Tales of Prison Life

Solitary-confinement Prison-cell - Presidency Jail

Prison-cell

My prison-cell was nine feet long and about five or six feet wide. This windowless cage, fronted by a large iron barred-door, was assigned to me as my abode. The cell opened into a very small courtyard, paved with stones and surrounded by a high brick wall. A wooden door led outside. The door had a small peep-hole at eye-level, for sentries to keep a periodic watch on the convicts when the door was closed. The door to the courtyard of my cell was generally kept open. There were six such contiguous cells known as the 'six decrees'. The word 'decree' was a reference to the special punishment prescribed either by the Judge or the Jail Superintendent in the form of solitary confinement within these tiny, cramped cells.

There were varying degrees of severity even in solitary confinement though. The first degree of severity consisted of keeping the courtyard doors shut to deprive the prisoner of all human contact. The tenuous link with the outside world was then preserved through the eyes of the vigilant sentries and the visits of fellow-convicts, who came twice a day to deliver meals. It appears that Hemchandra Das was a notch higher than me on the scale of the CID's (Criminal Investigation Department) affections, as evidenced by him being singled out to undergo this form of punishment.

A still higher degree of severity consisted of having a prisoner's hands bound in handcuffs and feet in shackles. One might assume that prescription of such a severe form of punishment would require a suitably grave offense like physical violence or disrupting the peace in jail. But that assumption would be incorrect. Even slackness in prison labour or repetition of mistakes in one's assigned work would often be adequate cause to invite such harsh punishment.

The legal system disallowed under-trial prisoners to be subjected to solitary confinement or to be held under such torturous conditions. But such niceties of law were dispensed with when dealing with those accused in affairs related to the Swadeshi movement or 'Bande Mataram' and hence arrangements were promptly made for them as desired by the Police.

Mock-up of Prison-cell

Single Plate - Single Bowl

The arrangements for our accommodation had given us the first taste of prison hospitality. The furnishing bore witness to the same high standards. A plate and bowl were singular adornments of an otherwise bare courtyard. This representative sum of my material possessions in prison, once scoured with suitable care, would shine ever-so brightly that the heart would simply melt at their sight. The faultless, glowing radiance appeared to be a symbol of the 'celestial' perfection of the British Monarchy and this discovery led me to experience the pure bliss of loyal subjecthood.

The only downside of this blissful condition was its effect on the plate. It would swell-up, as if absorbing my bliss in a silent communion. In this bloated form, the slightest pressure of the fingers would send it spinning like the Whirling Dervishes of Arabia. The only option then was to use one hand to hold the plate in position and the other for eating; otherwise the plate would continue its revolutions and depart with my portion of the incomparable prison-food.

The bowl turned out be even more precious as it served many different uses. The bowl's versatility in the world of inanimate objects was similar to that demonstrated by a British civilian in the capability to transform himself into a judge or a magistrate or a police officer or a revenue officer or a chairman of municipality or a professor or a preacher or anything else that was asked of him. Such was the inborn expertise possessed by Britishers in India. The prosecution counsel was perhaps the best example of this kind of versatility. He would simultaneously perform the role of an investigator, a prosecutor, a police magistrate and sometimes even a defence counsel, as if these multiple personalities co-existed happily in his single body. My adorable bowl was just as versatile.

The bowl bore no distinction of caste or creed. In the prison cell, it was used during bowel-movement and then for washing and bathing. Later, during meal-time, lentil soup or cooked vegetable was served in it. It was also used as a receptacle for water to drink or rinse my mouth. Such a range of diverse uses for a single object could have been conceived and realized only in a British prison.

The bowl did serve numerous worldly needs in the prison. But its most significant function was as an instrument of my Yoga-sadhana (spiritual discipline). The bowl proved to be a most effective catalyst and a material means for overcoming the sense of repulsion.

Mock-up of Prison-cell

Toilet in a Basket

We were all shifted to larger cells subsequent to the first phase of solitary imprisonment. The authorities then arranged for a separate receptacle to aid in the act of excretion. The imposed practice with the bowl in the preceding period though had provided an unsought lesson in mastering the sense of repulsion. The arrangement for excretion in prison was as if designed with the very purpose of imparting this invaluable education.

