I was posted as the director general of prisons, Delhi, on 22 November
2010. Having served all my years with the police force in mainstream
assignments, this posting came as a shock, at least initially. A bit of
unsavoury police politics was behind it, but I will not waste my breath over
it here. As it turned out, my stint in the new job turned out to be a
memorable and fulfilling tenure. This story is one of many from my Tihar
days.
Delhi prisons are commonly referred to as Tihar Jail. However, what is
not commonly known is that it is not one jail, but consists of ten jails—
numbered one to ten—located in one complex in what was once an urban
village called Tihar. Another prison complex exists in Rohini, in far west
Delhi, which is also an integral part of the prisons department of the capital.
In 2016, five years after I left the prisons department, another prison
complex, comprising six jails, became operational at Mandoli in north-east
Delhi, bordering Uttar Pradesh.
It may be of some interest for a reader that besides the director general,
who is a senior officer from the Indian Police Service (IPS), no other staff
member serving in the jail is from the police. Therefore, when an IPS
officer joins at the senior-most position in the prisons department, he is the
sole policeman there and finds himself ‘alone’ in an unfamiliar
environment. The discipline, regimentation and camaraderie found in the
police are missing. More importantly, having spent his entire professional
life pursuing and putting away offenders, he is suddenly supervising their
correctional and reformation work—an occupation he is clueless about. The
assignment thus is not particularly coveted and often considered a
‘punishment’ posting. This is true not only of Delhi but most other states in
India as well.
Readers may further like to know a bit about the hierarchical structure of
the jail staff. Under the director general, who heads the prisons department,
a deputy inspector general of prisons serves as the second in command.
Under them, a superintendent heads the administration of a jail. A deputy
superintendent, assistant superintendents and head wardens followed by jail
wardens assist the jail superintendent.
A couple of days after taking over, I decided to pay a visit to all the jails
in the Tihar complex. The visit began from jail number two, where convicts
sentenced to imprisonment for ten years or more were lodged. I must
confess that before I stepped in, I was full of trepidation. Was I walking into
hell on earth? How would the inmates react on seeing me? Would I be
booed or jeered at by them? All manner of fears haunted me.
Escorted by jail staff, I entered jail number two and the sight I beheld
was in sharp contrast to what I was expecting. The sprawling campus was a
vast space of lush green lawns with squeaky-clean pathways flanked by tall
trees. To my right, soon after the entry point, was a flour mill where wheat
was being crushed to make flour. The staff led me in and I stood there for a
few minutes to observe the proceedings. Convicts, all dressed in their
immaculate white uniforms, were running the unit in unison. They greeted
me respectfully and then went about doing their jobs as the crushing
machine was operational and could not be left unattended. Each inmate was
engrossed in his work, and if at all they spoke to one another, it was in low,
hushed whispers.
As I stepped out, the only sound one could clearly hear in the campus
was the song of birds chirping in the background.
I walked on and was ushered into the garment-making section of the
prison. Mannequins stood outside the section dressed in outfits designed
and stitched by inmates who worked with devotion on their machines or
handlooms. The garments made by the inmates were novel in their design
and of excellent quality. It looked like a fashion outlet in busy Karol Bagh,
except for the absence of milling crowds.
Then there was the next big surprise: the prison bakery. I entered the
huge baking hall and found the prisoners wearing white chef’s hats,
transparent gloves and face masks, skilfully kneading dough, cutting out
cookies, stuffing patties and baking bread, pastries and cakes. The floor of
the hall was spotless, and the machines and utensils shining clean. I thought
to myself that the standards of hygiene here would easily put to shame those
of the best restaurants and five-star hotels of the city! I was informed that
all products made in the jail premises were retailed under the brand name
TJ’s (Tihar Jail’s) and the brand had an impressive turnover with the
potential to rise manifold. It was pleasing to know that every inmate was
paid a daily wage, which they could spend on themselves or send home for
the upkeep of their family.
I next visited the library, painting studio, hair salon and a medical room. I
also saw convicts playing cricket in white flannels in a reasonably sized,
open-air stadium. Someone in my entourage informed me that the jail had a
well-established team called Tihar 11, which played club-level matches
with outside teams.
The preconceived notion of a prison, with convicts in their striped black
and white uniforms hammering at rocks, controlled by ruthless jail staff,
disappeared. The place felt more like a retreat, an ashram—a serene
expanse of tranquillity and peace.
I also ran into convicts whom I recognized from my long years in the
Delhi Police and the CBI. Many had been arrested by police teams working
under me. I saw a person who suffered from dwarfism, whom I immediately
recognized. He was Tantrey, member of a terrorist outfit we had busted
when I was joint commissioner of the Special Cell of the Delhi Police. He
was working on a sewing machine and it was amusing to see how he
avoided making eye contact with me and pretended to focus on his job.
Another person I took note of was a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered
middle-aged man with a spring in his gait, who walked several yards ahead
of me and the jail staff escorting me. Dressed in a white shirt, white trousers
and white canvas shoes, he strutted around as if he owned the jail. I took
him to be a jail employee walking with me to provide security.
Occasionally, he would tick off an inmate here and a jail warden there.
So taken up was I by his personality that I inquired of the jail
superintendent who he was. The jail superintendent whispered in my ear
that he was a convicted murderer. A little later, during my walk-around, out
of sheer curiosity, I inquired, ‘Whose murder was he involved in?’
Someone from my entourage replied, ‘Sir, he killed an advocate.’
Though anxious to know more details, I restrained the urge to ask further
questions and waited for an opportune moment.
I visited the living quarters—or wards—where inmates were lodged.
Though overcrowded, they were reasonably neat and clean. After I spoke to
a few inmates, I was taken to the jail kitchen, where chefs from amongst the
inmates were cooking food for over a thousand fellow convicts. Much like
what I had seen in the prison bakery, the cooks wore caps and gloves and
went about their jobs in a clockwork fashion, churning out rotis on giant
tawas at a frenetic pace. The superintendent requested me to taste the food
and record my comments in the inspection register. A bite of roti taken with
dal and sabzi tasted sublime. I dutifully recorded my complimentary
inspection note, heaping praise on the prisoner chefs.
Soon the inspection was over and my entourage was ushered to a garden
within the jail premises for tea and refreshments. Plastic chairs and tables
were laid out neatly on a manicured lawn surrounded by rows of flowers in
bloom, overhanging trees and an artificial lake full of geese. Alongside was
a flock of pigeons feeding merrily under the setting sun. I was told by the
gardener that the pigeons were set free early every morning and by evening
they returned to their allotted pigeonholes without fail. The sylvan
surroundings belied the fact that we were sitting in a jail and being served
tea by people convicted of heinous offences.
By now, I was totally at ease. The convicts, when seen in flesh and blood
inside a jail, were the antithesis of whatever we imagine them to be. They
were calm, docile and seemed at peace with themselves. I felt the time was
right to ask further questions about the tall and muscular man who had led
us all the way through my inspection.
