at a hospital. The first thing I saw was some women police officers staring at me. One of them told me that my mother in law and my little son were found murdered at the house. Once the shock of that news sank into my semi conscious mind, they gave me further shock by saying that I was the major suspect. I couldn’t understand it at first. I was unconscious. I thought I was dead. I attempted suicide. See my wrists? I slashed it, wanting to die. At that time my son and mother in law were alive. Someone must have come in and killed them. I saw my son being taken out of the room by someone. No, I couldn’t recognise him, still I saw him. I told them all this several times. I was too weak to even stop that, how could I kill them? I kept on repeating this to anyone who cared to listen. But the police case was already decided by then.

No one other than me had any motive to kill them. I committed the crimes so that I could live a new married life with my brother in law. My husband and his brother were far away and they had alibis. Nothing was stolen from the house. There was no forced entry into the house. The front door of the house was found open, but from inside. I opened it with plans to drag the bodies outside. The knife which stabbed them to death had my fingerprints in it. And I slashed my wrists after killing my son and mother in law for telling the police a false story. This was the police case. I asked them how I could expect to live an illicit life with my brother in law if my husband was still there. Shouldn’t it be him that I should kill first instead of my little baby? How could a mother kill her own little son? And the knife they recovered as the murder weapon was the one I used daily to cut vegetables in the kitchen. Naturally it will have my finger prints. None of my questions were heeded to by anyone.

For the last twelve years I am living within these dark prison cells for a crime committed by someone else. Days, nights, birthdays, festivals… there is no distinction for anything here. It is an eternal cave of darkness. One day they will come to know the truth, I kept that hope alive. After a few years in this jail, I got an anonymous letter. As is the practice, the jail authorities opened and read it before it was handed to me. It had no name of the sender. It said,

“It was I who killed them. I had my reasons. I who took out your sleeping son. He didn’t suffer, his death was fast. I tied your bleeding hands with cloths. I didn’t want you to die. I also called the neighbours to intimate them about the murders. I know you are convicted wrongly, I know that you are innocent. But I can’t surrender before the police now. I can’t reveal my identity or save you. I feel bad about you. If this letter can save you somehow, then you can prove your innocence and get out of prison.”

Hope, that dim lamp which lights up optimism within the heart started to shine after I read that letter. I sent copies of it to the judge who convicted me and to the police officers through my advocate. It has been a few years since I sent it. The original letter is still with me. No one came to enquire about it so far. I don’t know if they are even enquiring into it. Last time I asked my advocate he hinted that the police think that the letter was a fabricated one. Do they think I wrote it myself? When I went on parole? And posted it to myself? Pray, why? “You filed an appeal against your conviction in the High Court. They feel that such a letter may be a good defense from your side to at least ask for a re-investigation. So the police have just ignored that letter and didn’t include it in the case file, which is now closed by the way.” The advocate told me.

But truth will triumph one day. It has to. Now no one wants me. My husband and my daughter refuse to see me. My brother in law is in the Gulf now; he married a few years back. When on parole I used to go to my brother’s house. He is reluctant to take me on parole these days. But I still hope that everything to clear up and my innocence will be proved. Because I did nothing wrong, not a single thing!

 

Prison Diaries- 5 Making a Real Difference

Prison Diaries- 5

Making a Real Difference

A previous DG of Prisons is remembered even now for the drastic changes he made in the Kerala prison administration. Dr. Alexander Jacob. He introduced tasty chappathies and chicken made in prison for the public. Wheat balls (‘unda’ in Malayalam) used to be the staple diet of prison inmates till around 1990, when chappathies replaced ‘undas’ as dinner and sometimes even breakfast. Dr Alexander Jacob, known in police circles as a walking encyclopaedia is a connoisseur of food too. After tasting the chappathy and chicken made by the prisoners, he got the idea of making this heavenly taste available to the public also at a cheap rate. It is that initiative which now became a revolution in the state. Today food units are there in all the major jails and we have vehicles taking hot food to various places within the city for sale to public. We also have cafeterias in Trivandrum, Kannur and Cheemeni. Now jail biriyanis, ghee rice, puttu and kadala, variety of chicken preparations and tapioca as well as snacks, pickles and chips are also in high demand. The women inmates are given specialized training in cooking.

