Caste in Prisons: My Experience - B. Anuradha
By B. Anuradha
If one wants to closely examine how the caste system persists in India, prison life provides an excellent opportunity. I had such an opportunity when I was a political prisoner for nearly four years in Hazaribagh central Jail in Jharkhand during 2009-2013. From a socio-economic perspective, Bihar is one of the most backward states, and Jharkhand, which was carved out of Bihar, remains almost the same with slight differences.
The first question asked when stepping inside the jail gate is, “What is your name?” At first glance, this may seem like a natural question, but the real purpose behind it is to identify the caste indicated by the surname (Which they call as Title). In North India, surnames generally indicate caste. However, for a long time, I did not fully grasp the significance of this.
Inside the jail, as soon as a prisoner enters a barrack, other inmates immediately inquire about their caste. If someone from the same caste is already present, they quickly approach the new prisoner and take them under their wing. Thus, caste-based friendship groups are formed. For upper-caste prisoners, these networks reinforce their status, while for Dalits, they provide the mental strength needed to survive in jail.
Overcrowding is a severe issue in Indian jails. For example, outside the women’s ward of Hazaribagh Jail, the capacity was marked as 32, but during my four years there, the number of inmates always ranged between 80 and 120. No matter how many were released, the number never dropped below 80. Due to the lack of adequate facilities, fights were a daily occurrence, and these conflicts almost always involved caste-based abuse.
If any upper-caste prisoner showed sympathy toward those from lower castes, they too would be insulted using derogatory caste names. While this caste-based division was present in the women’s ward, it was even more evident in other barracks, where caste determined the allocation of work. For instance, barbers (caste) were assigned barber duties, and washer folk (caste) were given laundry work in the hospital or assigned to serve prominent visitors, such as parliamentary political leaders. In the women’s ward, the person who came to cut children’s hair was always from the Barber caste.
One of the most shocking things I learned was that, according to old prison manuals, cooking was assigned to Brahmins, and only if no Brahmins were available would it be given to other upper castes. I later discovered that similar written regulations existed in many jails. Assigning cleaning duties to lower-caste prisoners was also a common practice.
The Bihar Jail manual states: “Any ‘A class’ Brahmin or sufficiently high caste Hindu prisoner is eligible for appointment as a cook.” The manual further specifies, “Any prisoner in a jail who is so high caste that he cannot eat food cooked by the existing cooks shall be appointed a cook and made to cook for the whole complement of men. Individual convicted prisoners shall in no circumstances be allowed to cook for themselves, unless they are specific division prisoners permitted to do so under rule.”
Jail warders and other officials played a major role in maintaining these caste hierarchies. Once, a woman was denied an interview (meeting) with a visitor. She was crying, so I inquired why she was denied permission. The head warder’s response shocked me—he said that only family members or relatives could visit prisoners, and since the visitor had a different surname, he concluded they were not from the same caste and thus denied the meeting.
I immediately asked, “Are you allowing me to meet my husband or not?” He replied, “Your case is different.” “Why is my case different? My husband and I belong to different castes, yet we are a family. Are we not considered a family just because our castes are different? In what era are you living?” I questioned him. He tried to defend himself by saying, “This is how things work here; I didn’t make these rules.”
Caste discrimination was also evident during festivals. During religious occasions, prisoners could submit their names if they wanted to perform rituals or observe fasts, and special arrangements were made for them, such as allowing them to bathe before sunrise, providing fruits or milk for those fasting, or permitting them to visit a small temple outside the women’s barrack.
However, when a Dalit woman from the Ravidas caste wanted to participate in a ritual, her request was denied. The officials claimed that there was no proof that the man who accompanied her to jail was her husband. Similarly, widows were often denied participation in religious events. However, these rules were easily ignored when it came to upper-caste or wealthy prisoners.
There were also many children in the women’s barrack. The number of children usually stayed around twenty-five, never dropping below twenty. One woman, a Bengali Brahmin, was in jail along with her mother and sister in a dowry death case. Her young son, who was under five years old (as only children under five are allowed in jail), was regarded as the “Brahmin priest” of the women’s barrack.
Other inmates, seeing his caste status, would touch his feet and ask for blessings. His mother encouraged this, using him to collect fruits and offerings. Some even gave money, believing that his blessings would help them get bail faster. This little boy, who had not even learned to speak properly, was already growing up with the belief that he was superior to others. I often worried about what kind of person he would become in the future.
Women warders also exploited caste dynamics for personal benefit. They sought personal services from prisoners of their own caste, such as foot massages, oil massages, hair braiding, henna application, and even laundry. While some warders gave small favors in return, the main goal was to get free services.
Even young children picked up on caste differences. If a child was hit by another, they would not simply say, “That boy hit me,” but instead, “That boy from a certain caste hit me.” In short, caste was a glaring reality in everyday prison life.
The culture that prevails in prisons is essentially a Brahminical one. Prison authorities do not necessarily have to be Brahmins themselves. Regardless of their caste background, when they exercise the power granted to them by their position, they enforce Brahminical dominance. This means that authorities treat prisoners as inferior beings, much like Brahmins traditionally viewed others beneath them.
Some officials expect prisoners to leave their footwear outside before entering their rooms. However, they do not state this directly; instead, they have their subordinates convey the message. Only political prisoners dare to defy such unwritten rules.
Similarly, during the small parade that takes place before a high-ranking jail official enters the prison premises in the morning, prisoners must not be seen anywhere nearby. Just as people from the lowest castes literally disappear from sight when a Brahmin walks through the streets in the villages.
Even if one claimed to be an atheist, it was not enough for others. People constantly asked, “Okay, you are an atheist, but what is your caste?” If I faced such situations, I would say I had no caste, but they refused to accept it. To end their questioning, I would name the lowest caste, but many thought I was joking and would persistently demand the “real” answer.
Once, I noticed a woman being friendly with another inmate and casually asked, “where is your friend?” She immediately replied, “She is not from my caste.” Implying that she could not be her ‘friend’. Thus, both officials and inmates enforced caste hierarchies inside the jail. Colonial-era prison manuals were still being followed. While it might be possible to fight and change written rules, breaking the casteist mindset ingrained in the brains of officials and prisoners alike would require a much greater struggle.
B Anuradha is the author of ‘Prison Notes of a Woman Activist’ which has been translated from Telugu.