I turned to the superintendent and inquired, ‘Whom did the man who
walked ahead of us murder?’
The superintendent was not too sure. His deputy came to his help. ‘Sir, he
was an advocate who lived in Model Town.’
I wanted to know more because by now several bells were ringing in my
head.
‘What was the advocate’s name?’ I asked impatiently.
His reply hit me like the proverbial bolt from the blue, leaving me
shaken.
‘Sir, his name was Bawa Gurcharan Singh.’
‘Oh my god, is that so?’ I blurted involuntarily.
I had known Bawa Gurcharan Singh, an eminent advocate, only too well.
Not only had I known him, I was deeply indebted to him. Nearly twenty
years ago he had come to my rescue when I faced trying times fighting a
public interest litigation (PIL) filed against my officers and myself. The
circumstances were such that no other advocate was willing to take our
brief and argue our case in the Delhi High Court. But, more about that later.
I beckoned the tall man over and asked him, ‘Did you kill Bawa
Gurcharan Singh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said with a straight face.
‘What is your name?’
‘Sir, Manjeet Singh.’
Even though the incident had taken place nearly twenty years ago, I
remembered some facts of the case.
‘You were not alone when this happened. There was someone else with
you.’
‘Sir, there were two other people with me.’
‘Where is the main guy?’
‘Sir, I was the main guy. It was I who pulled the trigger. The Mathura
Police killed my accomplice Brij Mohan in an encounter later.’
This again rang a bell and memories came rushing in. A close relative of
a senior colleague (a former commissioner of the Mumbai Police) was
kidnapped from his home in Jhansi in August 1991 and kept hostage. The
ransom demanded was staggering and the hostage’s family was not in a
position to pay it. My colleague asked me to help. He had come to know
that Shailendra Sagar, the senior superintendent of police (SSP), Jhansi, was
my batchmate. I called up Shailendra who, of course, was aware of the case
and said he was doing his best. Through good luck and some smart
sleuthing, not only did Sagar rescue the hostage, but he also killed the
kidnapper Brij Mohan Sharma in a fierce encounter that took place in a
sugar cane field in Mathura.
*
I crossed paths with Gurcharan Singh under circumstances that were rather
convoluted. To explain them I need to give a bit of background on some of
the momentous events that took place in our country in the 1970s, ’80s and
’90s. One such event was the mass agitation against the Mandal
Commission recommendations.
The Mandal Commission or the Socially Backward Classes Commission
was established on 1 January 1979 by the Janata Party government under
Prime Minister Charan Singh. Its aim was to identify the ‘socially or
economically backward classes’ of India. B.P. Mandal, an Indian
parliamentarian, headed the commission to consider the question of
reservation for such categories of people who had suffered for centuries on
account of caste discrimination. By using eleven social, economic and
educational indicators to determine backwardness, the commission in 1980
submitted its report recommending that a new category of the Indian
population should be identified, namely, Other Backward Classes (OBC),
which comprised 51 per cent of India’s population. The commission further
recommended that 27 per cent of jobs under the Central government and
public sector undertakings should be reserved for OBCs, thereby making
the total percentage of reservations a whopping 49 per cent of government
jobs.
The commission’s recommendations were pending implementation for
about seven years when in August 1990 the Janata Dal government led by
V.P. Singh declared its intent to implement them.
The criticism and reaction to the proposed implementation were sharp
and severe. Student protests were particularly serious and widespread. The
protests started in Delhi University and spread all over the country. At the
time I was serving as deputy commissioner of police, south district, in
Delhi. And it so happened that the area under my jurisdiction became the
epicentre of these protests.
On 19 September 1990, students of Deshbandhu College and Bhagat
Singh College—both under my jurisdiction—were protesting by throwing
brickbats at public transport and blocking traffic. I reached the spot with
police reserves and tried to control the mob. In our presence, Rajeev
Goswami, a student of Deshbandhu College, tried to commit selfimmolation
in protest against the government’s intent to implement the
Mandal Commission’s recommendations. My men managed to save him by
quickly putting a blanket over him. He was rushed to the burns ward of
Safdarjung Hospital where he fought a brave battle for his life and,
fortuitously, survived. Goswami became the face of the agitation against the
Mandal Commission, and his action sparked a series of self-immolation
bids by other upper-caste college students, who strongly disputed the
commission’s recommendations as they found them to be unjust and biased
against the deserving.
*
Before grade separators and an interchange came up at the All India
Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) intersection, where Ring Road and
Sri Aurobindo Marg cross each other, it was not only one of the busiest
intersections in Delhi, but perhaps in the country. It was the meeting point
of the north–south traffic corridor with the east–west corridor, with
thousands of vehicles plying across it every minute. Since Rajeev Goswami
was fighting for his life in the nearby Safdarjung Hospital, the agitating
students of Delhi decided to make the AIIMS crossing the base of their
revolt against the government. They squatted at the intersection in the
thousands, blocking traffic and bringing the city to a near halt. The
blockade was, in media circles, compared to the Tiananmen Square protests
of mid-1989 in Beijing, the memories of which were fresh in everyone’s
mind.
The formidable student movement against job reservations and the
creation of OBCs witnessed 200 self-immolation attempts. Sadly, sixty-two
students succumbed to their burns. Almost every opposition party supported
the agitation, some more overtly than others, but they never stated so in
explicit terms. To support the agitation overtly meant opposing reservations
approved for OBCs, which in turn would have meant alienating 51 per cent
of the voters. Therefore, the opposition leaders restricted themselves to
criticizing police action and sympathizing with the families of those
students who had immolated themselves.
A few days later, while controlling unlawful crowds near INA market
(again in south district), I ordered my boys to resort to lathi charge and teargas
the mob if the situation called for it. The mob refused to disperse and
resorted to large-scale arson and vandalism. They were about to burn down
a post office, and we had to open fire at the crowd, during which one rioter
was injured. These proceedings were caught on camera by Newstrack—a
popular video magazine during those days. Newstrack’s cameras captured
four policemen carrying an injured person away from the scene in a rather
unacceptable manner by holding him by his arms and legs while his torso
hung loose. The programme in its report highlighted how the four cops
hadn’t deemed it necessary to use a stretcher, which made it a revolting
sight to watch. The fact of the matter was that it was expedient to remove
the injured at the soonest for prompt medical attention. The video was
viewed widely and the police in my district came under huge criticism. A
PIL was filed against the south district police in the Delhi High Court. The
advocates who filed the PIL owed allegiance to a national political party
opposed to the Janata Dal government in power.
The best lawyers in the country were to appear against us in the PIL
hearings. We were in dire need of a good lawyer to present our side of the
story. To our dismay, not a single advocate worth his salt was prepared to
take up our case. The case had become too sensational and political, with
public opinion riding high against us. We requested one lawyer after
another to come on board and argue on our behalf, but none was ready to
accept our brief. We were losing heart and getting desperate when someone
suggested the name of Bawa Gurcharan Singh. Our inquiries revealed that
he was an experienced and competent advocate who was apolitical and kept
a low profile but was sincere and effective.
