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“Khalid utho, haath hilaao
Khalid, abbay zinda hai?”
(Khalid, get up, move your hand
Khalid, hey! Are you alive)
6:00 AM
In my sleep, I faintly hear the prison warden standing outside my cell and calling out my name. This is for the morning ginti, count, of the prisoners. In the morning, the head count starts the daily chorus of commands from the prison administration to direct the movement of life inside the prison. The ward Munshi follows the warden with a bunch of keys jangling in his hand as he opens the doors to each cell. The Munshi seems to bear a very faint resemblance to Victor Frankl’s capos in the concentration camps. As a Munshi in Tihar Jail, this inmate works for the prison administration as a trustee, overseer and work administrator.
After grumpily waving my hand to affirm that I was still alive, I try again to go back to sleep. I am caught in what Mohsin Makhmalbaf called gonge xab dideh, the dreamlike state that allows a human creative and subjective expression amidst the violent censorship of life, for me as a political prisoner. I hear a morning prayer being played somewhere and memories get mixed up: “itni shakti humain dena data, mann ka vishwas kamzor ho na” (“O Lord, give us so much strength that our faith does not weaken”). I remember this prayer from my school where it would travel far and wide in the openness of the neighbourhoods from the school ground. Inside the cell, it reverberates within the confines of its four walls.
The loud speaker starts announcing prisoners' names, in a single file, names devoid of a personal history. Bandi bhai naam note karain, inko tareekh hai, gaadi lag chuki hai, turant gate pe pohnchay. Naam note karain, inko hospital jaana hai, ambulance lagchuki hai, gate pe turant pohnchay.
A series of orders demand that the prisoners attend to their names in the announcement. The prisoners who have a hearing or those who have a hospital appointment are ordered to reach the gates quickly. More announcements continue throughout the rest of the day. There are some sounds from the inmates as well, more eventful than the loud speaker announcements. Some prisoners are fighting amongst each other, addressing each other with the choicest of hindi expletives because someone jumped a line. Someone rings an old styled bell announcing the arrival of the morning tea.
At some point the familiarity of this cacophonous background score pulls me out of this dreamy state. As I open my eyes, I see a lizard on the ceiling of my cell. Lizards and I have not always shared an amenable relationship. Ever since I was a child, I have been scared of the lizards. Prior to my arrest, I couldn’t be in the same room as them. But over time, I had to learn to co-exist with them as well as the other slimy creatures that live in my cell. I observe them, I think they observe me, and there is a tacit agreement between us that we restrict ourselves to our corners of the cell. I have come to not mind sharing my small space with these creatures, they are company after all.
I step out of my cell and am pleasantly greeted by Shyam Lal and Shilpa, the two cats who I now call my two best friends here. They rub their heads on my feet and I like to believe that this is their morning embrace for me, though, it might as well be their demand for some milk. As always there are prisoners standing in line to heat the milk, fill the bucket with water for a morning wash, or to make a phone call. There is a singular electric heater, a singular water cooler, few fresh water taps and a lone phone. There are more than one hundred inmates living in this ward.
At the door of the common toilet, someone is making a ruckus, shouting at whoever is inside and taking a long time. This angry demeanour suddenly changes form and the person becomes apologetic as soon as a bhai, a prison don, emerges from within the toilet.
The Munshi shouts at the cleaner, also a prisoner: "Abey zehrilay kahan mar gaya, jaldi jhaadu lagana shuru kar". (Oh zehriley, where have you died, start sweeping the floor now). Zehrila. Literally this could mean poisonous, this is a name assumed by the cleaner. It is a very common practice for the prisoners to take names, aliases. Zehrila, Tunna, Chawanni, Teetar, Mental, Sannaata, Badshah. These Dickinsonian titles matter more in the prison, your outside names somehow do not rise up to this new identity that you must assume in the world of the prison. These names are formed within the vocabulary of the prison life, they have meanings here, not only metaphorical but also material. These names form a big part of how your relationships are shaped within the ward, and as much as where you fall in the power hierarchy inside the inmates.
I, however, am still Khalid, I wonder what my prison identity would be, if I ever decided to have one. I wonder as well what the other prisoners call me when I am not around. I am aware of the narrative around me inside the prison, the pre-supposed assumptions that the newspapers have galvanised into a much recorded illustration of Islamophobia and securitisation of Muslim inmates. However, I am also aware that I am much more than that for my fellow prisoners.
8:00 AM
The sounds in the ward have subsided. Prisoners who are enlisted for mushaqqat, paid prison labour, at the jail factory have to report for work. There is so much about Tihar jail that makes one feel that one is living in another age but nothing does it more than its factory with a large gate, a huge wall clock, and a chimney.
9:00 AM
Others who work as plumbers, tailors, electricians, barbers, or at the jail canteen, library, or in one of the offices handling paper work, too leave. Most of the work inside jail is done by prisoners and it is them who mainly keep the jail running. A small world in itself, a city within a city whose boundaries you cannot cross as per your own wishes. Soon after, a prisoner delivers the newspapers. The prison sensors have already cut the news bits they deem to be sensitive, leaving us with tattered newspapers.