The concept of solitary imprisonment as a mode of punishment is based on imposition of additional restrictions on fundamental human needs by depriving one of human company or denying free access to the open skies. How could such sacred principles be violated by allowing for excretion outside the cell. Hence two tar-coated baskets were provided in the cell itself. The sweepers (mehtar) would clean the baskets in the mornings and evenings. One could get them to clean the baskets at other times too either with suitably intense exhortations or with soul-melting entreaties. Sometimes one had to yield to nature's call outside this routine. Such transgressions would necessarily be accompanied by a corresponding period of intense repentance as one had to suffer the noxious smell until the next round of cleaning.

In the second phase of solitary confinement, there were some reforms in this respect. But British reforms are in the nature of mere tweaking of the administrative aspects whilst the principles of the original system are preserved in entirety. The nature of suffering induced by such arrangements in a cramped cell especially during meals and at night hardly needs elaboration. The concept of attached toilets may be an integral part of western culture in many parts of the world. But to have one tiny cell serve as bedroom, dining-room and toilet was 'too much of a good thing'! We unfortunate Indians, with our primitive practices, are ill-at-ease in ascending to such higher realms of civilisation.

Scarcity of Water

The other household items included a small-sized bucket for bathing, a tin-container with a spout for drinking water and two prison-issued blankets. The bucket was kept in the courtyard, which was the assigned place for my bath. Initially I did not experience any shortage of water but that changed later on. In the initial period, the convict in the adjacent cowshed would fill up the bucket as many times as I wanted him to, during my bath. Hence bathing-time provided a break in the prison austerities with the daily opportunity to indulge in a householder's simple pleasures. The other convicts were not so fortunate though. A single bucketful of water was all that was provided to them for their daily needs. However, this in itself was a luxury permitted only to the under-trial prisoners. The normal convicts had no more than a few bowls of water for their daily use. The British apparently held the belief that Bhagwat Prem (love for God) and personal hygiene were equivalent and equally rare virtues. The prison regulations were perhaps designed to reinforce this National slander. Or the authorities may have been apprehensive that a surfeit of bathing pleasures would disrupt the joyous rhythm of imposed austerities in prison. It was difficult to conclude either way on the exact motivation. The disaffected convicts remained unmoved by the official magnanimity in this matter and disparagingly described the arrangement as 'kaak-snan' (crow-bath).

Crow-bath is an apparent reference to the bathing practice of crows who just wet their feathers instead of taking a full bath.

Struggle with Thirst

The arrangements for drinking water happened to be even more wondrous than usual. It was the height of summer and my prison-cell was as if a forbidden zone for the breeze. But there was no such restriction on the heat, as the blazing sun beat down mercilessly all around. The terrible heat would turn the tiny cell into a veritable oven and it felt as if one was being roasted alive in it. The conditions gave rise to a deep thirst within. But the only option for quenching it would be the tepid water in the tin-container. I would repeatedly drink this lukewarm water but it provided little relief from the thirst. Instead, I would sweat profusely and the thirst would be renewed in greater measure after a while. In contrast, there were some convicts who had access to earthen-pots and therefore could quench their thirst with the cool water from the pots. Such convicts would feel blessed, and attribute this to forgotten tapasya (austerities) of some past-life. This random contrast compelled the most ardent believers in purushartha (human action) to accept some invisible force or factor beyond it that determined our respective fates. After all fate could be the only explanation for the prevailing situation where some convicts had access to cool water whilst others remained perpetually thirsty, especially since the authorities on their part were completely impartial in the distribution of tin-containers and earthen water-pots amongst the prisoners. Notwithstanding the matter of my satisfaction (or lack of it) with such whimsical arrangements, the kind-hearted prison doctor was deeply affected by my thirst-related difficulties. He tried his best to get an earthen pot for me. Since this matter was not under his direct supervision, the efforts did not bear fruit immediately. Eventually the head-sweeper, at his behest, did discover an earthen pot. By this time, I had, in the course of a long and intense struggle, achieved freedom from thirst.

