SENJUTI CHAKRABARTI
“Madame, apni kyano amaader ke abaar shob purono kotha gulo jiggesh korchhen…30 bochhorer opor hoye gyalo ar amra je ashe jail e taar theke shaahajjyo cheye jaai. Taara ashe, kotha bole, khataay ki shob lekhe, tarpor dekhchhi bole chole jay. Taara aaj o dekhchhe”.
(“Why are you asking us the same stories again, our cases, our families, our lives….? It has been three decades, and we have only been sharing our story and asking for help from every official who visits us. They come, talk to us, scribble something on their diaries, and say, ‘We are looking into it’ while leaving.”)
Bijoy Mukherjee, jailed in the Presidency Central Correctional Home in Kolkata for 31 years, told me the first time I spoke to him.
Most of the convicts in the Presidency would have similar reactions when I tried talking to them the first time. They would come to the legal aid clinic and sit with me, but a sense of hopelessness and distrust was palpable. It was only after multiple interactions that perhaps some trust was built, but certainly no hope.
I remember Arshad Khan, a Pakistani convict incarcerated for 23 years, telling me, “Mujhe to koi ummeed nahi hai, bohot dekh liya humnein 23 saal mein.” (I don’t have much hope from the system. I have experienced a lot in 23 years.)
As a young legal aid lawyer with less experience with the justice system than most convicts in the Presidency, I am often the only hopeful individual in the clinic. I am eager to assist incarcerated members in writing letters, speaking to their lawyers, updating them about their cases, and showing immense interest in their everyday lives.
Amidst this, I regularly stumble upon questions such as, “Madame, will anything even happen? Why are you trying?”
I remember Bijoy, now in his 60s, told me at the end of his interview.
“Ami jaani kichhu hobe na, apni chhoto, likhte chaan amaader niye, likhun, dekhun..” (I know nothing will happen, but you’re young and naive. You want to write about us, write, see what happens.)
Arshad’s case partner, Ishaq Ahmad, a fellow Pakistani, was one of the few who, despite his ordeal, maintained an innate cheerfulness. He diligently followed up on his case updates, remission applications, and every other letter with me, eager to share and give me ideas.
One day, during the interview, I had been severely impacted by some of the experiences of incarceration and was in despair. I later received a call from the official telephone of the Presidency with Ishaq’s cheerful voice asking, “Madame, mujhmein umeed hai. Toh arz kiya hai ye apke liye.” (Madame, I am hopeful. Permit me to present two lines dedicated to you.)
He said, “Usne puchha ke kya gham hai, Ab usne puchh hi liya, phir kya gham hai…” (He enquired about my sorrows. Now that he has expressed such concern, what is sorrow anymore.)
Read Senjuti Chakrabarti’s full story here.
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