Jailhouse books

In what is probably the most memorable prison movie ever made,Tim Robbins’ character in The Shawshank Redemption begins his slow climb out of hopelessness after he’s assigned to the prison library. After writing for a decade to legislators he gets a small allowance to buy books,and then,we’re told,“You’d be amazed how far Andy could stretch it. He made deals with book clubs,charity groups. He bought remaindered books by the pound.” The redemption the film promises comes not just in its unforgettable climax,but through the expansion of horizons,and the sense of possibility that the library provides the prison’s inmates. In Delhi’s Tihar

jail,a stock of 6,500 books serves 12,000 prisoners. The books appear eclectic: books on India’s politics share shelf space with Sidney Sheldon and texts on quantum physics. One inmate,convicted for murder,dreams of time travel,pointing out that “so much can be changed in the past.” Another,the accused Naxalite leader Kobad Gandhy,is reading Chekhov and the psychiatrist Carl Jung.

There’s little bad about this story,except that it reminds us of how little we examine whether our prison systems can serve as skilling and education centres,which demonstrably curb recidivism. There’s a power of words and music,a power to transform — something best depicted again,perhaps,in Shawshank,in one of the most memorable scenes from ’90s cinema: a new batch of books and records arrives,and Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro winds up on the public-address system. And,for a moment,both prisoners and guards stop,caught in sweeping,overhead shots,to look outside of themselves and their walls for a while.