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'I was told to go to the next room and strip -- that's when it really hits you for the first time... that you are a criminal and you are being treated like one.'
'It comes as a shock when, instead of your name, you hear, "Yeh naya Maowadi aaya hai (A new Maoist has arrived)".'
Three years ago, after she was arrested and charged in the *Bhima Koregaon case, Sudha Bharadwaj is out on conditional bail.
A lawyer, an activist and a trade union leader, Sudha -- who was born in Boston and lived in the United States and United Kingdom as a child -- has lived and worked in Chhattisgarh for over three decades.
Her conditional bail means she has to live in Mumbai and start her life all over again there. The silver lining, she says, is that this city respects work.
Sudha Bharadwaj speaks to Rediff.com Senior Contributor Neeta Kolhatkar about her experiences in jail. Considering prisoners are denied basic human rights -- mulaqatein (meetings) with her daughter were tough -- the coping mechanisms adopted by women, she says, are fascinating and have kept her going.
The first of an exclusive four-part interview:
You are out on conditional bail. How free are you, Sudha, realistically speaking?
(Smiles) Well, I don't feel completely free. This (Mumbai) is an alien city for me. Most of my work is in Chhattisgarh; I can't leave or ignore that.
My union is there (Chhattisgarh Mukti Morcha, Mazdoor Karyakarta Committee).
The high court where I used to practise as a lawyer is there.
My daughter is studying in a college there.
I have to begin all over again now. I have to search for a job. I have to find a house.
So, yes, I am beginning life all over again at the age of 60 (laughs). It is a difficult thing.
Sixty is the new young?
(Laughs) I don't feel old, but I don't have the same energy I did at 25 when I went to Chhattisgarh.
Did your experience and knowledge of the law and of prison (through helping people who were in jail), prepare you for what lay ahead when you were arrested?
Yes, I have been involved in legal aid and have been practicing law for 15 years before I went to jail.
Yet, the initial shock and the indignity of the whole process can traumatise anyone.
I remember arriving at (Pune's) Yerwada Jail at around 8-8.30 pm.
It was dark and dingy. I was told to go to the next room and strip -- that's when it really hits you for the first time... that you are a criminal and you are being treated like one.
They opened my bags and threw everything out saying, "This is not allowed... no t-shirts... no trackpants."
You are given a patti (a strip of dhurrie), ghongri (a woven rough sheet), chaddar (bedsheet) and aluminium vessels like a plate and a mug that remind you of a begging bowl before you are taken to your barracks. (These pattis, ghongris and chaddars are made by prisoners in various jails across India.)
The prisoners who are already there make space for you with great reluctance.
That's how you spend your first night.
Getting up the next morning at 5.30 is difficult, since you have hardly slept.
It's still dark and you shiver in the cold as you sit in a line with the rest of the to be counted.
It comes as a shock when, instead of your name, you hear, "Yeh naya Maowadi aaya hai (A new Maoist has arrived)." They count you by your crime (laughs).
Then, they sent me to a separate cell. Gradually, one gets used to it... not the way you are treated, but the way those around you are treated.
In Byculla jail, the favourite way to address prisoners is thobad (an insulting way of referring to someone's face), which is not a nice way to call to anyone.
It didn't happen to me personally; I was always treated courteously. I presume this was due to my age, name and class. But the general manner of addressing prisoners was, 'Thobad, line mei jao (Get in line).'
Another favourite manner of addressing us was 'bahut chapter hai.' Chapter refers to the CrPC (Code of Criminal Procedure) chapter on maintaining peace, so those who have cases of under Sections 107, 110 and 116 are all 'chapter' cases. You are considered a habitual offender.
Then, you are addressed as 'tu'! (in Marathi or Hindi, that's how the word 'you' is used if you are addressing someone without offering any respect, in which case the manner in which you are speaking is a way of insulting the other person. 'Tu' is also used to address someone you know very well in a casual manner, in which case it is not insulting.)