Heat, Rain & Storm

Two thick, prison-made blankets served as my bed in the oven-like cell. I would spread one blanket on the ground and fold the other to use as a pillow. When it became unbearably hot, I would roll on the ground to cool the body and get some relief. That is how I discovered the joy of Mother Earth's cooling embrace. In spite of the cooling effect of this contact, the hard floor of the cell hindered the onset of sleep and so I would still prefer to spread the blanket on the ground. A spell of rain was an occasion for joy. The one inconvenience it did cause was the small-scale flood in my cell, following the tandava nritya (violent dance) of the tempest. This left me with no choice in the night but to retreat to a corner of the cell, with my wet blanket. Though Nature's lila (play) ceased after a while, it took some more time for the wet floor to become dry. All hope of sleep had to be abandoned during this period and refuge had to be sought in one's memories. A patch of dry area did exist in the cell but its proximity to the tar-coated basket disinclined me from making my bed there. Notwithstanding the inconveniences, the rain and storm were welcome events as they brought much-needed relief from the furnace-like conditions in the cell.

Treated as animals in a cage

The description of the 'Alipore Government Hotel' that I have penned so far (with more to follow in the future), was not intended to be a commentary on my personal hardships. It was rather an exposé of the wondrous arrangements for under-trial prisoners in the 'civilized British Raj' and the prolonged suffering caused to those who were yet to be proven guilty. There was indeed cause for personal suffering. But the Divine Grace allowed it to affect me only for a few days in the initial period. Thereafter, - by what means I shall mention later - the mind was able to transcend the sense of suffering or hardship. Therefore, recollections of prison life bring forth a smile rather than any feeling of rancour or sorrow. This indeed was my state of mind when I had first entered my cage, dressed in the unseemly prison uniform. Hence I had smiled within myself after observing the arrangements that had been made. An examination of the history of the English people and their conduct in modern times had given me a deep insight into their seemingly strange and mysterious character. Hence, I was neither surprised nor disconcerted in the least by their behaviour and attitude towards me.

The British conduct would ordinarily qualify as mean and reprehensible. After all, we were all gentlemen. Many were scions of Zamindars. Some were, in terms of their lineage, education, qualities and character, the equal of the highest classes in England. The charges of insurrection to liberate the country from foreign rulers and conspiracy for armed revolution that were leveled at us were no ordinary crimes either. Further, many of the accused had been arrested merely on the basis of suspicion, in the absence of concrete proof or evidence. It was therefore most unbecoming of the British Imperial officers to treat us like ordinary criminals in a prison, nay, like animals in a cage, to serve us food unfit even for animals, to make us endure scarcity of water, thirst, hunger and to keep us exposed to the sun, the rain and the cold in the manner that they did. This was actually a defect inherent to the national character of the British race. Even though the British exhibited some physical traits of a Kshatriya, their treatment of enemies and opponents betrayed a distinct shop-keeper mentality.

God's Seal of Sanction on Jivan-brata

I had not found the British trait bothersome in the least. Instead, I was somewhat gladdened that they did not treat me any differently from the common, uneducated masses of my country. The entire arrangement essentially served as a sacrificial offering at the altar of Matribhakti (love of the Motherland). I realized firstly that I had been given a conducive environment and the requisite conditions for both my yoga-siksha and to help me transcend the sense of duality. Further, I also happened to be a member of the Nationalist Party, which subscribed to the belief that democracy and equality between the rich and the poor were essential constituents of the spirit of Nationalism. I recalled our attempt to convert these principles into action by ensuring that all delegates travelled in the third-class compartments on our way to the Surat Conference. In the camp too, we as leaders did not make separate arrangements for ourselves but shared accommodations with the rest. The distinctions between the rich and the poor, the Brahmins, the Vaishya, the Shudra, the Bengali, the Maratha, the Punjabi and the Gujarati were dissolved in a divine sense of brotherhood as all of us shared the same food and lodgings. The highest form of Swadeshi found expression in all things whether it was making beds on the ground or having meals consisting of rice, pulses and curd. The 'foreign-returned' from Bombay and Calcutta and the Brahmin from Madras with his tilak (sandal-mark on forehead) felt part of one unified collectivity. During my stay in the Alipore Jail, when I received the same treatment in matters of food, accommodation and prison regulations, underwent the same inconveniences and was given the same status as my fellow convicts and countrymen - the farmers, the iron-mongers, the potters, the doms and the bagdis, I felt as if the in-dwelling Narayana had accepted our practice of equality, unity, and nation-wide brotherhood and put His seal of sanction on my jivan brata (the guiding principle of life).

