August 31, 1998

Unable to cope with their drug-addicted children, parents prefer to put them in jail on flimsy reasons.

By Avirook Sen

On the evening of March 25, Lucky Poumai, the 23-year-old son of a former Manipur minister, strolled into his house in Imphal comfortably numb. "I'd been out with some friends as usual sticking needles into our arms," he says. But that day the reaction from his family was not the usual one of resignation. Lucky's parents called the police with an express instruction: put the young man in jail, no matter what he's charged with. He was taken into police custody for "attempted theft" under Section 379 and then transferred to the Sajiwa Jail on the outskirts of Imphal. He has been there ever since.

In the beginning, life in jail was hell. Fifteen days of withdrawal symptoms with no medical facilities -- and, of course, no heroin -- to ease the pain. The following months have been marginally better. He no longer goes through cold turkey but there's the craving to return home. "I've given up the stuff, man. Really," says Lucky, speaking a tad slower than normal, his gesticulating hands quivering just a little. Like the 82 other inmates of Sajiwa who fit his profile, Lucky knows that he will get out not when a court finds him innocent, but when his family feels he's "clean".

Parents in Manipur prefer to send their wayward wards to Sajiwa Jail rather than to the 26 recognised de-addiction and counselling centres in the state. This has ensured that at any given time at least a fifth of the inmates there are "drug addicts". The jail does not guarantee permanent cure. Yet parents, mainly out of desperation, get their children admitted to the jail, where they spend between six months and a year. Some of them have been incarcerated repeatedly. "There is little we can do about it," says Additional Superintendent of Police Gongling Foumai. "We can't treat drug addicts here but parents plead with us to have their wards admitted."

This trend is not limited to families which do not have the means to support their addicted children. The sons of two former ministers are doing time at Sajiwa along with a number of wards of well-placed bureaucrats. In fact, say the addicts, it is much easier for "respectable" families to get their wards admitted as they can pull strings. People lower down the order usually have to bribe the police.

In the courtyard outside his ward, the sunlight sparkles on 24-year-old Lalthanglien Gangte's earrings as he recounts how his brother made a small payment to a policeman to put him in last January. Across the yard, the "loonies" (both criminal and non-criminal) are playing a wild game of cards. Arrested Kangleipak Communist Party insurgents, looking dapper in mufti, survey the scene from their more comfortable quarters on the floor above. Gangte, a former BA student from a lower middle-class family and an addict for the past six years, takes in the environment and doesn't like what he sees. "This is no place to live," he says. "You can wash your utensils with the dal they serve, it's so watery. Seven packs of bidis come for a pair of jeans ... Do you have a ciggie?"

Smoking, of course, isn't allowed. But the addicts can live with that. "What I don't understand is why we aren't taken to court when we are summoned," muses Gangte. He was scheduled to make an appearance in the court on August 3 but the jail authorities said they couldn't provide adequate security. Even if presented in court, Gangte doesn't know what he's going to say. He's been charged with theft, but the police have no evidence, because he didn't steal anything.

Does that mean a jail is the right place for addicts? Until two years ago there may have been a case for Sajiwa. It had a de-addiction centre and inmates were taught handicraft. But the centre has since closed down and the machines in the crafts section have rusted. All that remains as grim reminders of those glory days are the works of inmates hanging on the walls of the wards.

The worst part of the fallen standards is the non-existent medical facilities. Addicts regularly suffer from high fever and dysentery but the jail authorities admit they aren't in a position to provide treatment. In February this year an addict died fighting withdrawal symptoms. Last December one tried to commit suicide as he could not take the pain anymore. "We almost killed him afterwards because he'd have got everybody into trouble," says Lun Min Thang, an inmate who managed to untie the knot around the man's neck in time.

For the addicts the black metaphor of the rope around the neck is a constant reminder of their fate. "What we're doing is suicide of a kind," says one. "How does it sound when you say that you haven't committed a crime but are just out of jail? We already have the addict stigma attached, now we're convicts as well." Yes, there's a sense of betrayal too. Most of them had no idea that their families would take the extreme step of dumping them in jail.

Ironically, it is this feeling which helps them cope with the trauma. They know that their families suffer with them, perhaps less tangibly. "Please don't mention my father's name in your article," says one. "He's had to deal with enough shame already."

Shame is a live-in companion. Yet the addicts have learnt to ignore it when it gets in their way. In the harsh afternoon light, 32-year-old Arun Khundrapam, a qualified engineer who studied in Bangalore, poses for a picture that will expose him as an addict in jail. "Look really sad, look really sad," urge the other inmates as the camera clicks. "Maybe your family will feel sorry for you and get you out." Maybe.

Issue Contents | Write to us | Subscriptions | Syndication

© Living Media India Ltd