One has gained enough age and experience to be treated with respect, so facing all this for the first time is akin to a bucket of ice-cold water being flung on your face.
Later, as I become friendly with the prisoners, I realised we are all in the same boat.
Were you able to interact with women prisoners who have been languishing in jail for many years because they cannot afford money for bail?
In Yerwada, we were not allowed to interact much with other prisoners and other people because Professor Shoma Sen (a co-accused in the same case, she used to head the English department at Nagpur University and is a women's rights activist) and I were imprisoned in the phansi yard (part of the prison reserved for those who have been sentenced to death) along with two other inmates, the Gavit sisters, who had been sentenced to death (Seema Gavit and Renuka Shinde were convicted of kidnapping and murdering five children; the original charge had included 13 cases of kidnapping and nine murders).
Each of us were in separate, adjoining cells.
We were scared of them. They had short tempers and could fly into a rage, probably because they had been in jail for so long.
I am happy to know their death sentence has been commuted. They had already been jail for 25 years before we were sent to the phansi yard. They deserve to be free.
In Byculla, however, we were in the barracks; that's where we met many, many women who are languishing in prison.
Many of these women have been abandoned by their families, especially if they were arrested under the Immoral Traffic (Prevention) Act.
If they have murdered their husbands, they are disowned by both their maternal family and their in-laws.
Then there are those who can't afford a lawyer. And those who come from faraway places, like Bangladesh.
I was one of the fortunate ones (smiles). I have my organisation, my union, my daughter and my friends who were worried about me. I have good lawyers who are fighting for me. Even if it took a long time, I knew they were there.
It's a frightening situation for the women who don't have any support.
They don't know what is happening. During the pandemic, there has been no movement in their cases. No mulaqat (meeting). No visits to the court.
Their level of frustration and helplessness is very high.
What was it like when you contracted the coronavirus in prison?
The first thing everyone needs to understand loud and clear is that social distancing is not possible in Indian jails.
We literally sleep in 3x6 laadi (tiled floor), next to each other.
The first barracks I was sent to in Byculla jail has a capacity for 35 prisoners and there were 56 of us there.
In my medical bail application, the jail authorities clearly told the court that social distancing is possible if the total number of inmates in the barracks in two-thirds of 35.
The reality is that we sleep close to each other, we share common bathrooms, we queue for food.
During the first wave, we were lucky in Byculla. But the second wave proved serious.
Fifty-six people tested positive and they were sent to the BrihanMumbai Municipal Corporation COVID centre, where they slept on beds with mattresses. An NGO provided good quality vegetarian food.
They had gone out crying because they were scared; they didn't know where they were being sent. When they came back, they were happy that they had got a chance to eat good food, including sweet dishes.
A lot of women escaped the virus because of the rapid antigen tests that were administered.
In my barracks, 13 women had tested positive so there were positive inmates on my left, in front of me and to my right.
I got mild fever and diarrhoea, but the doctors now say I did have COVID; it just wasn't detected by the rapid antigen test.
The problem was if we were inside the jail and not positive, we would all be stuck in the quarantine barracks. That meant we were surrounded by sick people. Also, that particular quarantine barracks was a really bad one. Three of the four bathrooms were choked. None of the sweepers were willing to come to clean it. And the women who were inside were too sick do the cleaning themselves.
Our food was thrown to us through the bars. Those one-and-a-half months were horrific!
COVID makes you very weak. Till then, I had been doing barrack duties like sweeping and swabbing. I was washing my own clothes, all that. After I fell ill, I couldn't do any of these.
If you had the means, could you get out of doing these duties?
Yes. The class system is alive and well inside jail. There, the currency is the canteen.
If you have a PPC (personal prison cell) account and have someone on the outside who sends you money, you can purchase things like soap, shampoo, biscuits, chivda, etc, from the canteen. On Sundays, you can avail of special dishes like chicken. When you are in jail, edible food and these kind of luxuries are something you really look forward to.
