<p>Its current occupants include three members of Parliament, a top bureaucrat and one of India’s richest men.<br /><br />The accommodations are spartan. There is no air conditioning, for one. But there are daily yoga and meditation classes. It even has room service, after a fashion: hot meals arrive promptly three times a day.<br /><br />No, this is not one of the many five-star hotels in the capital of the world’s second fastest growing economy—anyone with adequate bankroll could check in into one of those. Only Delhi’s most wanted criminals are invited to spend the night here at Tihar jail.<br /><br />In an unprecedented season of scandal and seething public anger over accusations of widespread corruption, a growing number of senior politicians and wealthy businessmen accused of enriching themselves from the public till have ended up in the sprawling Tihar jail complex, which sits on 400 acres in a working-class neighborhood on the western edge of New Delhi.<br /><br />They include men like A. Raja, the former telecommunications minister who presided over the sale of valuable cellphone spectrum at rock-bottom prices, costing the Indian treasury as much as $40 billion. He sleeps on the floor of a small cell in Jail 1.<br /><br />Suresh Kalmadi, a major figure in the governing Congress Party, is holed up in Jail 4. He was in charge of the shoddy preparations for the Commonwealth Games last year and stands accused of making millions in kickbacks.</p>.<p>In Jail 3, a handful of telecommunications executives, including Shahid Usman Balwa, part of India’s growing class of billionaires, are awaiting trial on charges that they paid bribes to get cheap cellphone spectrum from Raja.<br /><br />Women politicians are here, too. In Jail 6 is Kanimozi, a member of the upper house of Parliament and daughter of one of the most powerful political figures in southern India, accused of taking bribes in the telecommunications scandal.<br /><br />In a nation where status, whether from money or political power, buys almost anything, the high and mighty accused of crimes against the public fisc, or treasury, get no special treatment here, their wardens say.<br /><br />“Nobody bothers about whether they like their tea or not, whether they like their food or not,” said Neeraj Kumar, the director general of Tihar jail.<br /><br />VIP inmates ask for perks all the time: air conditioners for their cells; food from home every day. One telecommunications executive went to court to demand access to his iPad. But almost all such requests have been denied, jail officials said.<br /><br />None of these accused have yet been convicted; indeed, trials in most of their cases have yet to begin. But all have been denied bail, and must sweat out their wait for trial in the sweltering confines of their cells.<br /><br />Tihar was built in 1958, and its design followed the idealism of newly independent India. Its vast campus was intended to look more like a high security college campus than a notorious prison. It had carefully tended lawns and gardens. Each prisoner had his own cell in which to contemplate his rehabilitation.<br /><br />But as India grew poorer and more corrupt in the 1960s and 70s, conditions at Tihar jail deteriorated.</p>.<p>In her book about her time running Tihar jail, “It’s Always Possible,” Kiran Bedi, a former senior police official turned anti-corruption crusader, wrote of unspeakably grim conditions.</p>.<p>During the monsoon, Bedi wrote, “the contents of the clogged sewers would flow back into the barracks, ...and the stench and filth became internal.”<br />Criminal gangs controlled the cellblocks, and anything was available for a price – drugs, sex, even murder.<br /><br />Sanctioned caste system<br /><br />The jail had its own officially sanctioned caste system, which put politicians and white-collar prisoners at the top of the hierarchy and common criminals at the bottom. The upper crust ate separately and got better food, enriched by more ghee. They were entitled to more sugar for their tea.<br /><br />But in 1997, the system was dismantled by a Supreme Court judgment arguing, in part, that the educated and privileged, far from deserving better treatment, should be doubly sanctioned because they of all people should know better.<br /><br />Nowadays, the jail has largely returned to its more idealistic roots, thanks to the efforts of Bedi and others. There are art studios, computer labs and libraries. There is a factory where convicts learn vocational skills and earn money to send home.<br /><br />“Our main aim is rehabilitation,” said Pradeep Sharma, the officer in charge of the factory, which produces a wide variety of items, including wooden furniture, hand-woven rugs, file folders and baked goods. “We want to give them skills so they can earn something after their release.”