A day would dawn when all classes of my countrymen, united as one living mass, would stand before the world, with heads held high, on the sacred mandapa (platform) of the World-Mother, represented here by our Motherland. As I previsioned that auspicious day in the love of my fellow prisoners and the practice of equality towards all prisoners by British officials, a thrill of joy ran through me on many an occasion.

'Nearness of God'

I noticed the other day, that the Indian Social Reformer from Poona, had mocked my simple, comprehensible experience in the following manner: "It seems that bhagvat-sannidhya (nearness of God) has become commonplace in prison!". Alas, the 'reformist' human ego and pride in its meagre knowledge and virtue that begets such pettiness and arrogance! Is one to suppose then that the realization of God should be possible not in the prisons, huts, ashrams and the hearts of the miserable but instead in the luxurious palaces of the rich or the comfortable beds of pleasure-seeking, ego-blinded worldly folk? God has no use for our scholarly-learning, social standing, prestige, popularity, outward show or sophistication. It is always the oppressed to whom He reveals Himself as the Compassionate Mother. Those who can envision Narayana in all humanity, in the community, in the mother-land, in the miserable, the poor, the fallen and the sinners and dedicate their life in the service of Narayana thus envisioned, are the ones whose hearts He chooses to descend into. And, amidst a fallen race that is attempting to rise again, it is indeed the desh-sebak's (one dedicated to service of the country) solitary-confinement prison-cell where bhagvat-sannidhya (nearness of God) can become commonplace.

'Since the door to the courtyard of my cell was kept open, I was able to get a view through the bars, of the open spaces outside and the passage of prisoners...'

Unique Lesson in Love

The jailor visited the cell to supervise the provision of two blankets, a plate and a bowl. Once he left, I sat myself on the blankets and scanned the prison-scenes. This prison cell appeared to be quite better than the lock-up at Lalbazar. At Lalbazar, the large hall-like room, with its vastness, deepened the sense of isolation. Here, in the small cell, one felt as if the walls were like companions, eager to draw closer and gather me in a brahmamaya (identified with Brahman) embrace. At Lalbazar, the windows of the room on the first floor were so high that one could not even see the sky; one felt so cut-off from the outside world that it was difficult even to imagine it. Since the door to the courtyard of my cell was kept open, I was able to get a view through the bars, of the open spaces outside and the passage of prisoners. A solitary tree stood alongside the courtyard wall. Its eye-soothing verdancy was a precious sight. A sentry did his daily rounds of the 'six decree' rooms. The sight of his face and the sound of his footsteps would often appear so dear and comforting, as if they belonged to a close friend. The prisoners in the neighbouring cowshed would pass my cell while taking their cows out for grazing. The daily sight of the cow and cowherd was a source of unending joy for me. I received a unique lesson in love during my solitary confinement at Alipore. Earlier, my personal affections were confined, even amongst people, to a rather small circle and any feeling, especially love, for birds and animals was practically non-existent. In this context, I recall a poem by Rabi babu, in which a village boy's deep love for a buffalo was beautifully expressed. I had not been able to relate to it on my first reading as I had felt that the description, though beautiful, suffered from exaggeration and artificiality. Now, I would see the poem in a completely different light. The experience at Alipore Jail had made me realize that it was possible for a man's heart to nourish a profound love for all living beings, so much so that even the sight of a cow or a bird or an ant could move him to the core of his being and set him throbbing with an intense delight.

Prison Food - Shak

The first day in prison was uneventful. The change in settings had provided stimulation to the mind. Hence, I preferred the present arrangements to the lock-up at Lalbazar. My faith in God protected me from loneliness. The unappetizing look of the prison food could not disturb my equanimity either. The food on offer consisted of coarse-grained rice - seasoned variously with husk, foreign particles, insects, hair, dirt amongst other things, tasteless dal (pulses) that was more parts water to dal and vegetables in the form of leafy greens or shak (herbs). It was a revelation to me that edible food can at once be so insipid and devoid of nutritive value. The dark, repulsive appearance of shak had made me quite apprehensive and it took just a couple of morsels for me to bid it a respectful namaskar and shun it completely thereafter.