This had led to a barter system. Those who can afford it get things from the canteen for a poorer person. In return, they take over your barrack duties and your chores.
In a strange irony, cats roam freely in Yerwada jail while human beings are stuck behind bars.
(Laughs) Yes, cats were there in Yerwada, but not in Byculla.
The Gavit sisters, whom I mentioned earlier, have brought up many generations of cats.
Actually, watching the cats was fascinating. Till I was imprisoned, I did not like cats and would not interact with them. As a working woman and a single mother, I barely had enough time to look after myself and my daughter.
But, here, it was beautiful to watch the cats. They would stretch and laze in the sun. The kittens would attempt to climb the trees and get stuck. The prisoners would rush out with bedsheets and hold them below the mewling kitten so that they could fall safely.
These cats were universally adopted in Yerwada.
An old Bhil lady, who had been a prisoner there for many years, would speak to them in her singsong manner and sing Bhilala songs to them. She would share her quota of milk with the kittens.
Maybe, it reminded her of her old life in the village and the forest.
*Where a celebration in January 2018 to mark the 200th anniversary of the Battle for Bhima Koregaon turned violent, resulting in one death and five injured.
Feature Presentation: Ashish Narsale/Rediff.com
'You are with each other 24x7, so how can you ignore someone crying next to you?'
'How can you not share a piece of chicken with someone who is sitting next to you and watching you eat it?'
'Of course, you will share.'
'And you become friends with the kind of people you never thought you'd even know.'
When you look at the picture above, at the smile that illuminates Sudha Bharadwaj's face, you cannot help but marvel at her quiet strength.
For this is a woman -- an accused in the *Bhima KoregaOn case -- who has been released on conditional bail just a few weeks ago after spending three years in prison.
Conditional bail means that this Chhattisgarh-based lawyer, activist and trade union leader will -- for now -- have to rebuild her life in Mumbai.
Sudha -- who was born in Boston and lived in the United States and United Kingdom as a child -- has lived and worked in Chhattisgarh for over three decades.
At Pune's Yerwada jail, where she was first held, she was kept in the phansi yard (death row) with her co-accused, Professor Shoma Sen (a co-accused in the same case, she used to head the English department at Nagpur University and is a women's rights activist) and two convicts who had been sentenced to death.
In Mumbai's Byculla jail, where she was then moved to, she faced the frightening spectre of COVID.
In a conversation with Rediff.com Senior Contributor Neeta Kolhatkar, Sudha Bharadwaj explains how she kept her spirits up.
The second of an exclusive four-part interview:
You were incarcerated in Pune's Yerwada jail and Mumbai's Byculla jail. Both are very different kinds of prisons. How did you keep yourself mentally and physically fit?
In Yerwada, Professor Shoma Sen was in the cell next to me. She was my life support. I don't think either of us could have survived without the other, even though we were kept in separate cells.
We could at least eat together.
We subscribed to one newspaper each and would exchange them. This way, we both read The Indian Express and The Hindu cover-to-cover, including the sudokus.
We laughed at the witty columns.
Yerwada is a very old, single-storeyed jail built in 1926.
The cells in the phansi row are structured like a cage, which allowed us to look through the bars.
We could watch children playing.
During the mango season, we would see women throwing stones to steal mangoes and make achaar (pickle).
I would walk inside my cell because we were let outside only for half an hour every day.
Professor Sen and I would take that opportunity to walk in the sun. We would sing songs from The Sound of Music, The Beatles, Simon And Garfunkel and songs of the women's movement... mostly old songs.
Later, in Byculla jail, I would make sure I exercised for at least half-an-hour.
We would also eagerly look forward to going to court, where we could meet our relatives and friends even if it was with great difficulty.
We would be shepherded ever-so-zealously by a guard and, many times, we would not be allowed to eat anything brought by them.
