Tihar Central Jail, New Delhi. The name itself evokes a gamut of emotions - ranging from awe to terror. Tihar is the biggest jail complex in South Asia, and houses high-profile politicians and businessmen, death-row convicts, terrorists, and men and women accused of heinous crimes. To enter its ‘fabled’ confines is a journey into a territory unknown. As I embarked from my car in front of the giant gates, surrounded by high prison walls, I was overwhelmed – and a little apprehensive. Just a few days earlier, enduring multiple checks, I had entered Jail No. 6, which houses women inmates. The security staff had been bewildered to see a dancer, attired in a traditional costume and a fiery make up. However, I could understand their reaction, considering that I was the first dancer to venture into Tihar.
Tihar Jail’s stated main objective is to convert its inmates into ‘normal’ members of society by providing them with useful skills, education and respect for the law. It aims to improve their self-esteem and to strengthen their desire to improve. Tihar Jail also believes in the reform of the inmates through various programmes, which ready them for a life of rehabilitation upon their release from jail. As India’s ancient culture has so many moral lessons to offer, the jail authorities felt that a Classical dance performance would be a worthwhile effort and contribution – and so I got the opportunity to perform Kuchipudi at Tihar Jail. As I walked in, the inmates greeted me. They looked like the people I see on the road everyday - not very different from me. The difference was that these women had committed heinous crimes. I was made to understand that most of these women were victims of circumstances – but unfortunately they can never turn the clock back. A warm set of women officials seemed to be dealing with the inmates with both care and strictness.
As I commenced dancing on stage, I wondered what purpose my performance would serve if I was not able to communicate with the inmates. I therefore encouraged them to come up on stage to learn some nuances of dancing. Much to my amazement an inmate immediately decided to shake a leg, and her sincere attempt spontaneously made me join the audience in generous applause. I then performed on traditional stories from Hindu mythology, depicting Ganesha and Krishna. As I readied to balance my feet on a brass plate for the finale, I looked up keenly at the audience. Despite their rapt attention, I could sense a feeling of solitude and a resignation to fate. They were generous in their praise and applause and thanked me for my performance. I asked if they would like to see me dance again. Pat came a reply, in chaste Hindi, “How is that possible? We need to come out of jail for that.” As we all laughed (nervously) at the comment, I promised them that I would come again. As I drove back blinded by the setting sun, under the giant floodlights of the watch towers above me, meandering through the roads of the jail complex, I inadvertently whispered one word to myself as I passed through the exit gate, waving to the saluting guard: ‘Freedom’. We take it so much for granted.
The Writer is a renowned Kuchipudi Danseuse and Choreographer
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