<br /><br />The jail is still crowded, particularly the open barracks where most of the prisoners awaiting trial live. India’s clogged court system has a huge backlog of cases.Most of the other cells were originally designed for one prisoner, but they usually hold at least three. </p>.<p>The jail’s official capacity is 6,250, but it currently houses more than 12,000.<br />“Whenever you find two Indians you will find mischief,” said Sunil Kumar Gupta, the jail’s spokesman, explaining that it is jail policy never to put just two people in a cell, always three or more. “If the two are creating mischief, the third will inform the jail authorities.” <br /><br />Prisoners eat relatively well—indeed better than many in a country where malnutrition rates in some places outstrip those in sub-Saharan Africa. Each prisoner is served a daily diet that must include about a pound of wheat or rice, 3 ounces of lentils and 9 ounces of vegetables.<br /><br />“The average prisoner adds 1 kilogram to his flesh,” Gupta said. A convict from Mumbai who is a decade into a 14-year drug-smuggling sentence said life in the jail is not what it was when he first arrived.“It is much improved,” he said. His cell, which he shared with three other men, had a television and cable connection, which is allowed by current jail rules.“Would you like some tea?” he asked a visitor. Inside the cell were teacups and an electric kettle, arranged on a doily.</p>.<p>Given public outrage over the accusations that the senior officials and businessmen among them used their power and influence for illicit gain, jail officials have been quick to quash any hint of special treatment.<br /><br />When a judge on a surprise inspection visit found Kalmadi sitting in the office of a senior warden, having tea and snacks in air-conditioned comfort, he wrote a scathing report of his findings.<br /><br />“Accused were given undue liberty by jail authorities,” the judge wrote. “It appears they are thoroughly enjoying their stints at the Central jail courtesy the jail officials.”<br /><br />The breach was reported on the front pages of newspapers the next day, and several jail officials were reprimanded.<br /><br />Certain privileges have been extended to the jail’s highest profile prisoners. Kanimozi’s husband, a wealthy Singapore-based businessman, was ushered in to visit her well past visiting hours one summer afternoon. </p>.<p>A jail official shrugged when asked about this discrepancy. His phone rang nonstop with such requests, and it was hard to refuse them all.<br /><br />“What can we do?” he said.<br /></p>
<p>Its current occupants include three members of Parliament, a top bureaucrat and one of India’s richest men.<br /><br />The accommodations are spartan. There is no air conditioning, for one. But there are daily yoga and meditation classes. It even has room service, after a fashion: hot meals arrive promptly three times a day.<br /><br />No, this is not one of the many five-star hotels in the capital of the world’s second fastest growing economy—anyone with adequate bankroll could check in into one of those. Only Delhi’s most wanted criminals are invited to spend the night here at Tihar jail.<br /><br />In an unprecedented season of scandal and seething public anger over accusations of widespread corruption, a growing number of senior politicians and wealthy businessmen accused of enriching themselves from the public till have ended up in the sprawling Tihar jail complex, which sits on 400 acres in a working-class neighborhood on the western edge of New Delhi.<br /><br />They include men like A. Raja, the former telecommunications minister who presided over the sale of valuable cellphone spectrum at rock-bottom prices, costing the Indian treasury as much as $40 billion. He sleeps on the floor of a small cell in Jail 1.<br /><br />Suresh Kalmadi, a major figure in the governing Congress Party, is holed up in Jail 4. He was in charge of the shoddy preparations for the Commonwealth Games last year and stands accused of making millions in kickbacks.</p>.<p>In Jail 3, a handful of telecommunications executives, including Shahid Usman Balwa, part of India’s growing class of billionaires, are awaiting trial on charges that they paid bribes to get cheap cellphone spectrum from Raja.<br /><br />Women politicians are here, too. In Jail 6 is Kanimozi, a member of the upper house of Parliament and daughter of one of the most powerful political figures in southern India, accused of taking bribes in the telecommunications scandal.<br /><br />In a nation where status, whether from money or political power, buys almost anything, the high and mighty accused of crimes against the public fisc, or treasury, get no special treatment here, their wardens say.<br /><br />“Nobody bothers about whether they like their tea or not, whether they like their food or not,” said Neeraj Kumar, the director general of Tihar jail.<br /><br />VIP inmates ask for perks all the time: air conditioners for their cells; food from home every day. One telecommunications executive went to court to demand access to his iPad. But almost all such requests have been denied, jail officials said.