Why, they would even prevent me and Professor Sen from giving our daughters a hug.
Many times, the union people (Sudha Bharadwaj is a trade union leader in Chhattisgarh) who had come from Chhattisgarh to meet me were not allowed to do so by the IO (investigating officer) because they were poor.
Once, I complained to the court about this behaviour. Just because these people are poor, don't have a classist attitude and harass them. They acknowledged it -- though not in writing -- and it stopped.
We would be eager for our mulaqats (meetings).
In Byculla, due to COVID, there were no court dates or mulaqats.
After some time, we were allowed phone calls which was a great relief, particularly for me, since my daughter lives far away (Sudha's daughter Maaysha studies in Chhattisgarh) and could visit only once in three months. So the phone calls were very important.
Sometimes, we were allowed video calls.
My greatest strength in Byculla were the women inside our barracks, my prison inmates.
How do the women inmates cope with their lives in jail? Could you talk about your experience as well?
People have such amazing ways of coping with difficult situations.
A lot of them rely on prayer -- someone reads the namaaz, others do puja and some sing Hallelujah.
Many of the women are creative in their own ways. It's amazing to see the kind of birthday cards they make for each other, the birthday cakes they make from the contents available in the canteen.
Each one has a small group of people with whom they eat and share things.
There are a lot of fights in the barracks because you are sharing everything in a small space. There are queues for bathrooms, toilets, the canteen, for food, for the phone, the OPD (medical service)... basically for everything.
This leads to a lot of bickering and fights.
At the same time, many great friendships are formed here because there is no privacy. Hence, there is no invasion of privacy. There is no wall between you and the other person. There is no time for the initial formalities that are part of normal life.
You are with each other 24x7 so how can you ignore someone crying next to you? How can you not share a piece of chicken with someone who is sitting next to you and watching you eat it? Of course, you will share.
And you become friends with the kind of people you never thought you'd even know.
There was a young lady who called me Ammi; she was like my adopted daughter.
She was slightly mentally slow and lived with her husband on the Bandra (north west Mumbai) skywalk.
They were attacked by some people who threw stones at them. Her husband bled to death. She was implicated in his murder.
She was convinced her husband was alive. Initially, she was paranoid and would provoke others, get provoked, become angry and would get beaten.
I began trying to protect her and she became a friend.
This is not the kind of friendship I would normally strike; I would not have even met someone like this.
There were so many others, like the Bangladeshi women, like those speaking different languages.
Through my lawyer, I would apprise them about the dates of their cases and what was going on though, theoretically, one is not allowed to render any help.
This was when COVID began and inmates were not receiving information regarding their cases. I requested my lawyer to speak to their lawyers online and let me know.
I was once reprimanded by the supervisor who was on the rounds in Byculla. I was warned that I would be reported to the court where my case was being heard; apparently, I was doing something wrong. I was uniting the prisoners and helping them get bail orders.
I was taken aback. I thought I was doing something good.
After that, I encouraged them to write to my lawyer directly for help.
Did you pick up any new language or skills?
In Yerwada, the women constables spoke only in Marathi so I had to learn the language.
I couldn't get its nuances, but I got the general drift. Later, I even began reading books in Marathi.
Initially, as we struggled to get books from outside, our only recourse was the library. And, in a typically patriarchal system, the mahila (women's) jail is always subordinate to the main jail. So the main jail has the library and, from there, only 25 books are brought to the women's jail (laughs).
I read whatever English books were available and then ended up reading a lot of very interesting Marathi books including Shyamchi Aai, Dr Ambedkar and, of course, Veer Savarkar's Mahji Janmathep of which there are many, many copies.
I even read Anne Frank's The Diary Of A Young Girl in Marathi.
The Byculla jail is more cosmopolitan since everybody speaks Hindi.
If I learnt a new language in Yerwada, I learnt more about legal issues in Byculla, especially about legal aid for standard criminal undertrials.