I decided to meet Gurcharan Singh and went to his residential office in
Model Town along with some of my officers. He was our last chance. When
we entered his office, a modest workplace, one look at the middle-aged
unassuming man convinced me that we had come to the right place. He
greeted us politely and lent us a sympathetic ear as we shared the details of
our case with him and requested him to defend us. After hearing us out, he
consented to appear for us on one condition. We had to first convince him
that the firing by the police at INA market had indeed been necessary.
Several briefings followed after this first meeting wherein I, along with
my officers, struggled to justify our actions with evidence, legal provisions
and police rules. The lawyer grilled us for hours, often making us feel
frustrated and dejected. We felt guilty even without a trial. But, like any
competent lawyer, he did his due diligence to convince himself that he was
defending a police action that was necessary and justified. Finally, he
informed us he was ready to represent us in court.
The hearings in the PIL went on for months. On the days of important
hearings, I would make it a point to be present in the court. To see
Gurcharan Singh take on the advocates appearing against us and give them
a run for their money was to witness court craft at its very best. Whenever I
couldn’t attend court, Gurcharan Singh would drive down to my office after
the hearings and brief me on the proceedings of the day. When I was
unavailable, he would call me to keep me updated. Over a period of time,
despite the years between us, Gurcharan Singh and I forged a close bond of
friendship and mutual respect.
After protracted hearings the court pronounced its verdict. In its final
order, the Delhi High Court, far from indicting us, appreciated the police
action and observed that had it not been for the police firing, there would
have been mayhem in INA market. It was a historic verdict in our favour.
What began as an anti-police tirade ended up becoming a feather in our cap.
Relief and joy were writ large on the faces of the south district police
officers.
Gurcharan Singh drove down to my office soon after the verdict was
delivered. I received him outside my office, hugged him and thanked him
profusely for what he had achieved on our behalf. If not for his dedication,
hard work and rare calibre, this day would have eluded us. The dignified
lawyer was happy but humble as we lavished him with praise and
appreciation for his unwavering support at a time when the rest of his
brethren had deserted us. He said, ‘You people did your job well and I tried
to do mine as well as I could.’
In the months that followed, as it usually happens, both of us became
preoccupied with our respective worlds. Contact between us gradually
diminished, until the phone by my bedside rang late one night.
On 6 June 1991, less than a year since we had first met, I was jolted
awake by the shrill ringing of the telephone. A relative of Gurcharan Singh
was on the line, and he said he had bad news for me. His voice quivered as
he spoke. He told me that earlier that evening my friend had been shot dead
by three unknown assailants. I couldn’t believe what I heard. What, who,
how, why were some of the questions I needed the answers to. The griefstricken
caller hung up. I was left in a state of shock by the suddenness of it
all.
It had been barely a year since I had got to know this extraordinary
lawyer. In that brief period of time, he had worked diligently for us, saved
our prestige and procured a landmark judgment in our favour. All this he
had achieved in the face of hostile public opinion. He had left an indelible
impression on me with his legal acumen, humility and friendship. It was not
easy to come to terms with what had just happened.
*
Days later, I learnt of the sequence of events that had led to the tragic
killing of Gurcharan Singh. The advocate was representing the state against
Brij Mohan Sharma, a notorious gangster who operated in Uttar Pradesh
and Delhi, in a case of murder. Gurcharan Singh, as always, was brilliant in
his arguments against the accused. Brij Mohan realized that if the lawyer
continued with his prosecution, his conviction was certain. He shared his
fears with his friend Manjeet Singh, another inveterate criminal from Agra.
Together, after a court hearing, they threatened the lawyer with dire
consequences if he did not give up the case. Gurcharan Singh told them, ‘If
I were to back off from a case because of threats from goons like you, I
better leave practising law.’ The goons then called up his wife and warned
her that if her husband did not relent he would be done away with. When
she brought the conversation to her husband’s attention, he brushed her off
summarily. The accused, finding the lawyer unyielding, decided to silence
him once and for all.
On that fateful evening, at about 8.45 p.m., Gurcharan Singh was at his
residential office with his associate Krishna Tyagi. He was dictating a brief
to his stenographer, J.S. Oberoi, for a client, who was also present. That
was when he spotted a young boy peeping into his office through the glass
door. He waved the boy in.
The youngster entered Gurcharan Singh’s chamber but with him two
other men also sneaked in. Gurcharan Singh, engrossed in a file, raised his
head to greet the boy but was startled to see the two men beside him. He
recognized them immediately, as they were the ones who had threatened
him in court. Before he could react, both of them pulled out their revolvers
and shot him at point-blank range, killing him on the spot.
In the melee that followed, Krishna Tyagi slipped out of the room to call
the police. The cops reached the spot, investigated the case and identified
the killers as Brij Mohan Sharma, Manjeet Singh and Gerard Innis aka
Jerry. Manjeet and Jerry were soon arrested by the Delhi Police. Brij
Mohan, however, absconded, formed another gang and continued to commit
heinous crimes, particularly kidnappings for ransom, mainly in UP.
On 30 July 1991, not even two months after murdering Bawa Gurcharan
Singh, Brij Mohan and three of his gang members, kidnapped a property
dealer from Jhansi. They asked his family to deliver the ransom money on 5
August at a hotel in Mathura, where the Jhansi Police led by Shailendra
Sagar, SSP, had an encounter with the kidnappers. Brij Mohan Sharma was
killed in the exchange of fire and the kidnapped person was rescued. Eight
years later, on 14 May 1999, the sessions court in Delhi convicted Manjeet
Singh and sentenced him to life imprisonment, while Jerry was acquitted.
*
And now, almost nineteen years later, stood before me Manjeet Singh,
claiming he was the main killer of my beloved friend.
I stared at Manjeet as he humbly confessed to his crime before me. I
wondered if he understood the full import of the ghastly crime he had been
a party to. How pulling the trigger of his gun had taken away a precious
life, caused acute grief to a family and left a void in the lives of all those
who knew Gurcharan Singh.
I asked him in all earnestness, ‘Why did you kill such a nice man?’
‘For the sake of my friendship with Brij Mohan,’ was his cold reply.
The details of the murder that he shared with me were, more or less,
known to me. I heard Manjeet out and looked at him, my gaze filled with
rage and bitterness. How could he have done it? How did he have the
gumption to stand before me and admit that it was he who had pulled the
trigger to shoot my defenceless friend? I was overcome by a strong desire to
get up and do something to him. But Manjeet continued to look into my
eyes with meekness and a certain earnestness that was disarming. I couldn’t
bring myself to even shout at him. I asked him to leave and returned to my
office, emotionally drained.
*
In the days that followed, I was engrossed in my work at the prison. Every
time I managed a visit to jail number two, I would spot Manjeet going about
his work silently and devotedly. On a couple of occasions, his request for
the grant of parole was presented before me. His case was always
recommended by his jail superintendent on account of his good behaviour
and his past record of returning from paroles on time and without any
complaints during his leave of absence.
