Last week, a story of a prison maintained in a 17th century serai (inn) built during the regime of Adil Shahi took me to Vijayapura (Bijapur), about 550 km away from Bengaluru. As I was entering the historical monument where the Central Jail is located, an instruction given by a late jailor more than two decades ago came back to me in a flash. “Never make eye contact with a prisoner or you will end up in a conversation with him. And do not offer anything out of sympathy,” he had said. Though my exposure to crime reporting is limited, some assignments have taken me to prisons in the past. That was one such.
It was on a chilly winter morning in 1999 that I had been marked for an event in the Bengaluru Central Prison (now converted to Freedom Park) in the heart of the city. As a cub reporter, I was excited to enter the prison precincts to get a glimpse of what life confined within the four walls looked like.
As reporters were let in after a thorough check at the security gates, most reporters walked towards the area earmarked for the function. A couple of us — mostly first-timers — strayed towards the barracks. While we were walking along, a prisoner called out asking for a cigarette. Hawk-eyed, he had spotted a cigarette pack in my pocket. Without a thought, I offered one. In seconds, jail staff were rushing towards me. They not only snatched the cigarette pack, but also took me to the jail superintendent. Furious at my act, but also considerate about my inexperience, he gave me a pep talk. I was later told that the prisoner was the notorious Swami Shraddhananda, who was later convicted for the murder of Shakereh Namazi that had shaken Bengaluru back then.
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Years later, there was another brush — this time with a high-profile prisoner lodged at Hindalga Central Jail in Belagavi from where he called me in May 2013 fearing for his life. He introduced himself as Mohammed Fahad. Even as I jogged my memory, he said he had met me in Mysuru where I had worked earlier. It did not take me much time to realise he was the alleged terrorist of Al-Badr, who had been
A Pakistani national, he felt his life was in danger as other prisoners had been speaking of avenging the killing of Sarabjit Singh at a jail in Lahore , which had kept emotions high in the country. He had called to seek help for protection and convey his regards to his mother who lived in Karachi. After much deliberation at the office, we decided to write a story. My colleague Afshan Yasmeen, who traced his mother, and I wrote a story that led to his transfer to another jail. But the story met with an angry response from the Prisons Department. They were upset that we had received a call from a prisoner.
A few months later, I was trying to contact the then Home Minister for his reaction to a story. He did not carry his personal phone and he would speak from the phone belonging to his gunman. The reaction he gave was brief, but after the story appeared, the Minister was upset that he could not convey what he wanted to say. After I pointed out the lack of access to him, he told me that he had stopped using his personal phone after a dreaded gangster lodged in Bengaluru Central Prison at Parappana Agrahara had dialled him seeking help for his release. Even today this former Minister is known to not use his personal phone.
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As reporters we have the opportunity to meet different kinds of people and cover events that provide us wide-ranging experiences. But glimpses into “forbidden” worlds like these leave us wondering about what lies beyond our reach.
sharath.srivatsa@thehindu.co.in