All the prisoners were served a single vegetable without exception. And any vegetable, once introduced in the menu, remained there, as if forever. We were currently witness to the 'Reign of the shak'. As the days turned into fortnights and the fortnights turned into months, the same fare comprising shak, lentils and rice was served twice daily, every day. Any change in the menu was an inconceivable proposition. But the eternal, immutable and incomparable character of the preparation, without the least variance in even its appearance, gave rise to doubts whether this mortal, Maya-jagat (illusory world) was indeed illusory. A conviction began to grow amongst many of the prisoners that the world may not be impermanent after all.

I was more fortunate than the other prisoners in this matter too. I was provided with a supply of milk from the hospital, due to the kind intervention of the doctor. Hence, I enjoyed, for some time at least, a respite from the daily encounter with shak.

Uninterrupted Sleep Not Permitted

I went to bed early that night. However, allowing inmates to enjoy a good night's sleep would violate the spirit of solitary imprisonment. It could even awaken a desire for other simple pleasures of life. The rule therefore was to disturb the prisoners during the change in sentry-duty. The sentries were supposed to persist with their interruptions until a prisoner was demonstrably awake. Many amongst the sentries assigned to the 'six decree' cells, were remiss in the application of this rule. In fact, a feeling of kindness and sympathy was far more common amongst the sentries, as opposed to a cold or rigid sense of duty. This was particularly true of the Hindustani sentries. Of course, some sentries were not so considerate. They would interrupt our sleep with polite inquiries about our well-being: "Sir, how are you?". This untimely concern for our health did not inspire affection. But I realized that these guileless sentries were simply adhering to the rule in this matter. Initially, I put up with this behaviour in spite of the annoyance it created. Eventually, I had to resort to rebuking the sentries to protect my sleep. After a few such exhortations, I noticed that the custom of making nightly enquiries about our health was quietly discontinued.

Prison Breakfast - Lufsi

Next morning, the prison bell rang out at 4:15 am. It was meant to wake up the prisoners. After a few minutes, the bell was rung again. That was a cue for the prisoners to emerge in a single file. The daily routine then was for them to perform their ablutions, swallow the lufsi (prison gruel) and commence the day's labour. I too woke up as further sleep did not seem possible with the prison bell being rung every now and again. The barred-door to my cell was opened at five. After my daily ablutions, I had to return to my cell. A little later, lufsi appeared at my door. I contented myself with only a visual introduction that day and made no attempt to partake of it. It was a few days later that I first indulged in this highest form of delicacy.

Lufsi refers to boiled rice served along with its starch. This lufsi was all that the prisoners were given as their meagre breakfast. Lufsi was a 'trinity', in that it had three primary forms. On the first day, Lufsi was presented in its Prajna aspect: unmixed original elements, pure, holy, Shiva-like. On the second day, it was presented in its Hiranyagarbha aspect: rice and lentils boiled together to produce a yellowish admixture called khichuri. On the third day, lufsi appeared in its Virat aspect: this form, with a touch of jaggery, had a 'greyish' hue and was somewhat fit for human consumption. I considered it beyond the capacity of mere mortals to consume the Prajna and Hiranyagarbha forms and hence kept my distance from them. However, I did swallow minuscule portions of the Virat form once in a while, if only to lose myself in wonderment and joyful reflection of the many-splendoured virtues of British rule and the high level of humanitarianism manifest in Western culture. It is mention-worthy that lufsi was the only source of nutrition for the Bengali prisoners as the other items had no food-value - not that it made any practical difference, for such was the taste, that one could consume it only out of sheer hunger and even then, it took a lot of coaxing to force oneself to swallow it.

The Prison Routine

I took my bath at half past eleven that day. I was still wearing the same clothes that I had left my home in, about four or five days ago. An old prisoner-warder from the cowshed had been assigned to take care of my needs at the time of bathing. He managed to obtain a piece of coarse cloth about a yard and half long. I draped this cloth around myself while my only set of clothes were washed and dried. I did not have to wash my clothes or clean my utensils. Another prisoner from the cowshed was assigned to these chores.