In the nineteen years he had served thus far, he had gone on parole
several times. Unlike other jail convicts, not once had he jumped parole or
delayed his return to jail. His behaviour since the day he had arrived at
Tihar had been exemplary and the staff and convicts had great regard for
him.
Under Indian law, people who are sentenced to life imprisonment become
eligible for a review of their sentence after fourteen years. The remaining
part of their sentence can be waived or commuted by the Sentence Review
Board, which is appointed by the Government of Delhi. I learnt that
Manjeet’s case had come up before the board five times and had been
repeatedly rejected. The board was meeting next on 20 April 2011. My
presence, as the head of Tihar Prisons, was required at the meeting, as the
ex officio member secretary.
It had been close to five months since I had taken over as the director
general of prisons. I had learnt a lot about the punishment, reformation and
rehabilitation of convicts during this time. From being a hardened cop,
whose mission in life was to send offenders behind bars, I had begun to see
things ‘from the other side’ and in a very different light. I had realized that
there was much more to dealing with criminals than sending them to jail.
We had to reform them and give them another chance at an honest life.
They were, after all, human beings, many of whom had committed crimes
under circumstances that had forced them to take the law into their own
hands. If during their imprisonment they showed signs of repentance,
remorse and the desire to be reformed, they deserved rehabilitation and
integration with mainstream society.
Once again, I called upon the jail superintendent and his support staff and
asked them to share their thoughts on the commutation of Manjeet’s
sentence. They told me that they were all of the opinion that the remaining
part of Manjeet’s sentence should be commuted. But they were sceptical of
a favourable verdict from the Sentence Review Board, as his case had been
rejected five times.
On 20 April 2011, Sheila Dikshit, the then chief minister (CM) of Delhi,
chaired a meeting of the Sentence Review Board. Cases of convicts serving
life sentences in Tihar Prisons were to be considered for commutation.
Other members of the board included the principal home secretary, the
judicial secretary, the district and sessions judge, the chief probation officer,
the joint commissioner of police of crime, and sundry other officials. After
the board reviewed two or three other cases, Manjeet’s matter came up for
discussion. As on the five earlier occasions, when his case had been
considered and rejected, once again the entire board was of the opinion that
he deserved no mercy. After all, he had killed an eminent advocate in cold
blood, only because he (the advocate) was doing his duty as a special
prosecutor. The most vocal amongst the board members were the judicial
secretary and the sessions judge, who considered themselves to be members
of the same fraternity as the deceased victim. The board was unanimously
firm that Manjeet should breathe his last within the confines of Tihar. For a
ruthless criminal like him, life sentence meant life sentence, period.
Finally, having heard everyone else, the chief minister turned to me for
my view. I informed the board that if anyone in the room should oppose the
commutation of Manjeet’s life sentence tooth and nail, it should be me. I
gave the CM and the others present the background of my association with
Gurcharan Singh, how he had come to our rescue when all seemed lost and
how beholden I was to him till date. Yet, ironically, it was I who was
pleading for mercy for my saviour’s killer.
I went on to say that I had observed Manjeet Singh from close quarters. I
had always found him to be disciplined and well behaved. Most
importantly, I felt he was at peace with himself and the world. During the
nineteen years that he had spent in prison, there had been no complaints
against him. With his consistent record of good behaviour he had won the
confidence of the jail staff, so much so that he had begun to assist them in
running the jail. He had educated himself in prison and had acquired a
graduate degree, following which he was teaching others. He had gone out
on parole and furloughs umpteen times and had always returned on
schedule with no complaints from anyone. Additionally, I argued, Manjeet
had undergone nineteen years of rigorous imprisonment for his crime and
no useful purpose would be served by keeping him in custody. I went on to
say that I was convinced that he was fully reformed and deserved a chance
to live his life with his family, like a normal citizen.
I do not consider myself an orator and public speaking has never been my
strong suit. But that afternoon, pleading the case of a convicted murderer
before the Sentence Review Board, I felt as though someone else was
speaking in my voice. Perhaps it was Gurcharan Singh himself who had
pardoned his killer and wished to set him free.
I am not sure whether every member of the review board agreed with me,
but each one of them heard me out patiently. After my brief submission, the
CM said, ‘We have heard a completely new perspective concerning the
convict. If the director general of prisons himself feels that the convict is
reformed, we should go by his judgment. The convict should be shown
mercy and his remaining sentence should be commuted.’
No one dissented once the CM had given her verdict. It gave me
happiness to know that my argument would set a man doomed to die within
the confines of jail free.
The government order commuting Manjeet’s sentence arrived at the jail a
few days later. One morning, the superintendent of jail number two
informed me that Manjeet had requested a meeting with me before his
release the following day. I agreed to meet him one last time.
The two of us met in the superintendent’s office the following day. He
stood wearing his own clothes, looking rather dapper. Even though it was
only a regular blue shirt and a pair of dark blue trousers, they sat well on his
broad muscular frame, and he looked like an ageing Hollywood actor ready
to give a shot before the camera. It appeared as though he had long prepared
for this day. He looked at me with hands folded in supplication and tears in
his eyes.
Manjeet said that after his case had been rejected five times, he had lost
hope of ever being free. The prospect of his returning home and leading a
respectable life with his family had gradually faded away. He was resigned
to his fate of spending his life in captivity. But somehow, when he met me
for the first time in the jail garden and spoke to me, his hope for freedom
had been rekindled. Even though he had seen the rage seething in my eyes
following his confession, he had also sensed forgiveness and compassion.
The jail staff had, from time to time, reassured him that if anyone could
grant him freedom, it would be me.
I too was overwhelmed with emotion. I told him that he had reformed
himself and deserved his freedom. I wished the best for him and asked him
to keep in touch. He folded his hands again and looked at me as tears of
gratitude welled up in his eyes. As he was leaving, I stood up to see him off.
The prison doors would soon close for the last time on him, setting him free
forever. He was about to make a new beginning in his life. He turned
around and hesitated. Then he hugged me and walked through the huge
steel doors of the jail. He had spent nineteen years, six months and ten days
in prison.
When, at the end of a long police operation—full of near catches and
close misses, sudden rushes of adrenaline and crushing feelings of
disappointment—a dreaded criminal is arrested, a police officer experiences
a feeling of overwhelming catharsis and euphoria. This feeling is hard to
describe. It is a special feeling that perhaps no other profession can offer. I
have been fortunate to experience this on a few dozen occasions. But,
helping Manjeet Singh walk free gave me a different kind of high, and that
too is difficult to describe. It was an ‘operation’ of a different kind that
gave, with its success, a sense of satisfaction not experienced after
apprehending big-time criminals.
It has been seven years since Manjeet Singh walked free. To this day, I
receive an occasional phone call or a letter from him. Manjeet Singh, the
killer of Bawa Gurcharan Singh, is now a full-time farmer, living in his
village in Agra district—far from the madding crowd of crime and
criminals.