As a lawyer, my practice till now has revolved around labour law, land acquisition law, environment law and human rights law.
Providing legal aid to undertrials is a Constitutional mandate. We should not rely on ad hoc, kaam chalau methods; effective legal aid is essential.
This is a very important and serious issue and I will try to file a public interest litigation to draw attention to this lacuna and ensure it is filled.
This is something I learnt. I also learnt to take care of myself.
*A celebration in January 2018 to mark the 200th anniversary of the Battle for Bhima Koregaon turned violent, resulting in one death and five injured.
Feature Presentation: Ashish Narsale/Rediff.com
'It's little things like these -- sharing medicines, consoling each other after a mulaqat (meeting) or a tearful phone conversation with your loved ones or when we would return, dejected, when our bails were rejected -- that made our time in jail bearable.'
Potlis in prison?
Creativity, says Sudha Bharadwaj, is a vital lifeline for those who find their freedom taken away for crimes they may, or may not, have committed.
Arrested in 2018 in the *Bhima Koregaon case, Chhattisgarh-based Bharadwaj -- a trade union leader, activist and lawyer -- was released on December 9, 2021, on conditional bail that restricts her movements to Mumbai.
Survival as a prisoner during the last three years has been difficult, both emotionally and physically, but her brilliant smile makes light of it.
There were times however, she tells Rediff.com Senior Contributor Neeta Kolhatkar, when she too felt devastated.
The third of an exclusive four-part interview:
What did you like doing most in jail?
Just watching women cope was such a relief.
They would drawnrangolis and mehendi, do needlework... some would cut their maxis and convert them into beautiful tops or make earrings out of almost nothing. The creativity must be seen to be believed.
Unfortunately, the jail authorities don't help with this part. All this has to be done despite the jail authorities and not with their help.
In fact, you are not allowed to have a needle and thread. Now, how do you expect women not to have this? Someone, somewhere, has kept it secretly and you borrow it from them. How do you mend your clothes otherwise?
One gets to see all kinds of fashionable designs in prison. I will show you a little potli (pouch) I have stitched out of an old maxi (goes and brings it). And this little pouch was made by a Finnish inmate. She plea bargained, completed her two-year sentence and is back in Finland now.
She was a pianist. This was her parting gift for me.
It's moments like these that keeps one alive.
The authorities must surely have shared in these creative ventures.
Oh yes.
Some of these women are so talented that, often, police constables would come at night to the barracks, push their hands through the bars and get their mehendi done, especially during festivals and special occasions.
There are hairstylists and parlour ladies in prison. One can even get one's eyebrows threaded. Some give massages. There are so many free services available (laughs).
Did you ever expect you would meet Professor Shoma Sen in prison?
Shomaji (a co-accused in the same case, Professor Shoma Sen used to head the English department at Nagpur University and is a women's rights activist) and I had met at a few meetings, but we were not friends; we didn't know each other that well prior to our term in jail.
She is a remarkable person. I don't know how we would have survived without each other, particularly during the one-and-a-half years we spent in Yerwada jail.
When you make a friend in jail, there are no formalities; one just gets to the point straightaway. We shared every detail about our families and our ups and downs in life.
Until we spoke with each other at night, or until the next time we saw each other properly, we would be really worried for the other.
I remember how, on one occasion, she experienced dizziness. She was blacking out and needed to hold onto the wall of her cell for support.
There was a hole between our cells and I kept shouting out to her. It was only when she said she was feeling better that I felt reassured.
She has a blood pressure problem. Later, she told me she felt as if the wall was falling down and she had to balance herself.
Then, there was a time when I was unwell. When I was better, I was brought back from the hospital cell -- they shift you at the time of closing; they tell you to get inside, literally push you in and clank the door shut.
After I settled in, I could hear Shomadi asking if I had eaten my dinner. When I said no, she requested the woman constable and got me some dinner.