Lunch was to be taken at eleven in the morning. In spite of the intense summer heat, I would often prefer to eat outside in the courtyard, if only to avoid the proximity of the tar-coated baskets in the cell. The sentries did not object to this practice. The evening meal was to be taken between five and five-thirty pm. It was forbidden to open the cage-door after this. The evening bell would be rung at seven. The chief supervisor would gather the prisoner-warders together and take attendance by calling out the names of the inmates. After this, they would return to their respective posts. The tired prisoners would then seek refuge in sleep and enjoy that sole pleasure allowed to them in prison. This was the time when the weak-hearted wept either over their present misfortunes or in anticipation of future hardships. The lover of God though felt the nearness of his deity and experienced joy through prayer or meditation in the silence of the night. Alipore Jail appeared no less than a huge torture-chamber to all the unfortunate, the fallen, the victimized beings who happened to be imprisoned there. When night fell, these three thousand children of God were all immersed in a vast silence.

'Fourty-four Decrees'

'Fourty-four Decrees'

I would rarely meet the others who were my co-accused in prison, since they had been confined in a separate area. There were two rows of tiny cells behind the 'six decrees', comprising forty-four cells in all. The place was therefore known as the 'forty-four decrees'. A majority of the under-trial prisoners in this case were incarcerated in the cells located in one of these rows. Since each cell accommodated three persons at a time, the occupants of these cells, though incarcerated, were spared the suffering of solitary confinement. There was yet another 'decree' on the other side of the prison. The cells in this decree were larger and could accommodate as many as twelve persons. Those who were fortunate enough to be held in this 'decree' fared much better than the others. Some amongst my co-accused were kept together in one of these larger rooms. They had a relatively easier time than the others since they had human companionship and could talk and interact with other persons without any restriction. However, there was one amongst them who was deprived of this pleasure. This person was Hemchandra Das. The authorities, for some unknown reason, seemed to be either afraid of him or antagonistic towards him. Hence, he had been singled out for solitary confinement. Hemchandra himself believed that he had incurred the wrath of the police because of their failure in extracting a confession from him, in spite of their best efforts. He was confined to a tiny cell in the decree and even the door to the courtyard was kept closed. This was the severest form of this type of punishment, as mentioned earlier.

Identification Parade

From time to time, the police would gather witnesses of various hues, shapes and sizes and make them participate in identification parades - but these would be nothing more than a charade. On such occasions we would all be lined up in front of the office. The prison authorities would make us mingle with other convicts and present the mixed lot for identification - however this was merely an exercise in futility. The other convicts were neither educated nor gentlemanly, and when we stood side by side, there was a visible difference between them and us. The contrast between the bright faces and sharp features of the young men accused in the Alipore Bomb Conspiracy, who exuded intelligence and personality, on one hand and the ordinary convicts with their soiled clothes and lustreless visage, on the other, was so stark that only a person completely bereft of human intelligence could fail in distinguishing between the two distinct classes of prisoners on view.

Still, the prisoners themselves were not averse to such identification parades as it provided a welcome break from the monotonous routine of prison life and allowed them to exchange a few words amongst themselves. After our arrest, it was during one such identification parade that I first met my brother, Barindra, though we did not speak at the time. Narendranath Goswami was the one who stood by my side more often than not and hence I interacted with him more than the others. Goswami was extremely handsome, tall, fair, strong and well-built, but his eyes betrayed ill-intentions and his words too were not indicative of intelligence. In this respect, he presented a contrast to the other young men, whose faces reflected pure and high thoughts and whose words expressed a keen intelligence, a love of knowledge and noble selfless aspirations. But though Gossain came across as a foolish and light-minded person, he exhibited vigour and boldness. He seemed to be convinced of his own acquittal at the time. He would say: "My father is an expert in litigation. The police will not be able to thwart him. My confession too will not go against me, since it will be proven that the police had used physical torture to forcibly extract the confession from me." I asked him, "Where will you find witnesses to support your claim?" Gossain answered unabashed: "My father has conducted hundreds of such cases; he knows this game very well. There will be no lack of witnesses". Such then is the character of those who become 'approvers'.