Escape Artist

WORD COUNT: All Words: 2327

"Project Write World"  for "Team India" 

QUOTATION PROMPT
"It is said that no one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails. A nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens, but its lowest ones." - Nelson Mandela

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She couldn't ask why.

It just isn't done, in prison etiquette, to ask why someone is serving a life sentence.

She could have been sitting next to a thief, or a murderer ... or a ... or a ...

"So," she said, continuing their conversation. "We're agreed. I'll teach you to paint and act, you teach me to speak Hindi." He had a smattering of English, and, of course, everyone understands gestures.

The youth grinned. He was handsome, in his own way, with an unruly mop of straw-coloured hair and slightly buck teeth. He was thin, but then, all the long-term prisoners she met were thin. Or was that just her perception? Did she see them as thin because she expected them to be? She ate with them, after all, the days she visited. The food wasn't bad. She continued to stare at him. His skin was flawless, a 'wheatish' complexion, as the matrimonial advertisements would say.

Was he married? She couldn't tell. She had a fleeting thought for the wives of long-term prisoners, before he broke in with, "Mey samjha. Aap mujhe sikhana, mey aapko sikhaoonga."

"You teach me, I'll teach you."

She smiled back. "Not just you. There are ten selected male prisoners. You'll be working together."

It took him a few seconds to grasp that. She watched as his face fell. "What's the matter?" she asked, but he had clammed up and the warden appeared to fetch him back to his cell before she could get an answer.

She knew him only as 'Marcus'.

That was something they had agreed upon, with the prison authorities. The prisoners wouldn't be reduced to a 'number', but their real names wouldn't be revealed, either. That was more for the protection of the prisoners themselves. They were known in the area, after all. Their crimes were the stuff of local outrage. The whole programme had been designed to help them be productive -- which included selling their paintings in the town's art galleries. If the prospective buyer, however, connected the painting to the perpetrator of the crime ... she shook her head.

Marcus had seemed enthusiastic about painting and acting, till he heard that he'd be working with nine other prisoners. There could be several reasons for this. The first rule she had to follow was: be aware, but don't jump to conclusions. It was a delicate balance. Was he introverted? Was he afraid? Did he just want personal attention? She made herself stop thinking and, for the hundredth time, took in the view.

It was a magnificent view. She couldn't help smiling again. She fished in her bag and pulled out the little booklet she always carried with her. It was the one they had brought out at the culmination of the 'Words-Worth' programme earlier that year. She re-read Antony's description of the jail:

"I have a beautiful view from my cell. Across the river, I can see the governor's bungalow out in Panjim. The brightly lit city is visible, the music from the cruise boats floats across to us. The feeding frenzy of the dolphins is always enthralling and the regular cry of peacocks keeps us company. Sometimes the peacocks actually wander in. It's the perfect location for a resort, if only I could forget that I am incarcerated. Anyway, nature's bounty at state expense."

They had a sense of humour, all of them. She knew they had done some terrible things, and she knew they now had a lot of spare time on their hands. "Your classes are all we have to do," Antony had once told her. "Just a couple of hours, twice a week, we have something to do. Four hours a week." But, in spite of the idleness, in spite of whatever was going on in their heads, their paintings and poems were never violent or bitter. It was like they were trying to find ... here again, she stopped herself. She must not jump to conclusions.

She showed the guard at the gate the rubber-stamp mark on her right wrist

Visitors have this ink mark put on the wrist, to prevent them form exchanging places with a prisoner to abet an escape.

, and walked out, deep in thought.

She thought of Marcus throughout the walk back to her hotel. How could she find out what exactly it was? Why he had looked so apprehensive, upon hearing that he was expected to work with his fellow inmates? She wished she could understand more of his language, communicate a little more.

*********

"So this is how it'll work," she explained. "You're not standing on a carpet, it's a big canvas sheet I've spread out over the floor. There is paint, and there are brushes on the side."

