Prisoner146;s dignity? That146;s a joke

It was 42 degrees in the shade and just past noon. The shabby, filthy court was filling up. Witnesses, lawyers, relations were shuffling shoulder to shoulder on to the narrow wooden benches.

It was 42 degrees in the shade and just past noon. The shabby, filthy court was filling up. Witnesses, lawyers, relations were shuffling shoulder to shoulder on to the narrow wooden benches. The prisoners were being readied for their day in court. They were all men or they must have been at one time. Now they were cowed animals, some young, some older, some very old. All 15 or so undernourished weaklings: all tied together in one rope, looped together like the cattle they were. None dared to look up. Their heads hung down. Their bodies shrank away from the public gaze.

Two police constables with dark patches of sweat staining their underarms poked and prodded at the lines and grunted orders in monosyllables no one could understand. But the prisoners seemed to know what to do. At each sharp bark they jerked back against the verandah wall, at another they crouched down and squatted in a huddle so as not to inconvenience the feet of passers-by. There they stayed, crunched down, waiting for the judge to come into court. He did. At 12.15 pm or so. An hour late.

The police got to work on releasing the prisoners, undoing the knots and nooses around their hands and waists, looking over their shoulders into the courtroom to make sure the judge didn8217;t catch sight of the prisoners all tied up in a row. Form required that prisoners should not be handcuffed, leave alone fettered because the Supreme Court had long ago said that the prisoner8217;s dignity must be preserved. The prisoner8217;s dignity 8212; that jokey idea 8212; was being restored outside the court. The guards needn8217;t have worried. Happy in the knowledge that no prisoner is ever handcuffed, the judge wasn8217;t paying heed to the chained gang just outside his door.

The court crier called out their names. The undertrials filed in one by one, escorted by their constable. None of the lawyers were present. The prosecutor was busy in another court. The state of the defence was unknown. The undertrial looked up bewildered. Maybe he has a defence counsel. Maybe he does not. He does not know where he might be or how to get him. His eyes are full of panic. But the judge does not look up. He does not inquire if he has or needs counsel. His Honour does not look at the files and papers to see how many times this particular prisoner has been brought to his court and had no hearing. He has a court to run. He has no time to waste. He has justice to deliver. He whispers quick instructions to his typist on this side and to his clerk on the other. The officials scribble. Within seconds the record is set right. His Honour announces the next date. It8217;s the standard fortnight hence. The constable bows and leads his mute little monkey out. The next one is brought in. Another date is given. Another mute shuffles in. Another mute shuffles out and then all are tethered together again. Outside one of the crouched, roped wretches dares to ask what has happened. The constable hands him a sharp whack across the head and says, 8220;You8217;ve had your appearance, now it8217;s after two weeks.8221;

There is no more explanation. The others stay silent and ask no more questions. The judge glances outside the court, catches the scene, and like those others caught up in chains he too stays silent. His Honour asks for no explanations. He knows the score. Seventy per cent of the jail population are undertrial prisoners. Many of them are there for petty offences. Many should never have been arrested. Many will never be convicted because investigations are so poor and trials are so shoddy. Still many of them will end up serving more than their maximum possible sentence. But none of them is Salman Khan and none of them is Sanju Baba. Not even a lookalike amongst the lot. His Honour is a busy man. This is a fast-track court. He has other work to do. All appearances have been maintained. The law has been served. No one can ask for more.

The writer is director, Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative