Jagdish Prasad Sharma's day begins with a prayer and a large breakfast washed down with a glass of warm milk. He cleans his truck till it gleams and drives off to work at a stone quarry, returning by 7pm to his favorite TV show and a little quiet time with his wife.
Sharma's life may seem ordinary but it's remarkable because he lives in a prison where he is serving the last of a 14-year sentence for murder.
Nondescript Sanganer town -- about 25km from Jaipur, the capital of the northwestern state of Rajasthan -- is famous for its block-printed fabrics and a unique open jail where life convicts stay with their families.
PHOTO: DPA
The handmade Sanganeri print is now a dying art, replaced by sophisticated machines that churn out hundreds of meters of fabric every day, but the prison is a vibrant, thriving community.
The Rajasthan government started the Sri Sampoornanand Khula Bandi Shivir as an experiment in 1963. Till the 1980s, prisoners were taken out of Jaipur jail and allowed to farm during the day. A decade later the government made it compulsory for convicts to live there with their families, as an important step towards their rehabilitation.
Sanganer was such a success that a committee on prison reforms recommended that it be replicated in other states, as it prepares convicts for a life outside, instils a sense of responsibility, reduces overcrowding in jails and costs far less for the state.
The open prison currently has 124 convicts, including 10 women, all of whom have been convicted for murder and are serving life terms -- ranging from 14 to 20 years.
It isn't easy to get to Sanganer: the convict must have served at least one-third of his life sentence, demonstrated good behavior and file an application saying he will live there with his family. The screening committee does not consider habitual offenders or those convicted for offences against the state, rape and robbery.
The Sanganer jail spreads across 4 hectares dotted with orderly rows of about 150 cement houses, tin sheds and thatched cottages. Some have white picket fences, potted plants and a motorcycle parked outside. Others are nothing more than rickety aluminium sheets tied together with a frayed rope.
A majority of the homes have been built by the prisoners, who also pay for electricity and water. Their children attend nearby schools. At least one-third own television sets. Many have cows and sell milk in the local market.
There are few restrictions on the convicts, who can dress as they like. Guests can stay over. The camp has two sleepy guards and a low boundary wall. "It's a relationship of trust, but it's also very disciplined," said police constable Bajrang Lal Meena.
After the 6am roll call the prisoners can work outside within a 10km radius from the camp. Most have found employment as drivers, tailors, vegetable vendors or security guards. More importantly, they have found acceptance from the local community. They must return by 7pm for the evening roll call, after which they are not allowed to leave the camp.
Jagdish Prasad Sharma, who is also elected head of the Sanganer prison community, said the camp has taught him responsibility.
"I killed someone in the heat of the moment over a land dispute in my village. In Sanganer, I started to live a normal life, to take responsibility for my family," Sharma said. "I pay taxes and have a lot of respect in the community. No one calls me a prisoner."
Rajasthan's Jail Minister Chandra Shekhar said, "Everyone is anxious to get rid of the prisoner -- police to the courts, courts to prison. Somebody has to rehabilitate him and the open camp in Rajasthan is one way of doing this."
The sign outside Dr. A.K. Sharma's home says, "Happiness is the every day sunshine of your life." His two children play inside the house, its walls a soothing white, as a large chess board waits with an unfinished game.
Sharma, a homeopath, was convicted for murder and stayed behind bars for nearly seven years. Today, he has a modest practice in Sanganer town and earns about 10,000 rupees (US$220) a month.
"In prison you don't have any worries or responsibilities. You don't have to pay for food, rent or worry about your family. That is why Sanganer is so special, because we do everything ourselves," Sharma said. With three years of his sentence left, Sharma is confident he will save enough to buy a plot of land.
Prisoners have to leave the camp once their term is over. Superintendent of Jails V.K. Mathur said, "Sanganer is between the jail and society. Here they are given the strength and encouragement to go back to the community."
The camp is not without its problems and Mathur admits two prisoners did try and run away. But such cases are rare. Any indiscipline sends the convict back behind bars, with no chance of returning to the freedom of Sanganer.
Anita Wadia, convicted for killing her husband, said, "Prisons damage you completely, you lose your looks, self-respect and dignity. Sanganer is unique because it gives you a second chance at life."
Mongolian influencer Anudari Daarya looks effortlessly glamorous and carefree in her social media posts — but the classically trained pianist’s road to acceptance as a transgender artist has been anything but easy. She is one of a growing number of Mongolian LGBTQ youth challenging stereotypes and fighting for acceptance through media representation in the socially conservative country. LGBTQ Mongolians often hide their identities from their employers and colleagues for fear of discrimination, with a survey by the non-profit LGBT Centre Mongolia showing that only 20 percent of people felt comfortable coming out at work. Daarya, 25, said she has faced discrimination since she
April 21 to April 27 Hsieh Er’s (謝娥) political fortunes were rising fast after she got out of jail and joined the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) in December 1945. Not only did she hold key positions in various committees, she was elected the only woman on the Taipei City Council and headed to Nanjing in 1946 as the sole Taiwanese female representative to the National Constituent Assembly. With the support of first lady Soong May-ling (宋美齡), she started the Taipei Women’s Association and Taiwan Provincial Women’s Association, where she
It is one of the more remarkable facts of Taiwan history that it was never occupied or claimed by any of the numerous kingdoms of southern China — Han or otherwise — that lay just across the water from it. None of their brilliant ministers ever discovered that Taiwan was a “core interest” of the state whose annexation was “inevitable.” As Paul Kua notes in an excellent monograph laying out how the Portuguese gave Taiwan the name “Formosa,” the first Europeans to express an interest in occupying Taiwan were the Spanish. Tonio Andrade in his seminal work, How Taiwan Became Chinese,
More than 75 years after the publication of Nineteen Eighty-Four, the Orwellian phrase “Big Brother is watching you” has become so familiar to most of the Taiwanese public that even those who haven’t read the novel recognize it. That phrase has now been given a new look by amateur translator Tsiu Ing-sing (周盈成), who recently completed the first full Taiwanese translation of George Orwell’s dystopian classic. Tsiu — who completed the nearly 160,000-word project in his spare time over four years — said his goal was to “prove it possible” that foreign literature could be rendered in Taiwanese. The translation is part of
RSS