2010. Having served all my years with the police force in mainstream
assignments, this posting came as a shock, at least initially. A bit of
unsavoury police politics was behind it, but I will not waste my breath over
it here. As it turned out, my stint in the new job turned out to be a
memorable and fulfilling tenure. This story is one of many from my Tihar
days.
Delhi prisons are commonly referred to as Tihar Jail. However, what is
not commonly known is that it is not one jail, but consists of ten jails—
numbered one to ten—located in one complex in what was once an urban
village called Tihar. Another prison complex exists in Rohini, in far west
Delhi, which is also an integral part of the prisons department of the capital.
In 2016, five years after I left the prisons department, another prison
complex, comprising six jails, became operational at Mandoli in north-east
Delhi, bordering Uttar Pradesh.
It may be of some interest for a reader that besides the director general,
who is a senior officer from the Indian Police Service (IPS), no other staff
member serving in the jail is from the police. Therefore, when an IPS
officer joins at the senior-most position in the prisons department, he is the
sole policeman there and finds himself ‘alone’ in an unfamiliar
environment. The discipline, regimentation and camaraderie found in the
police are missing. More importantly, having spent his entire professional
life pursuing and putting away offenders, he is suddenly supervising their
correctional and reformation work—an occupation he is clueless about. The
assignment thus is not particularly coveted and often considered a
‘punishment’ posting. This is true not only of Delhi but most other states in
India as well.
Readers may further like to know a bit about the hierarchical structure of
the jail staff. Under the director general, who heads the prisons department,
a deputy inspector general of prisons serves as the second in command.
Under them, a superintendent heads the administration of a jail. A deputy
superintendent, assistant superintendents and head wardens followed by jail
wardens assist the jail superintendent.
A couple of days after taking over, I decided to pay a visit to all the jails
in the Tihar complex. The visit began from jail number two, where convicts
sentenced to imprisonment for ten years or more were lodged. I must
confess that before I stepped in, I was full of trepidation. Was I walking into
hell on earth? How would the inmates react on seeing me? Would I be
booed or jeered at by them? All manner of fears haunted me.
Escorted by jail staff, I entered jail number two and the sight I beheld
was in sharp contrast to what I was expecting. The sprawling campus was a
vast space of lush green lawns with squeaky-clean pathways flanked by tall
trees. To my right, soon after the entry point, was a flour mill where wheat
was being crushed to make flour. The staff led me in and I stood there for a
few minutes to observe the proceedings. Convicts, all dressed in their
immaculate white uniforms, were running the unit in unison. They greeted
me respectfully and then went about doing their jobs as the crushing
machine was operational and could not be left unattended. Each inmate was
engrossed in his work, and if at all they spoke to one another, it was in low,
hushed whispers.
As I stepped out, the only sound one could clearly hear in the campus
was the song of birds chirping in the background.
I walked on and was ushered into the garment-making section of the
prison. Mannequins stood outside the section dressed in outfits designed
and stitched by inmates who worked with devotion on their machines or
handlooms. The garments made by the inmates were novel in their design
and of excellent quality. It looked like a fashion outlet in busy Karol Bagh,
except for the absence of milling crowds.
Then there was the next big surprise: the prison bakery. I entered the
huge baking hall and found the prisoners wearing white chef’s hats,
transparent gloves and face masks, skilfully kneading dough, cutting out
cookies, stuffing patties and baking bread, pastries and cakes. The floor of
the hall was spotless, and the machines and utensils shining clean. I thought
to myself that the standards of hygiene here would easily put to shame those
of the best restaurants and five-star hotels of the city! I was informed that
all products made in the jail premises were retailed under the brand name
TJ’s (Tihar Jail’s) and the brand had an impressive turnover with the
potential to rise manifold. It was pleasing to know that every inmate was
paid a daily wage, which they could spend on themselves or send home for
the upkeep of their family.
I next visited the library, painting studio, hair salon and a medical room. I
also saw convicts playing cricket in white flannels in a reasonably sized,
open-air stadium. Someone in my entourage informed me that the jail had a
well-established team called Tihar 11, which played club-level matches
with outside teams.
The preconceived notion of a prison, with convicts in their striped black
and white uniforms hammering at rocks, controlled by ruthless jail staff,
disappeared. The place felt more like a retreat, an ashram—a serene
expanse of tranquillity and peace.
I also ran into convicts whom I recognized from my long years in the
Delhi Police and the CBI. Many had been arrested by police teams working
under me. I saw a person who suffered from dwarfism, whom I immediately
recognized. He was Tantrey, member of a terrorist outfit we had busted
when I was joint commissioner of the Special Cell of the Delhi Police. He
was working on a sewing machine and it was amusing to see how he
avoided making eye contact with me and pretended to focus on his job.
Another person I took note of was a tall, muscular, broad-shouldered
middle-aged man with a spring in his gait, who walked several yards ahead
of me and the jail staff escorting me. Dressed in a white shirt, white trousers
and white canvas shoes, he strutted around as if he owned the jail. I took
him to be a jail employee walking with me to provide security.
Occasionally, he would tick off an inmate here and a jail warden there.
So taken up was I by his personality that I inquired of the jail
superintendent who he was. The jail superintendent whispered in my ear
that he was a convicted murderer. A little later, during my walk-around, out
of sheer curiosity, I inquired, ‘Whose murder was he involved in?’
Someone from my entourage replied, ‘Sir, he killed an advocate.’
Though anxious to know more details, I restrained the urge to ask further
questions and waited for an opportune moment.
I visited the living quarters—or wards—where inmates were lodged.
Though overcrowded, they were reasonably neat and clean. After I spoke to
a few inmates, I was taken to the jail kitchen, where chefs from amongst the
inmates were cooking food for over a thousand fellow convicts. Much like
what I had seen in the prison bakery, the cooks wore caps and gloves and
went about their jobs in a clockwork fashion, churning out rotis on giant
tawas at a frenetic pace. The superintendent requested me to taste the food
and record my comments in the inspection register. A bite of roti taken with
dal and sabzi tasted sublime. I dutifully recorded my complimentary
inspection note, heaping praise on the prisoner chefs.
Soon the inspection was over and my entourage was ushered to a garden
within the jail premises for tea and refreshments. Plastic chairs and tables
were laid out neatly on a manicured lawn surrounded by rows of flowers in
bloom, overhanging trees and an artificial lake full of geese. Alongside was
a flock of pigeons feeding merrily under the setting sun. I was told by the
gardener that the pigeons were set free early every morning and by evening
they returned to their allotted pigeonholes without fail. The sylvan
surroundings belied the fact that we were sitting in a jail and being served
tea by people convicted of heinous offences.
By now, I was totally at ease. The convicts, when seen in flesh and blood
inside a jail, were the antithesis of whatever we imagine them to be. They
were calm, docile and seemed at peace with themselves. I felt the time was
right to ask further questions about the tall and muscular man who had led
us all the way through my inspection.