I recently read news reports about protests by students and youth against the NEET paper leak demanding accountability from the government for its destruction of our education system. I feel a restlessness rise within me. How wonderful would it be if there were a way to somehow get the sensory taste of the potential of dissent, and be surrounded by the charismatic youth of my country. These reports also lift me out of despair. I had worried about an entire generation being destroyed by the slow drip of poison that this regime has been injecting into our country's collective consciousness. But the youth of this country have shown us that there is hope. This regime has necessitated an entire generation to stand up against injustice. They are fearless and know how to fight for their rights and how to put a leash on power.
The experiences of the last twelve years have demonstrated to them that the RSS-BJP are not working for nation-building, but are destroying it brick by brick. I also read some reports about students carrying placards calling for my release. I smile within and feel the warmth of camaraderie. All the lies, all the propaganda, and all the violence and threats have not been able to deter the fundamental freedom and agency of the youth of this country who are once again proclaiming to the state: we see you. I also hear about my book Fractured Communities: Adivasi Histories and the Politics of Power being received with kindness and reaffirms my belief in the power of words.
10.00 AM
The bell is rung again, calling those of us left in the ward to take our lunch. We stand in lines near two drums and take dal, sabzi and chapati in our plastic boxes. A prisoner walks up to me with a court order, asking me to explain it to him. Unsatisfied with what he hears, he asks me to read it again, and insists that I read properly. I read it again, translating every word of the order in Hindi for him. He walks away disappointed, and not convinced. I don't like being the bearer of bad news for my fellow inmates! Another prisoner requests me to write an application for him, urging the jail superintendent to ensure treatment for an injury he suffered while at work in the jail factory.
"Everyday, I write several applications on behalf of prisoners — some of them urgent, others absurd. A prisoner once made me write a complaint to the Union Home Minister, demanding action against a warden who had slapped him."Umar Khalid
Barely literate themselves, many prisoners have an immense faith in the power of the written word. If their problems are written down and handed to the right official, they like to believe, they will be heard. That nothing ever comes out of numerous such applications does nothing to dispel their faith. I too say nothing that would dispel it. Faith and hope are the few things that prisoners survive on.
12:00 PM
We are locked back in our cells. The warden takes another round of the ward, calling out prisoners' names and tallying the afternoon ginti with the morning one and with this his shift comes to an end. With an overhead sun, my cell is burning. I sprinkle some water on the walls to dissipate the heat radiating from them. A ward sewadar calls me from outside. He offers to put tadka on my dal. Over lunch, across two sides of the bars, he tells me his story. He has been in jail since 2003 in a case of murder and robbery. A few years back, he had good conduct in jail, owing to his long period of incarceration and prison behaviour. He was shifted to a semi-open jail, where prisoners are allowed to leave the prison compound during daytime. During COVID-19, he was released as part of the state's policy to decongest prisons. He returned back to jail a year later, booked in a new case.
'What did you do?', I ask.
'Koti Vardaat' (his term for robbery)’, he replies non-chalantly.
'Why did you do it, given that you had just been released after so long?'
'What else could I have done? My daughter had to be married of . It was COVID. Money and work was hard to come by. I did it for her marriage.'
“Did she get married?” I persisted.
“Array kahaan! My partners in this heist ran away with the spoils while I got arrested within a couple of days. I saved my salary from the mushaqqat for a year and sent it home. She got married after a year”.
Apart from his 'official' mushaqqat everyday, he runs errands for others — filling buckets, getting things from the jail canteen, or cleaning the cells of those wishing to avail of his services. And then quietly when no one is watching, he garnishes the tasteless jail food with onions, tomatoes, chilli and ghee he gets in return for his 'freelance' work.
After lunch, I make notes for my next phone call with friends or family. I arrange the various things I want to talk about in their order of preference, and allot time for each. I am allowed to make three 5 minute phone calls in a week. If there is one thing that life in prison has taught me is that every second is precious. Before prison, I never estimated the value of time, especially the time that one spends in talking to your loved ones. It seems to me, in these five minute calls, that in snatching time from you, time to simply speak, the state is putting limits on your freedom of expression. How long is five minutes! Many a times, I must prepare before a call, choosing the most appropriate words that might be precise enough to convey what I am feeling and thinking. The sheer lack of time to speak to your friends, something that is out of your hands, pushes you into isolation. The privilege to take time to ease out the knots of a difficult conversation with a loved one is simply something that is not afforded to me in prison.