She felt quite dwarfed. Being five-feet nothing with ten tall men standing around you can be intimidating. She ran a heavily-ringed hand quickly through her hair. One of the rings almost snagged in the stubborn brown curls. Her mother often teased her, asking if she made up for the lack of a wedding ring by smothering her fingers in other rings. "Nope, I do that with this one," she had once replied, pertly, pulling her shirt up to show her mother her pierced navel and the thin gold band she wore there. "You're thirty-two," her mother had said. "You can pierce anything you like, it's not my responsibility any more."

Now, she tried to feel tall. Feel tall.

"So," she told the prisoners. "We're going to make a story together. I'll start, and anyone can take over, and anyone else can take over after that ... and while we're making up the story, we'll act it out, and we'll dance here and whenever you like, you can pick up a brush and dip it in paint and start painting on the canvas at your feet. Yes, Sanjay, what is it?"

'Sanjay' was one of the few real names she uttered on this premises. He was the guard, a hefty man with a jet-black beard. Quite the archetype of a prison guard.

"Jigna Madam, I heard what you're going to do ..."

"We're not going to spoil your precious floor, Sanjay, don't worry. There's canvas all over it."

"No, Madam, that is not what I was saying."

"Then?"

"Madam, it sounds like fun. May I join in?"

Jigna turned to her students. "Your guard wants to stop guarding you and make a story. Is he allowed?"

"Yes," they chorused, amid laughter.

"Okay, then, let's start. Now ... I was once lost in the sunlit forest. The buzz of wasps and the plaintive cry of peacocks haunted me ..."

"The next moment, a silence engulfed me," Raj piped up. "I really wanted to swim. I dove in to the ocean and swam until I was tired."

Sanjay took over with, "I got out of the water and sat on the beach. There was a stick there. I picked it up and drew a horse in the sand."

"The horse came to life and started to talk to me ..."

"I got on to its back and rode all the way to Akbar's kingdom ..."

All too soon, the two hours were up, The canvas was a riot of colour, and there were eleven men -- yes, eleven, for Sanjay was among them, laughing and gasping.

It was only hours later, when she was curled up in her bed, that Jigna realised that Marcus hadn't actually spoken at all. He had danced, he had painted, he had laughed with the others ... but he was the only one who had not contributed to the story.

*********

"We're sorry, the rules don't permit that."

The rules. The rules. She bit back her retort. She was very lucky she was getting these sessions, she must not blow it.

"There must be some way ..." she tried again.

"No." The supervisor snapped back. "Now you must excuse me."

"Jigna Madam." It was Sanjay again, glancing around furtively as he followed her down the corridor.

"What?" Jigna realised she had been abrupt as soon as she said it. "What is it, Sanjay?" she asked.

"I heard, Madam."

She managed a smile. "You always hear everything."

"Yes, Madam."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"Thank you, Madam."

"Oh, Sanjay. Okay, so you heard and you followed me. What?"

"That Marcus baba ...

Boy, affectionate

"

She was interested now. "What about him?"

"You wanted to have one-on-one sessions with him, but they wouldn't allow."

"Yes, Sanjay. I need to spend more time to understand him, and find out why he isn't participating properly."

"I know, Madam."

"You know?"

"Yes, Madam. See, Madam, others, they think he's lower caste."

"What caste is he?"

"Not like that caste, Madam. Not how you know caste. This is in jail, caste."

"You mean like a prison hierarchy?"

"Yes, Madam, like that only. See, I understand his language. Sometimes I talk to him also. What he did, Madam, lower caste crime than other fellows. In front of you they can't show all that. So they let him dance and paint and what-not things. But talk, no. He cannot open his mouth in front of them, Madam."

"Ah! I understand. But if he can't talk in front of them, and I can't meet him alone ..."