<br /><br />None of these accused have yet been convicted; indeed, trials in most of their cases have yet to begin. But all have been denied bail, and must sweat out their wait for trial in the sweltering confines of their cells.<br /><br />Tihar was built in 1958, and its design followed the idealism of newly independent India. Its vast campus was intended to look more like a high security college campus than a notorious prison. It had carefully tended lawns and gardens. Each prisoner had his own cell in which to contemplate his rehabilitation.<br /><br />But as India grew poorer and more corrupt in the 1960s and 70s, conditions at Tihar jail deteriorated.</p>.<p>In her book about her time running Tihar jail, “It’s Always Possible,” Kiran Bedi, a former senior police official turned anti-corruption crusader, wrote of unspeakably grim conditions.</p>.<p>During the monsoon, Bedi wrote, “the contents of the clogged sewers would flow back into the barracks, ...and the stench and filth became internal.”<br />Criminal gangs controlled the cellblocks, and anything was available for a price – drugs, sex, even murder.<br /><br />Sanctioned caste system<br /><br />The jail had its own officially sanctioned caste system, which put politicians and white-collar prisoners at the top of the hierarchy and common criminals at the bottom. The upper crust ate separately and got better food, enriched by more ghee. They were entitled to more sugar for their tea.<br /><br />But in 1997, the system was dismantled by a Supreme Court judgment arguing, in part, that the educated and privileged, far from deserving better treatment, should be doubly sanctioned because they of all people should know better.<br /><br />Nowadays, the jail has largely returned to its more idealistic roots, thanks to the efforts of Bedi and others. There are art studios, computer labs and libraries. There is a factory where convicts learn vocational skills and earn money to send home.<br /><br />“Our main aim is rehabilitation,” said Pradeep Sharma, the officer in charge of the factory, which produces a wide variety of items, including wooden furniture, hand-woven rugs, file folders and baked goods. “We want to give them skills so they can earn something after their release.”<br /><br />The jail is still crowded, particularly the open barracks where most of the prisoners awaiting trial live. India’s clogged court system has a huge backlog of cases.Most of the other cells were originally designed for one prisoner, but they usually hold at least three. </p>.<p>The jail’s official capacity is 6,250, but it currently houses more than 12,000.<br />“Whenever you find two Indians you will find mischief,” said Sunil Kumar Gupta, the jail’s spokesman, explaining that it is jail policy never to put just two people in a cell, always three or more. “If the two are creating mischief, the third will inform the jail authorities.” <br /><br />Prisoners eat relatively well—indeed better than many in a country where malnutrition rates in some places outstrip those in sub-Saharan Africa. Each prisoner is served a daily diet that must include about a pound of wheat or rice, 3 ounces of lentils and 9 ounces of vegetables.<br /><br />“The average prisoner adds 1 kilogram to his flesh,” Gupta said. A convict from Mumbai who is a decade into a 14-year drug-smuggling sentence said life in the jail is not what it was when he first arrived.“It is much improved,” he said. His cell, which he shared with three other men, had a television and cable connection, which is allowed by current jail rules.“Would you like some tea?” he asked a visitor. Inside the cell were teacups and an electric kettle, arranged on a doily.</p>.<p>Given public outrage over the accusations that the senior officials and businessmen among them used their power and influence for illicit gain, jail officials have been quick to quash any hint of special treatment.<br /><br />When a judge on a surprise inspection visit found Kalmadi sitting in the office of a senior warden, having tea and snacks in air-conditioned comfort, he wrote a scathing report of his findings.<br /><br />“Accused were given undue liberty by jail authorities,” the judge wrote. “It appears they are thoroughly enjoying their stints at the Central jail courtesy the jail officials.”<br /><br />The breach was reported on the front pages of newspapers the next day, and several jail officials were reprimanded.<br /><br />Certain privileges have been extended to the jail’s highest profile prisoners. Kanimozi’s husband, a wealthy Singapore-based businessman, was ushered in to visit her well past visiting hours one summer afternoon. </p>.<p>A jail official shrugged when asked about this discrepancy. His phone rang nonstop with such requests, and it was hard to refuse them all.<br /><br />“What can we do?” he said.<br /></p>