3.00 PM
We are once again locked out of our cells. Tea arrives half an hour later. A prisoner who works as a gardener in an adjoining ward regales me with tales of his days as a 'royal prison don' back in the 1990s and 2000s, before he ran away from parole. He spent nearly two decades on the run working in different countries and later returned home hoping that everyone would have forgotten about him. But the police landed up at his doorstep and brought him back to Tihar. Deep inside he wishes to return to his old days of glory, but age, strain, finances and family responsibilities have mellowed him down. But on occasions, his old self resurfaces. He was recently removed from his mushaqqat at the factory for not being respectful enough (read subservient enough). Because we are friends now, he tells me that he likes this new mushaqqat because it allows him to quietly sneak out for our daily chai pe charcha.
4.00 PM
Prisoners start returning from work, the wards fill with sounds once again. I take my evening walk, and observe the inmates doing various things, before they will be locked in for the night. Some have pulled their buckets near the taps and are washing their clothes. Some others are plucking mangoes from the trees, or gathering the fallen jamun. One is sitting under a peepal tree, getting a hair cut. In one corner, a prisoner is working out with dumbbells made out of empty Bisleri water bottles filled with sand. These activities help to induce sleep — something that many struggle with here. A group of prisoners is having their daily conference on the workings of the Sentence Review Board, that decides on the fates of those sentenced for life. Others seek divine help.
All through the evening, the bells in the temple in our ward keep ringing. In another corner, designated as a mosque, a prisoner calls out the azaan. Someone else is spreading out bread crumbs for the squirrels, birds and ants, hoping such acts of kindness will bring about a change in their fates. I pour milk in a bowl for the cats of our ward.
Between 5:00 PM and 6:00 PM
Dinner arrives and soon after the prisoners are locked in for the night. Once more, the warder takes a round of the ward, calls out prisoners' names, enters them into his register and forwards it to his superiors. Prison administration takes this thrice in a day ginti of prisoners very seriously. Apart from ensuring that no one is missing, the ginti ensures that everyone is in their assigned place.
"Prison not only confines, it also isolates and segregates."Umar Khalid
So just like that, another day has come to an end, the same as the previous one. Within this monotony, one loses a sense of time. Days blur into each other. We find things to act as temporal references. Earlier, I marked my existence through court dates, or the books I read. After all these years, I have come to mark my time by observing the coming and going of seasons. The trees lining the ward outside change colors multiple times a year. The speedy sprouting in the spring changes equally fast into the lush green of the summer. This becomes a welcome sight in the otherwise searing heat. However, the cell in summer pushes you to your extremes. Both body and psyche seem to be caught in an existential state and, call it necessity or radical freedom, you come up with techniques to survive. The blanket which serves as a mattress in the winter, gets packed up in the summer. I sprinkle some water on the concrete slab that serves as a bed, and lie directly onto it.
Most nights, sleep takes over after what seems to be a very long time. I tune into the radio, eat my cold dinner and pick up a book. I read for a few hours, while the music in the background triggers memories from the past making me melancholic. I am strangely peaceful in these last hours of the day. I read till sleep takes me over. Most nights, the heat makes me wake up after a few hours from breathlessness. The thing about breathlessness is that it makes the otherwise involuntary breathing visible and shatters bodily transparency. The acute physical agony is completely invisible to anyone other than your body, and I might even go on to say that this overwhelming experience is total. Inside the prison, the heart induced breathlessness, or breathlessness by other causes, is taken as a part of the condition of the prisoner’s life. So, far from any medical intervention, you must take on the role of a medical expert and attempt an affective understanding of the physiology of your own body. Prison has truly allowed me to subjectivise my own body. Over time, I have come to understand the mechanism of my breath, not least in these moments of breathlessness. To stabilize my breath, I must exert physical techniques and at the same time reckon with the violence that has changed my body so much. And not surprisingly, the physical sensation of breathing failure triggers panic and I feel as if I am spiraling into a bad space. How is it that I have spent most of my thirties in captivity? I wonder if this continuing injustice makes a difference to anyone? Does it move even a feather in our hallowed chambers of justice?
"On 13 September, I will complete six years in prison. When I try to think of this period as a measure of time, I find it difficult to comprehend. Inside prison, days blur into each other. I have come to mark my time by the coming and going of seasons, by the changing colours of the trees outside the ward, by court dates, by waiting for the next meeting with a loved one across glass walls and iron mesh, by the small routines that make one day distinguishable from another."Umar Khalid
I get up, and try to look for pills that a doctor prescribed for what he called anxiety. But I realise that I have run out of them.I will get a fresh strip from the jail pharmacy in the morning. I switch off the lights and try to go back to sleep. In no time, the warder arrives on the other side of the bars, and orders me to switch the lights back on. All prisoners in our cell must be visible from outside at all times. Or should I say, that the bodies of all prisoners must be visible from outside at all times. I struggle to get back to sleep. Unable to sleep, I pick up a pencil and start scribbling on the walls of my cell. Tonight, I wrote these lines from one of my favourite songs by Coldplay. “Nobody said it was easy — no one said it would be this hard.” And just when I am drifting back to sleep, comes the warder's voice: 'Khalid, utho... haath hilao...'
(As told to friends and family)