It's little things like these -- sharing medicines, consoling each other after a mulaqat (meeting) or a tearful phone conversation with your loved ones or when we would return, dejected, when our bails were rejected -- that made our time in jail bearable. I hope she is well and gets bail soon.
You've said that, because of your work, you've not spent enough time with your daughter. But did you, at any time, imagine you would not have the liberty to meet her when you wished?
Never.
The greatest irony in my life is that I had shifted to Delhi to spend time with her, to make up for all those years when I could not give her all my attention.
My life in Chhattisgarh began in 1986. She was born in 1996. While we were together, I also had to share my time with thousands of other people. I was part of a trade union. I was an activist. Then, I became a lawyer and had a busy career. I could not give her all my attention and she has good reason to be annoyed with me.
In 2016-2017, I took the conscious decision to spend time with my daughter. She was entering college and needed my help.
For the first time in my life, I wanted to earn money because I need to fund her college education. So I took up an assignment with the National Law University in Delhi.
In 2017-2018, I taught and had even got an extension for the next term when I was arrested. Just when I thought I could give time to my child, it was snatched away from both of us for three years by the State.
Theoretically, we are allowed one mulaqat a week. This rule is strictly applied for people like us who are arrested under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act. We are only allowed to meet blood relatives and lawyers; the latter are allowed to meet you twice a week. No friends are allowed.
My daughter lives far away and could only visit once in three months. So, in the three years, I have had only four to five mulaqats with her.
She would make a huge effort and do everything she could to meet me on her birthday. This was very special for her but, as a mother, I feel bad that she had to go through so much.
The last time, in fact, I had told her not to come, but Shomaji was convinced she would make it. She came on Friday, so that she could meet me on Saturday and Monday; this would cover her meeting for two weeks.
I later came to know she had spent the whole of Saturday, which was her birthday, running from pillar to post, trying to get permission to meet me. She was first told she had to get permission from the NIA, then she was asked to go elsewhere.
Finally, she could only meet me on Monday.
I felt terrible. My child had come all the way from Chhattisgarh to meet me and they created problems. It was ridiculous! They let her meet me in Yerwada, so how was it any different in Byculla?
They know she is my only family. They know she comes only once in three months. It was tough. But that is jail for you in India.
Others have faced worse problems.
I'm lucky I am separated from my husband so I don't have to meet him. Now look at Shomadi. Her name is Shoma Sen and her husband's name is Tushar Bhattacharya.
Do you know that if husbands and wives have different surnames, they are put through a harrowing time?
You have to spend time and energy proving you are a couple because you have different surnames. You have to prove your daughter is your daughter if you have different last names.
The procedure is extremely complicated. Then, you have to get a police verification done. And every time the mulaqats restart after a gap, a reverification process takes place.
The length of the mulaqats is another issue. Actually, it depends on how nice the police constables on both sides are.
I was allowed to meet my daughter for 20 minutes because she could not visit every month; otherwise, they allow prisoners and their families to meet for 10-15 minutes only.
They are really strict about the telephone calls; after 10 minutes, they cut you off irrespective of whether you are midway through a word or sentence.
If you have permission for an audio call, you cannot make a video call. Also, video calls are not allowed each time.
There is a lot of police verification each time. Sometimes, the verification of the telephone numbers is a hugely complicated process.
You don't have the freedom in jail to speak to your blood relative on any new or unverified number. So, a woman inmate cannot speak to her son-in-law and her daughter on her son-in-law's cellphone since that is not a registered number.
One has to write so many applications for verification. These are sent to the original police stations, which may take their own sweet time to complete the verification.
Telephone calls are an enormous source of relief for people as they come to know what is going on with their families outside.
So many would return crying after hearing that a relative was ill or someone had died.
Shomaji learnt through phone calls that her mother-in-law and, later, her husband's nephew had passed away. Many of us lost friends. It is really sad to be told over a telephone call that someone you love has passed on.