"Never he can teach you Hindi, Madam. That's why he got sad. Okay, now, Madam, I go or they come after me to do my job. Just you let that Marcus baba paint and dance and all. Nobody cares about him, Madam. Everyone else made friendship here, only he is left. Just you let him."

She stood there, looking at the guard walk away, biting her lower lip.

*********

"So we're going to dance on the newspapers," she announced. "And you can't put your foot out, mind you. Sanjay is watching for any foot that falls on the floor. Now, teams of two, quickly, teams of two."

It fell to John's lot, to team up with Marcus, and Jigna noticed his sour look. She watched the pair carefully throughout the game, as the music played and the newspapers got folded smaller and smaller. John and Marcus lasted four rounds, before John's foot fell on the floor. He was looking a little less sour by then.

When she got them to paint in pairs, Marcus teamed up with Ajai. And for the first time, she heard Marcus speak during a session -- partners had to communicate with each other to complete the task she had set them.

Just when she thought she was making progress, Marcus was absent for a session. And then another.

"What happened to him?" she asked Sanjay.

"He suffers from asthma, Madam. This change of weather, he is in the hospital section."

She was denied permission to visit him in hospital, but, the following week, Marcus was back, a little thinner, but complete with his grin. She wondered if she would have to start with newspaper-dancing all over again, but she didn't. Marcus talked during the session, and the others let him. Some of them even responded to him. She thought she heard John whisper, "Ab kaise ho?" -- "How are you now?" -- to him.

She became bolder, introducing drama activities in pairs that required both members to speak. Her slight apprehensions were unfounded -- Marcus participated with as much gusto as anyone.

*********

The end-of-the-year exhibition was a huge success. There were eleven exhibitors from the jail (Sanjay had insisted on contributing a painting), and all eleven paintings found buyers. Two of the pieces, Marcus's and John's, were picked up by the famous five-star resort nearby. "Just think," John said, to Jigna. "All those foreign-foreign visitors will see my sunset!"

The authorities were so elated by this success, they actually gave permission for Jigna to have a full-fledged dramatic production, too.

"On our premises only, and for prisoners' immediate families only."

That would mean a sparse audience -- some of the prisoners were from other states, some were even from abroad, their families would not attend -- but Jigna didn't quibble.

With eleven men in the cast, the play had to be about a cricket team. She let them write the script themselves, noting with quiet satisfaction that Marcus got as many dialogues as the others. The play was multilingual, to accommodate everyone's comfort zones -- Konkani, Marathi, Gujarati, Hindi and English.

They wrote. They learnt their lines. They directed, they acted, they rehearsed. They behaved like any other theatrical crew anywhere, with their trials, tribulations, tantrums and triumphs.

And the night before the show, they were as nervous as any stage actor has ever been.

So, when her phone rang at midnight, Jigna wasn't really surprised. She guessed that one of her actors had the heebie-jeebies, and Sanjay had managed to get a call through to her.

But it wasn't that.

It was much more serious.

"Marcus baba is very bad," Sanjay gasped. "He can't breathe at all. Not my shift, Madam, at night. Usually other fellows, they would have let him die, only. Lower caste prisoner, no? Other prisoners wouldn't have bothered, he can breathe or not. But because of your painting and acting and all that, they shouted. They shouted for warden, lot they had to shout to get warden. Warden shouted for my other co-guard who was on duty outside. They took Marcus baba to hospital section, got machine there. He won't die, now Madam, he won't die now. Whole jail woke up with all commotion. John, he crying for his brother Marcus. But Marcus won't die now."

Jigna held the phone tightly, holding the belief, holding the faith, holding the friendship -- holding Marcus.

"Marcus won't die now," she whispered.

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Note: This story is loosely based on an incident that took place, after a creative workshop at the Fort Aguada Jail, Goa, India. Some jails in India have now introduced creative workshops for the inmates.

See the jail here:
https://www.quora.com/Goa-India-Does-Fort-Aguada-still-serve-as-a-prison