I turned to the superintendent and inquired, ‘Whom did the man who
walked ahead of us murder?’
The superintendent was not too sure. His deputy came to his help. ‘Sir, he
was an advocate who lived in Model Town.’
I wanted to know more because by now several bells were ringing in my
head.
‘What was the advocate’s name?’ I asked impatiently.
His reply hit me like the proverbial bolt from the blue, leaving me
shaken.
‘Sir, his name was Bawa Gurcharan Singh.’
‘Oh my god, is that so?’ I blurted involuntarily.
I had known Bawa Gurcharan Singh, an eminent advocate, only too well.
Not only had I known him, I was deeply indebted to him. Nearly twenty
years ago he had come to my rescue when I faced trying times fighting a
public interest litigation (PIL) filed against my officers and myself. The
circumstances were such that no other advocate was willing to take our
brief and argue our case in the Delhi High Court. But, more about that later.
I beckoned the tall man over and asked him, ‘Did you kill Bawa
Gurcharan Singh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said with a straight face.
‘What is your name?’
‘Sir, Manjeet Singh.’
Even though the incident had taken place nearly twenty years ago, I
remembered some facts of the case.
‘You were not alone when this happened. There was someone else with
you.’
‘Sir, there were two other people with me.’
‘Where is the main guy?’
‘Sir, I was the main guy. It was I who pulled the trigger. The Mathura
Police killed my accomplice Brij Mohan in an encounter later.’
This again rang a bell and memories came rushing in. A close relative of
a senior colleague (a former commissioner of the Mumbai Police) was
kidnapped from his home in Jhansi in August 1991 and kept hostage. The
ransom demanded was staggering and the hostage’s family was not in a
position to pay it. My colleague asked me to help. He had come to know
that Shailendra Sagar, the senior superintendent of police (SSP), Jhansi, was
my batchmate. I called up Shailendra who, of course, was aware of the case
and said he was doing his best. Through good luck and some smart
sleuthing, not only did Sagar rescue the hostage, but he also killed the
kidnapper Brij Mohan Sharma in a fierce encounter that took place in a
sugar cane field in Mathura.
*
I crossed paths with Gurcharan Singh under circumstances that were rather
convoluted. To explain them I need to give a bit of background on some of
the momentous events that took place in our country in the 1970s, ’80s and
’90s. One such event was the mass agitation against the Mandal
Commission recommendations.
The Mandal Commission or the Socially Backward Classes Commission
was established on 1 January 1979 by the Janata Party government under
Prime Minister Charan Singh. Its aim was to identify the ‘socially or
economically backward classes’ of India. B.P. Mandal, an Indian
parliamentarian, headed the commission to consider the question of
reservation for such categories of people who had suffered for centuries on
account of caste discrimination. By using eleven social, economic and
educational indicators to determine backwardness, the commission in 1980
submitted its report recommending that a new category of the Indian
population should be identified, namely, Other Backward Classes (OBC),
which comprised 51 per cent of India’s population. The commission further
recommended that 27 per cent of jobs under the Central government and
public sector undertakings should be reserved for OBCs, thereby making
the total percentage of reservations a whopping 49 per cent of government
jobs.
The commission’s recommendations were pending implementation for
about seven years when in August 1990 the Janata Dal government led by
V.P. Singh declared its intent to implement them.
The criticism and reaction to the proposed implementation were sharp
and severe. Student protests were particularly serious and widespread. The
protests started in Delhi University and spread all over the country. At the
time I was serving as deputy commissioner of police, south district, in
Delhi. And it so happened that the area under my jurisdiction became the
epicentre of these protests.
On 19 September 1990, students of Deshbandhu College and Bhagat
Singh College—both under my jurisdiction—were protesting by throwing
brickbats at public transport and blocking traffic. I reached the spot with
police reserves and tried to control the mob. In our presence, Rajeev
Goswami, a student of Deshbandhu College, tried to commit selfimmolation
in protest against the government’s intent to implement the
Mandal Commission’s recommendations. My men managed to save him by
quickly putting a blanket over him. He was rushed to the burns ward of
Safdarjung Hospital where he fought a brave battle for his life and,
fortuitously, survived. Goswami became the face of the agitation against the
Mandal Commission, and his action sparked a series of self-immolation
bids by other upper-caste college students, who strongly disputed the
commission’s recommendations as they found them to be unjust and biased
against the deserving.
*
Before grade separators and an interchange came up at the All India
Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) intersection, where Ring Road and
Sri Aurobindo Marg cross each other, it was not only one of the busiest
intersections in Delhi, but perhaps in the country. It was the meeting point
of the north–south traffic corridor with the east–west corridor, with
thousands of vehicles plying across it every minute. Since Rajeev Goswami
was fighting for his life in the nearby Safdarjung Hospital, the agitating
students of Delhi decided to make the AIIMS crossing the base of their
revolt against the government. They squatted at the intersection in the
thousands, blocking traffic and bringing the city to a near halt. The
blockade was, in media circles, compared to the Tiananmen Square protests
of mid-1989 in Beijing, the memories of which were fresh in everyone’s
mind.
The formidable student movement against job reservations and the
creation of OBCs witnessed 200 self-immolation attempts. Sadly, sixty-two
students succumbed to their burns. Almost every opposition party supported
the agitation, some more overtly than others, but they never stated so in
explicit terms. To support the agitation overtly meant opposing reservations
approved for OBCs, which in turn would have meant alienating 51 per cent
of the voters. Therefore, the opposition leaders restricted themselves to
criticizing police action and sympathizing with the families of those
students who had immolated themselves.
A few days later, while controlling unlawful crowds near INA market
(again in south district), I ordered my boys to resort to lathi charge and teargas
the mob if the situation called for it. The mob refused to disperse and
resorted to large-scale arson and vandalism. They were about to burn down
a post office, and we had to open fire at the crowd, during which one rioter
was injured. These proceedings were caught on camera by Newstrack—a
popular video magazine during those days. Newstrack’s cameras captured
four policemen carrying an injured person away from the scene in a rather
unacceptable manner by holding him by his arms and legs while his torso
hung loose. The programme in its report highlighted how the four cops
hadn’t deemed it necessary to use a stretcher, which made it a revolting
sight to watch. The fact of the matter was that it was expedient to remove
the injured at the soonest for prompt medical attention. The video was
viewed widely and the police in my district came under huge criticism. A
PIL was filed against the south district police in the Delhi High Court. The
advocates who filed the PIL owed allegiance to a national political party
opposed to the Janata Dal government in power.
The best lawyers in the country were to appear against us in the PIL
hearings. We were in dire need of a good lawyer to present our side of the
story. To our dismay, not a single advocate worth his salt was prepared to
take up our case. The case had become too sensational and political, with
public opinion riding high against us. We requested one lawyer after
another to come on board and argue on our behalf, but none was ready to
accept our brief. We were losing heart and getting desperate when someone
suggested the name of Bawa Gurcharan Singh. Our inquiries revealed that
he was an experienced and competent advocate who was apolitical and kept
a low profile but was sincere and effective.