*An event in January 2018 to mark the 200th anniversary of the Battle for Bhima Koregaon turned violent, resulting in one death and five injured.
Feature Presentation: Ashish Narsale/Rediff.com
'I can't help it if people don't love the minorities, the Dalits and Adivasis; they are as much of this country as any other Indian.'
'If I love them, it does not mean I do not love my country.'
'It is ironic and funny that they have laid such severe anti-national charges against me.'
Good memories. And bad.
Difficult moments. And memorable ones.
Trade union leader, activist and lawyer Sudha Bharadwaj has gathered them all in her challenging walk through Life.
She added to the collection during her three years in jail as an accused in the infamous *Bhima Koregaon case.
And, she tells Rediff.com Senior Contributor Neeta Kolhatkar, she will continue to add to them as she attempts to build a new life in her new karmabhoomi, Mumbai, the city to which she has been restricted as part of her conditional bail (Bharadwaj was released on December 9, 2021).
You used to live in the United States and the United Kingdom. You came to India and dedicated your life to help the marginalised. You have faced difficult times over the years. You have been recently released on bail after being imprisoned for three years. And you still love India?
(Laughs) I got American citizenship by the sheer accident of being born in the United States where my parents were doing their post-doctoral fellowships.
Now that both of them have passed away, I will tell you a secret. I was an accidental baby. They had no intention of having me. In fact, I think my birth put a spanner in their budget.
I came back from America at the age of one and spent some years in India. Then I went with my mother to the United Kingdom. By then, my parents had separated. I lived there till I was 11 years old. My primary schooling took place in England.
What was your mother like? Did you pick up your socialist principles from her?
My mother Krishna Bharadwaj had a Socialist, Marxist, economist background.
She belonged to Karwar (in Karnataka, barely 79 kilometres from Goa), an area influenced both by Socialism and the Goan liberation movement.
She was a good singer when she was a child.
At that time, youngsters would sing these povadas (ballads) as they set off on prabhat pheris (dawn marches that were a subtle form of protest against the British).
Her parents always kept an eye on her because, if she saw anyone singing during the prabhat pheris, she would join them and would have to be brought back from another village.
She was a brave girl; it runs in the family.
When she came back to India, she spent a year or so at the Delhi School of Economics. Then, in 1972, she founded the Centre for Economic Studies and Planning at Delhi's Jawaharlal Nehru University.
My mother was a renowned economist. Neither she nor I had the sense that we were giving up anything by coming to India; it was more of a feeling of returning home.
I do remember that, as our plane neared Delhi's Palam airport, we could see slums. I was horrified and recollect asking my mother, 'Is this how people live here? Let us go back.'
We had returned in the summer. It was hot and I complained a lot. For the first few days, all I wanted to do was go back. I was just a kid (smiles).
Then we moved to the JNU campus and I was happy. It is a beautiful place to live in and I had a really nice childhood there.
It is also an exciting place for politics, far removed from all the violence seen on other campuses. Here, elections are fought through debates, discussions, film shows and plays.
As children, we imbibed all that through osmosis. I saw students getting an education not because they wanted a career because they wanted to do something bigger with their lives. They wanted to change society, which was a much more idealistic notion than just making money.
The night Indira Gandhi lost her life (October 31, 1984), I remember seeing a mashaal juloos (a procession with fire torches) from our windows. When Vietnam was liberated (1975), everyone gathered in the quadrangle and sang Surya ast ho gaya, gagan mast ho gaya... and other INA (Subhas Chandra Bose's Indian National Army) songs.
When I went to IIT-Kanpur, I applied as an Indian which was technically wrong as I was still an NRI.
Later, I took up the cause of the mess workers and joined the NSS (National Service Scheme); getting involved with social work came easily and naturally to me.
When I turned 21, I had to decide whether to stay here or go back to the US. I also had to visit the US embassy office to inform them about my whereabouts and renew my visa every six months.
