‘ Good food, visitors: It helps to be a VIP in jail & convicted babus have it best’

As the iron bolts slide into place with a metallic clang at the end of the day, the value of freedom sinks in with a force so brutal that for many inmates it changes the way they react to the sound of a bolt. Certain situations, they say, cannot be expressed and can only be e x p e r i e n c e d . Imprisonment certainly counts as one of them.

A prison is intended to be a correctional centre for convicts and a place for judicial remand of undertrial prisoners. I was not aware of any law that says a prisoner’s social status goes with him to prison. I was under the impression that a prisoner goes to prison for his misdeeds and that he is stripped of many privileges as a free citizen regardless of who or what he is. But here is the catch. There is a difference between a prisoner and an important prisoner. Apparently, for the administration of the prison, where I spent my prime, there is a different scale for the high and mighty.

While courts do not make a distinction, the prison is entirely different. Once i m p r i s - oned a VIP should be stripped of his status and treated like other prisoners. But it is the other way round as the “prisoner” status is more or less removed, and the “VIP” status continues.

Now, what exactly are the perks of this status? Is it a stroll on Brigade Road, or a shopping spree as was alleged recently? No, it is not. This is not Colombia for something as brazen as that to happen. What it means is that the VIP gets to spend more time with visitors, gets better food, gets locked up late, his movements are not restricted and he will not be “shooed” away like a disgusting creature when its time for lock- up. It also means that the doctors will treat the patient like well, a VIP.

Now, all of this may appear trivial, but try telling this to the faceless thousands of inmates who are treated like subterranean c r e a - t u r e s . T w o hours of e x t r a t i m e outside the barracks or cell is priceless. Not being waved away dismissively with a fibre lathi is an award of dignity. Not having to remove footwear before entering an officer’s chamber boils down to self respect. The list is endless. The point here is that it is the small things in life that count. And VIPs get all the small things and the occasional big thing too. The saddest part is that low rung young inmates, who are first time offenders, are mightily impressed by the perks enjoyed by VIPs and are overawed when they see a warden saluting them. Their eyes open wide in admiration as they see a jailor rush to open a gate for these inmates and fantasise about taking the place of the VIPs, who enjoy such perks in prison.

Here’s a small comparison. I remember that one labourer was arrested by a squad for trying to sell used day bus passes for Rs10 each. He had in his possession eight such passes. He left the prison after six months and during this time he was made to sweep the grounds, pick up used cigarette butts, beedi ends and plastic tea cups and also treated badly because he was poor.

But a government official, who indulges in organised looting of natural resources leading to a loss of crores of rupees to the government, gets a cool VIP room, is treated nicely and leaves the prison in one piece.

The amusing part is a government servant, who enjoys perks from the taxes paid by the public, then abuses his position and swindles public money, again has his life made comfortable in prison using public money. Public money is sadly spent on making the lives of the influential comfortable in prison and this list includes rowdies, politicians, wannabe politicians, blackmailers and the well connected. If this doesn’t stink, what does?

We live in an age of charging. Everything must be charged, and I do not refer to being billed for buying and consuming all manner of everyday bare necessities - petrol, provisions, eating out, Amazon, Flipkart and so on. Those are the quotidian pains we must endure to merely exist, GST notwithstanding. Well, perhaps not the eating out bit so much, but you get my drift. I, on the other hand, am talking of the various kinds of battery operated gadgets we cannot evidently live w i t h o u t , which must be charged periodically, else life as we know and understand it, comes to a grinding halt. The list comprises a handful of vital essentials and it is a matter of some wonderment that we never consciously think about them. Until we run into a problem. So here’s a basic guide to all things battery operated, which we become acutely aware of only when the damn things start malfunctioning, or dying out on you.

The motor car, or just car to those who think the ‘ motor’ prefix is old fashioned, is on the top of my list on the battery brigade. We never worry about the car battery, do we? Of course not. In fact with the present generation vehicles, we are advised by the manufacturers not to even open the bonnet. No periodic topping up of distilled water, checking the carburettors and the oil filter, and generally burying your face under the bonnet till you surface with grease spots on your nose and cheeks, and all over your hands. That used to make you feel really good, like you have achieved something worthwhile. Now, if your car sputters and breathes its last in the middle of a traffic jam on a rainy day, you somehow push the car to one side, to the hostile accompaniment of blaring horns and dirty looks. As if you are to be held personally responsible for your car breaking down. You then call up the service blokes. And you wait. And pray.

In the fullness of time a uniformed help arrives, opens the bonnet, gives a cursory dekko and peers at you suspiciously ( like you’ve deliberately yanked out the spark plugs) and finally asks, ' When did you last check your battery?' Clearly a rhetorical question this, to which I have no adequate response. The rest falls into a predictable pattern. The car is towed away, winched up on its hind legs to a service centre 20 kms outside the city limits, while charged me a prince’s ransom. Didn’t any of these defects show up?’ That's the problem I have in dealing with service mechanics. I come over all… what’s the word I am groping for? I know cats come into it somewhere. Got it! Pusillanimous.

Let’s move on to the Uninterrupted Power Supply ( UPS) system in our apartment, inconspicuously tucked away in a corner on the terrace, providing us with instant switch over during power cuts. Which happens all through the day, such that we are not sure if the lights are on courtesy the inverter or the electric supply. To be sure, I have to trudge all the way to the kitchen to check if the refrigerator, which runs on the mains, is purring. On opening the fridge door, if darkness welcomes me then I know we are powerless - in more ways than one. Warm beer, for a start. It’s only a matter of time before the batteries conk out, and I am back to the service rigmarole once again. To be fair, my UPS