Another predecessor of mine had another novel, out of the box idea to make fashion cloths in the prisons. Sri. Loknath Behera, the present State Police Chief. He served as DG Prison only for 6 months, but in that time, he opened a beautiful cafeteria for Trivandrum Central Prison, a new office for the prison headquarters and an boutique titled aptly as ‘Free Fashinista’ for selling designer outfits made by prisoners for the public. He even designed a few cloths and made the staff of the department as models for these cloths. I remember getting briefly associated with this since the idea was so unique and had every reason to be successful. Now we make our own cloths in the hand-loom units within the prisons and create gent’s designer wear in pure linen and cotton which is sold at half the market price through our outlets. Ladies dress like kurtis, tops, churidars, night dress, skirts, leggings as well as bed linen, towels, mattresses, floor mats, pillows and other products such as candles, soaps, detergent, cleaning lotions and incense sticks are also sold through our outlets. A tailoring unit is also functioning on full swing here. A budding idea is thus in full bloom, not only earning money for the department but making the public appreciate the talents of the inmates.

Similarly the carpentry units, organic vegetable farming, fish and aqua farming, animal husbandry and the umbrella, handicrafts and jewellery units in women prisons are in full swing. There is a lot of demand from the public for jail products. During festival seasons, we have organized exhibitions of jail products in various public places. During one such day, our sales incomes crossed Rs 50,000 which really was quite surprising. There was huge demand even for the handicrafts items on display made by talented prisoners.  Even the tender coconuts got sold within seconds of opening the sales!

In January 2016, when I assumed charge as DG Prisons, the total number of prisoners in jails was 7612, of which 218 were females. As on today, the number of total prisoners has increased to 7926.  But the number of women prisoners has decreased to 191, of which the convicted prisoners are only 60 and the rest 131 are under trial prisoners. How did this happen?
 

The officers in prisons department have no role to play in controlling the number of prisoners in jails. The society itself plays the most important role in creating criminals. There are gross inadequacies and inequalities prevailing among people in the society. Lack of money, unemployment, deprivation, mental instability- are all children of the skewed society in which we live. Besides, there are groups- mafias and gangs who operate on the sly to trap others and drag them to the mire of crime. People who disturb the peace and create problems for others by resorting to illegal means are bound to get arrested and put behind bars. This is the sole purpose of the criminal justice system in our country. However, prison officers can take effective steps to correct those within the jails and see to it that they get reformed and not repeat the same mistakes once out of the jail. It is for this purpose that we give a lot of importance to vocational skill imparting, ethical discourses, libraries and promotion of their talents before the public. Their skills will help them to do some good job once released. Showcasing their talents is expected to help the society accept them back in their midst. If reputed organizations employ skilled jailbirds, then that indeed will go a long way in reducing their stigma in the society as well as recidivism. 

Sadly, how much ever work the prison officers carry out; the proper rehabilitation of a released prisoner is dependent totally on the released person himself. If he feels that he is more comfortable in resorting to crimes than do honest work, then he will go back to his old ways. And crimes are increasing in leaps and bounds every day. Sons killing mothers, fathers killing sons or daughters, revenge killings, minors getting sexually molested, all types of prohibited substances manufactured and marketed, illegal money transactions, cheating, domestic and public violence against women, new modus of cheating, cyber crimes and IT offenses- you will be surprised to know the efforts some people take to commit complicated crimes! Men are so difficult to be reformed, that is what I discovered in the past 22 months. They just refuse to get corrected. They will be obedient and well behaved within the confines of prisons, but once outside, they become the dame old beast. Recently a woman came to me requesting that her husband who is incarcerated may not be given paroles since out in parole, he not only beats her and their son up, but also is sexually aggressive to their teen aged daughter. And this guy is very quiet and disciplined in the jail too!

But women, once released, do not come back to prisons after doing the same crimes again. They really do get reformed and corrected. I know of the released 6 of the 24 women inmates who had obtained driver’s license after getting trained on automobile driving have found employments successfully. One lady started her own tailoring unit, another started a poultry business, yet another started a small tea shop. These were all previously repeat offenders of sex workers and illicit liquor/cannabis sellers. Recently a woman came back to the prison within six months of release, surprising me. She is an expert in handicrafts and cooking and could have got a job anywhere with her plethora of talents and vocational certificates. Yet she chose to commit the same crime of selling arrack and got arrested. She was given Rs 15,000 on release as grant to start some entrepreneurship and she also got a lump sum of Rs 30,000 for employment in prisons. If she wanted she could have obtained a loan too, up to Rs 50,000. Despite all this, she committed the same crime and did not run away from police or resist arrest. When I asked her why she came back, she answered, “It is safer here. I will not get robbed, beaten up or raped here. I don’t have to search for a safe place to sleep at night; I get my food and medicines in time here. I have friends and caring people here. I am more comfortable here than out there.”

I don’t know if prisons should be such a safe place for criminals. Our duty is not to keep housing persons who have no other place to go. We are not running homes. Still her words pricked my heart.  

No wonder that I don’t feel that I am doing just a job. I am also carrying out a great charitable activity as DG, Prisons! 

 

(Concluded)