I decided to meet Gurcharan Singh and went to his residential office in
Model Town along with some of my officers. He was our last chance. When
we entered his office, a modest workplace, one look at the middle-aged
unassuming man convinced me that we had come to the right place. He
greeted us politely and lent us a sympathetic ear as we shared the details of
our case with him and requested him to defend us. After hearing us out, he
consented to appear for us on one condition. We had to first convince him
that the firing by the police at INA market had indeed been necessary.
Several briefings followed after this first meeting wherein I, along with
my officers, struggled to justify our actions with evidence, legal provisions
and police rules. The lawyer grilled us for hours, often making us feel
frustrated and dejected. We felt guilty even without a trial. But, like any
competent lawyer, he did his due diligence to convince himself that he was
defending a police action that was necessary and justified. Finally, he
informed us he was ready to represent us in court.
The hearings in the PIL went on for months. On the days of important
hearings, I would make it a point to be present in the court. To see
Gurcharan Singh take on the advocates appearing against us and give them
a run for their money was to witness court craft at its very best. Whenever I
couldn’t attend court, Gurcharan Singh would drive down to my office after
the hearings and brief me on the proceedings of the day. When I was
unavailable, he would call me to keep me updated. Over a period of time,
despite the years between us, Gurcharan Singh and I forged a close bond of
friendship and mutual respect.
After protracted hearings the court pronounced its verdict. In its final
order, the Delhi High Court, far from indicting us, appreciated the police
action and observed that had it not been for the police firing, there would
have been mayhem in INA market. It was a historic verdict in our favour.
What began as an anti-police tirade ended up becoming a feather in our cap.
Relief and joy were writ large on the faces of the south district police
officers.
Gurcharan Singh drove down to my office soon after the verdict was
delivered. I received him outside my office, hugged him and thanked him
profusely for what he had achieved on our behalf. If not for his dedication,
hard work and rare calibre, this day would have eluded us. The dignified
lawyer was happy but humble as we lavished him with praise and
appreciation for his unwavering support at a time when the rest of his
brethren had deserted us. He said, ‘You people did your job well and I tried
to do mine as well as I could.’
In the months that followed, as it usually happens, both of us became
preoccupied with our respective worlds. Contact between us gradually
diminished, until the phone by my bedside rang late one night.
On 6 June 1991, less than a year since we had first met, I was jolted
awake by the shrill ringing of the telephone. A relative of Gurcharan Singh
was on the line, and he said he had bad news for me. His voice quivered as
he spoke. He told me that earlier that evening my friend had been shot dead
by three unknown assailants. I couldn’t believe what I heard. What, who,
how, why were some of the questions I needed the answers to. The griefstricken
caller hung up. I was left in a state of shock by the suddenness of it
all.
It had been barely a year since I had got to know this extraordinary
lawyer. In that brief period of time, he had worked diligently for us, saved
our prestige and procured a landmark judgment in our favour. All this he
had achieved in the face of hostile public opinion. He had left an indelible
impression on me with his legal acumen, humility and friendship. It was not
easy to come to terms with what had just happened.
*
Days later, I learnt of the sequence of events that had led to the tragic
killing of Gurcharan Singh. The advocate was representing the state against
Brij Mohan Sharma, a notorious gangster who operated in Uttar Pradesh
and Delhi, in a case of murder. Gurcharan Singh, as always, was brilliant in
his arguments against the accused. Brij Mohan realized that if the lawyer
continued with his prosecution, his conviction was certain. He shared his
fears with his friend Manjeet Singh, another inveterate criminal from Agra.
Together, after a court hearing, they threatened the lawyer with dire
consequences if he did not give up the case. Gurcharan Singh told them, ‘If
I were to back off from a case because of threats from goons like you, I
better leave practising law.’ The goons then called up his wife and warned
her that if her husband did not relent he would be done away with. When
she brought the conversation to her husband’s attention, he brushed her off
summarily. The accused, finding the lawyer unyielding, decided to silence
him once and for all.
On that fateful evening, at about 8.45 p.m., Gurcharan Singh was at his
residential office with his associate Krishna Tyagi. He was dictating a brief
to his stenographer, J.S. Oberoi, for a client, who was also present. That
was when he spotted a young boy peeping into his office through the glass
door. He waved the boy in.
The youngster entered Gurcharan Singh’s chamber but with him two
other men also sneaked in. Gurcharan Singh, engrossed in a file, raised his
head to greet the boy but was startled to see the two men beside him. He
recognized them immediately, as they were the ones who had threatened
him in court. Before he could react, both of them pulled out their revolvers
and shot him at point-blank range, killing him on the spot.
In the melee that followed, Krishna Tyagi slipped out of the room to call
the police. The cops reached the spot, investigated the case and identified
the killers as Brij Mohan Sharma, Manjeet Singh and Gerard Innis aka
Jerry. Manjeet and Jerry were soon arrested by the Delhi Police. Brij
Mohan, however, absconded, formed another gang and continued to commit
heinous crimes, particularly kidnappings for ransom, mainly in UP.
On 30 July 1991, not even two months after murdering Bawa Gurcharan
Singh, Brij Mohan and three of his gang members, kidnapped a property
dealer from Jhansi. They asked his family to deliver the ransom money on 5
August at a hotel in Mathura, where the Jhansi Police led by Shailendra
Sagar, SSP, had an encounter with the kidnappers. Brij Mohan Sharma was
killed in the exchange of fire and the kidnapped person was rescued. Eight
years later, on 14 May 1999, the sessions court in Delhi convicted Manjeet
Singh and sentenced him to life imprisonment, while Jerry was acquitted.
*
And now, almost nineteen years later, stood before me Manjeet Singh,
claiming he was the main killer of my beloved friend.
I stared at Manjeet as he humbly confessed to his crime before me. I
wondered if he understood the full import of the ghastly crime he had been
a party to. How pulling the trigger of his gun had taken away a precious
life, caused acute grief to a family and left a void in the lives of all those
who knew Gurcharan Singh.
I asked him in all earnestness, ‘Why did you kill such a nice man?’
‘For the sake of my friendship with Brij Mohan,’ was his cold reply.
The details of the murder that he shared with me were, more or less,
known to me. I heard Manjeet out and looked at him, my gaze filled with
rage and bitterness. How could he have done it? How did he have the
gumption to stand before me and admit that it was he who had pulled the
trigger to shoot my defenceless friend? I was overcome by a strong desire to
get up and do something to him. But Manjeet continued to look into my
eyes with meekness and a certain earnestness that was disarming. I couldn’t
bring myself to even shout at him. I asked him to leave and returned to my
office, emotionally drained.
*
In the days that followed, I was engrossed in my work at the prison. Every
time I managed a visit to jail number two, I would spot Manjeet going about
his work silently and devotedly. On a couple of occasions, his request for
the grant of parole was presented before me. His case was always
recommended by his jail superintendent on account of his good behaviour
and his past record of returning from paroles on time and without any
complaints during his leave of absence.
