Hard-hitting story of a man who was sent to prison at 15

The day I was sent to the Tihar jail, it was hard to keep my mind off the worst thoughts. I was only 15. It was awful. I was really scared. I had been apprehended on the charge of robbery – Rs 100,000 that was stolen from my neighbourhood was recovered from me – and without verifying my age, the police sent me to Tihar, a prison for adults.

I had dropped out of school, fallen in what they call "bad company" and my family didn’t pay much attention to me. Ours was a family of eight – I was one of the six sons - and my parents made a living doing a small-time business in Shahdara, east Delhi. However, when I dropped out of school, it upset them. But they were soon caught up in their own day-to-day worries, as is the case with most "poor" families. I tried to convince them that I would pursue studies through open schooling. But I didn’t do that. I was a teenager. I was adamant. There was nothing they could do. And so, I was left on my own to figure out a way.

I soon transformed into a neighbourhood rogue and started hanging out with older boys, engaging in activities my parents wouldn’t have approved of. One night in 2001, the police arrived at my home and I was scared. I confessed to having the money that was robbed from the neighbourhood.

I spent about a month in Tihar jail with adults around me. I felt like I was in hell and I could die.

It took a month for the police to verify my age. I was then transferred to the juvenile home for boys at Majnu ka Tilla in Timarpur in north Delhi. There I spent two weeks before I was released on bail. And hence, I was yanked into the country’s juvenile justice system that would wreak havoc on my life. The robbery case was the first and the only time I came in conflict with the law as a juvenile. But the case went on for ten years.

The juvenile justice board finally found the charges to be true in 2010 and convicted me. But those ten years of my life, the time when I wanted to take some crucial decisions about my life, when I wanted to change — all those years I was looked upon by my parents, by my neighbours, by my "normal" friends as a shame to them. Every time there was a robbery in my neighbourhood, I was called to the police station. Every time my fraught relationship with my parents looked to improve, there were the court dates to remind them of the liability I was on the family. It deeply saddened me. Sometimes there was a strong urge to go back to my old friends who would accept me with all my flaws. The society is hard on juvenile offenders. It doesn’t accept them back. It is easy for someone like me, at that age to fall back in the "bad" habits. Just to seek acceptance. Because no one else wants us back. These friends we have give us a sense of acceptance and validation. Sometimes, all we need is someone who understands us. Listens to us. That alienation we feel when we come out of observation homes manifests itself in all other aspects of our lives.

When I look back, I feel like I had learnt a lot. Soon after the case was closed I registered with an non-governmental organisation (NGO) called "Mera Haq" that works for the betterment of street children. The problems I faced, I don’t want these kids to face the same things. It is a rough world out there. If I make a difference in even one child’s life, I would feel proud of myself.

(As told to me by Yusuf Khan, 30.)

***

Recently, around 6.30pm on a quiet evening at the observation home for boys at Mukherjee Nagar in Delhi, a group of young boys, who were once in conflict with the law, gathered to tell me their stories. We sat outside in a circle while dinner was being prepared inside. A friendly stray dog came in from somewhere and sat on his hind legs and seemed to listen to this conversation. Tea was served. The boys talked about their fears. Their futures. None of them knew what lies ahead for them. They are all out of school. They all are trying to stay out of trouble.

All of them spend a lot of time with their counsellors. Sometimes they just hang out and talk. They all call each other "Bhai" (brother) because they say there are no social hierarchies here, inside the home. They are all equal. They are all brothers, they tell me. It is the outside world that hurts them, they feel. Here, they feel safe. No one is judging them.

There was another story they told me about a deeply troubled boy they knew. There was something about the boy's childhood, they said, that stayed etched in his mind. There was an image that disturbed him when he thought of his home, he told his welfare officers - that of his uncle sexually abusing his mother and younger sister. He was eight when his father, a smack addict, died. Soon, his uncle started beating and abusing his mother and sister. He saw that and absorbed this cruelty for years. One day, his mother committed suicide. Now all that was left in his life was a state of vacuum. He became unmoored. And loneliness started gnawing at him. He ran away from home. His mind was troubled. When he was 15, he raped and murdered two girls, aged six and four. These minors were sisters. And he did this heinous act alone. Mostly, juvenile offenders commit sex crimes when in a group, experts say.

This boy is at a reform home now. He will be released sometime later this year. The question is, is there an honest effort going on to make him a boy reformed?