I didn't like the thought of being surveilled by Americans in my own country or being answerable about the work I was doing when I was working among my own people. So I told them I was happy to stay back in India.
Going by the sections you have been arrested under, your work has been termed as anti-national. So your nationalism is not really nationalism?
Aha! Well, I would say it is. It is my love for the people of this country; I can't help it if everyone doesn't love everybody in their country (laughs).
I love workers, but obviously their employers don't love them very much -- they take away their jobs, make them walk home during lockdowns and sometimes ask their security guards to shoot them.
I can't help it if people don't love the minorities, the Dalits and Adivasis; they are as much of this country as any other Indian.
If I love them, it does not mean I do not love my country. It is ironic and funny that they have laid such severe anti-national charges on me.
If these charges weren't so serious, I would have laughed.
This basically means you would have preferred it if I had studied at an IIT, got a degree, gone to the US, got a green card and made a good career for myself and been American; they would have said, 'Oh, we are so proud of Sudha Bharadwaj, she has made such a name for herself.'
There is a beautiful poem about paths diverging and the poet making the choice to take the one less travelled, which makes all the difference (The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost).
I have totally enjoyed taking the path less travelled. If I was faced with these two paths again, I would do the same thing. I have no regrets about my decision. Actually, I am very happy about it.
You have expressed one regret, that you would have loved to spend more time with your daughter. Does it still bother you?
Yes. I only wish I had understood it better.
While I do feel she was a happy child, I have obviously missed out on some of her pain and some of her happy moments.
I feel sorry about this and will try and make it up to her. That is the only anger I have -- that the State deprived me of the little chance I had to spend more time with my daughter.
You did not bother to put me in jail during the 30-odd years that I worked in Chhattisgarh. But when I thought of spending more time with my daughter, that's what you did.
I talk to her regularly now. She studies in Bhilai; she is not well and her exams are on. If I were free, then I would be by her side to look after her. I would not have left her alone. Now, she has to look after herself.
Since I am out on bail, we can at least speak at any time, during the day or night, for as long as we like.
I think she will forgive me when she has her own child and she needs to be forgiven by somebody else.
All of us try our best. Fortunately, the relationship between a parent and child is unconditional.
How has the house-hunting process in Mumbai been? Will you go back to practising law?
I am trying to find a house and should hopefully get one soon.
Societies have their rules; with police verification and other such issues, it becomes tough for anyone to rent their house to someone like me.
I am lucky to have nice and brave friends who have put me up.
I actually like Mumbai. It is efficient and work gets done quickly.
My first impression of Mumbai is yeh kaamkazi logon ka sheher hai (it is a city for working people). I feel confident about finding work here.
Yes, rent is expensive; living in Mumbai is expensive. Again, luckily, my friends are helping me until I find some means to sustain myself.
As for practising the law, it requires a certain infrastructure, books, an office, an Internet connection...
I am thinking of a low-key practice. What I would like to do -- because I have the skills and, more importantly, the urge and passion -- is help the indigent undertrials who are under-represented.
I have received innumerable requests from them before I left the jail.
I would also like to contact trade unions so that I can do work related to labour matters because that is my original love.
I know I will have to brush up and study the new labour laws and court rules.
I will have to find my way (smiles).
That smile, Sudha!
(Laughs heartily) Oh dear! Like the Cheshire Cat (in Lewis Carroll's Alice In Wonderland), this smile is stuck on my face; there's nothing I can do about it (smiles).
I am only giving strength to myself.
There was a meme someone showed me -- of Arnab (Goswami, the head of Republic TV) shouting and snarling eight minutes after he was arrested contrasted with my smiling face after three years in jail.
The case will disappear, but the smile will remain. What else can one do? One can only smile in the face of difficulty and get on with life.
*An event in January 2018 to mark the 200th anniversary of the Battle for Bhima Koregaon turned violent, resulting in one death and five injured.
Feature Presentation: Ashish Narsale/Rediff.com
