Chains of contention

Hemmed in by barricades, the mind breaks freeDon't tell them you are a journalist, I was told. They won't allow you in. By the time I reac...

Hemmed in by barricades, the mind breaks free
Don8217;t tell them you are a journalist, I was told. They won8217;t allow you in. By the time I reached the Gamnuam Home for De-Addiction, I had heard enough unsavoury things about it to make me feel like turning away from its gates.The first time its name cropped up was at the office of the AIDS Control Society in Imphal. A rights lawyer mentioned how he had filed a case against the home which was keeping addicts in chains. 8220;It8217;s a prison,8221; he fumed.

8220;They keep yo-ungsters chained to the bed and don8217;t even allow them to meet their relatives.8221; How barbaric, I shuddered. 8220;I will take you there,8221; he offered. He kept his promise. So here I was standing outside its tall ga-tes with two rights activists and another journalist, wishing with all my heart that they would turn us away.

The gate opened and out st-epped a bespectacled middle-aged man, one of the home-ke-epers. 8220;Come in, come in,8221; he smiled when I handed him my card. Oh, we mumbled.Inside his office, he introduced us to his wife. She smiled her greetings while sorting out woollies from a bag. 8220;We8217;ve just got a new inmate,8221; she explained.

Then her husband cleared his throat. The home, he said, doesn8217;t believe in the conventional de-addiction programmes. Its three-and-a-half-year therapy employs a mix of prayers and chains. An addict8217;s hands, and sometimes even ankles, are tied with 8220;love chains8221; to keep him off drugs. And the violent ones are even caged for a while. 8220;We8217;ve got a lot of bad publicity because of the chains, but they work,8221; he said. Co-uld we see the home, we asked. Yes, he nodded, but we would have to wait for the Reverend. The Reverend, a retired bureaucrat, was expected any time. So we waited.

Another tall gate barricaded the home. A group of boys passed by the office, one of them balancing a ball on his head. 8220;Our boys are very good at sports,8221; the home-keeper beamed. 8220;We have nine football teams.8221; He called out to one of the boys. The boy came in, a redbandanna on his forehead. Another youngster with specs followed him. 8220;You can ask them whatever you want to, they have completed the course,8221; the home-keeper offered.

8220;I am Thangboi Bhunggin,8221; the bandanna boy said, his voice barely audible. It was easy to like this 24-year-old. While the others gathered around his more voluble friend, I approached him. No, he didn8217;t want to talk about his addiction. 8220;It8217;s too shameful,8221; he frowned. He was sent here by his parents, who work in Dibrugarh. And he remained in chains for more than two years. 8220;Initially, I used to hate this home,8221; he confessed, 8220;I used to think they were inhuman. But the chains forced me to think.8221; No, he didn8217;t believe God played any role in his cure. 8220;It8217;s the chains,8221; he reiterated.

8220;They made me think.8221; Now he did not want to leave this place. 8220;I am happy here. I do a lot of repair work8230; I don8217;t know what I would do outside.8221; He said this and the Reverend, Thangkhopao Ngaihte, arrived as if on cue.

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Finally, we got toenter the home. It was teeming with boys, many of them with chained hands and ankles, getting ready for dinner. The dormitories with bunk beds were clean and cheerful. It was then that I saw this boy. Lying on a bed, smiling uncertainly at us, he didn8217;t look more than 10. 8220;He is Zam, our youngest inmate; his father, an addict, is also here,8221; the Reverend explained. Then, Zam got up and straightened the chain that bound his wrists. Which class are you in, I asked. Class IV, he murmured.

We left the home soon afterward. The journey, my conversation with the boys, all have become a distant memory, but those chains8230; they still haunt me.