In the nineteen years he had served thus far, he had gone on parole
several times. Unlike other jail convicts, not once had he jumped parole or
delayed his return to jail. His behaviour since the day he had arrived at
Tihar had been exemplary and the staff and convicts had great regard for
him.
Under Indian law, people who are sentenced to life imprisonment become
eligible for a review of their sentence after fourteen years. The remaining
part of their sentence can be waived or commuted by the Sentence Review
Board, which is appointed by the Government of Delhi. I learnt that
Manjeet’s case had come up before the board five times and had been
repeatedly rejected. The board was meeting next on 20 April 2011. My
presence, as the head of Tihar Prisons, was required at the meeting, as the
ex officio member secretary.
It had been close to five months since I had taken over as the director
general of prisons. I had learnt a lot about the punishment, reformation and
rehabilitation of convicts during this time. From being a hardened cop,
whose mission in life was to send offenders behind bars, I had begun to see
things ‘from the other side’ and in a very different light. I had realized that
there was much more to dealing with criminals than sending them to jail.
We had to reform them and give them another chance at an honest life.
They were, after all, human beings, many of whom had committed crimes
under circumstances that had forced them to take the law into their own
hands. If during their imprisonment they showed signs of repentance,
remorse and the desire to be reformed, they deserved rehabilitation and
integration with mainstream society.
Once again, I called upon the jail superintendent and his support staff and
asked them to share their thoughts on the commutation of Manjeet’s
sentence. They told me that they were all of the opinion that the remaining
part of Manjeet’s sentence should be commuted. But they were sceptical of
a favourable verdict from the Sentence Review Board, as his case had been
rejected five times.
On 20 April 2011, Sheila Dikshit, the then chief minister (CM) of Delhi,
chaired a meeting of the Sentence Review Board. Cases of convicts serving
life sentences in Tihar Prisons were to be considered for commutation.
Other members of the board included the principal home secretary, the
judicial secretary, the district and sessions judge, the chief probation officer,
the joint commissioner of police of crime, and sundry other officials. After
the board reviewed two or three other cases, Manjeet’s matter came up for
discussion. As on the five earlier occasions, when his case had been
considered and rejected, once again the entire board was of the opinion that
he deserved no mercy. After all, he had killed an eminent advocate in cold
blood, only because he (the advocate) was doing his duty as a special
prosecutor. The most vocal amongst the board members were the judicial
secretary and the sessions judge, who considered themselves to be members
of the same fraternity as the deceased victim. The board was unanimously
firm that Manjeet should breathe his last within the confines of Tihar. For a
ruthless criminal like him, life sentence meant life sentence, period.
Finally, having heard everyone else, the chief minister turned to me for
my view. I informed the board that if anyone in the room should oppose the
commutation of Manjeet’s life sentence tooth and nail, it should be me. I
gave the CM and the others present the background of my association with
Gurcharan Singh, how he had come to our rescue when all seemed lost and
how beholden I was to him till date. Yet, ironically, it was I who was
pleading for mercy for my saviour’s killer.
I went on to say that I had observed Manjeet Singh from close quarters. I
had always found him to be disciplined and well behaved. Most
importantly, I felt he was at peace with himself and the world. During the
nineteen years that he had spent in prison, there had been no complaints
against him. With his consistent record of good behaviour he had won the
confidence of the jail staff, so much so that he had begun to assist them in
running the jail. He had educated himself in prison and had acquired a
graduate degree, following which he was teaching others. He had gone out
on parole and furloughs umpteen times and had always returned on
schedule with no complaints from anyone. Additionally, I argued, Manjeet
had undergone nineteen years of rigorous imprisonment for his crime and
no useful purpose would be served by keeping him in custody. I went on to
say that I was convinced that he was fully reformed and deserved a chance
to live his life with his family, like a normal citizen.
I do not consider myself an orator and public speaking has never been my
strong suit. But that afternoon, pleading the case of a convicted murderer
before the Sentence Review Board, I felt as though someone else was
speaking in my voice. Perhaps it was Gurcharan Singh himself who had
pardoned his killer and wished to set him free.
I am not sure whether every member of the review board agreed with me,
but each one of them heard me out patiently. After my brief submission, the
CM said, ‘We have heard a completely new perspective concerning the
convict. If the director general of prisons himself feels that the convict is
reformed, we should go by his judgment. The convict should be shown
mercy and his remaining sentence should be commuted.’
No one dissented once the CM had given her verdict. It gave me
happiness to know that my argument would set a man doomed to die within
the confines of jail free.
The government order commuting Manjeet’s sentence arrived at the jail a
few days later. One morning, the superintendent of jail number two
informed me that Manjeet had requested a meeting with me before his
release the following day. I agreed to meet him one last time.
The two of us met in the superintendent’s office the following day. He
stood wearing his own clothes, looking rather dapper. Even though it was
only a regular blue shirt and a pair of dark blue trousers, they sat well on his
broad muscular frame, and he looked like an ageing Hollywood actor ready
to give a shot before the camera. It appeared as though he had long prepared
for this day. He looked at me with hands folded in supplication and tears in
his eyes.
Manjeet said that after his case had been rejected five times, he had lost
hope of ever being free. The prospect of his returning home and leading a
respectable life with his family had gradually faded away. He was resigned
to his fate of spending his life in captivity. But somehow, when he met me
for the first time in the jail garden and spoke to me, his hope for freedom
had been rekindled. Even though he had seen the rage seething in my eyes
following his confession, he had also sensed forgiveness and compassion.
The jail staff had, from time to time, reassured him that if anyone could
grant him freedom, it would be me.
I too was overwhelmed with emotion. I told him that he had reformed
himself and deserved his freedom. I wished the best for him and asked him
to keep in touch. He folded his hands again and looked at me as tears of
gratitude welled up in his eyes. As he was leaving, I stood up to see him off.
The prison doors would soon close for the last time on him, setting him free
forever. He was about to make a new beginning in his life. He turned
around and hesitated. Then he hugged me and walked through the huge
steel doors of the jail. He had spent nineteen years, six months and ten days
in prison.
When, at the end of a long police operation—full of near catches and
close misses, sudden rushes of adrenaline and crushing feelings of
disappointment—a dreaded criminal is arrested, a police officer experiences
a feeling of overwhelming catharsis and euphoria. This feeling is hard to
describe. It is a special feeling that perhaps no other profession can offer. I
have been fortunate to experience this on a few dozen occasions. But,
helping Manjeet Singh walk free gave me a different kind of high, and that
too is difficult to describe. It was an ‘operation’ of a different kind that
gave, with its success, a sense of satisfaction not experienced after
apprehending big-time criminals.
It has been seven years since Manjeet Singh walked free. To this day, I
receive an occasional phone call or a letter from him. Manjeet Singh, the
killer of Bawa Gurcharan Singh, is now a full-time farmer, living in his
village in Agra district—far from the madding crowd of crime and
criminals.
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