Sometimes when I read the news, I fervently wish I am never murdered. Death doesn’t scare me as much as the thought of my family having to deal with a possibly botched-up police investigation.
On 5 September 2019, a video emerged of a Kashmiri man being tied to a pillar and slapped in Alwar in Rajasthan. 25-year-old Mir Faiz was accosted by three men on a bike, taken to an isolated spot, forced to wear women’s clothes, and walk around in a market. In his complaint to Alwar police, Faiz clearly describes that these were the circumstances which led to him being found wearing women’s clothes.
But he is the one being treated like a criminal, according to Faiz’s elder brother, Faisal. Speaking to The Quint, Faisal said,
“The police have kept him in the lock up since last night. He told me he cannot hear from his left ear at all. That is worrying. It may be a concussion. I need to ensure he gets urgent medical attention.”
As citizens, the one place where we’re promised justice – the police station – is often where we’re criminalised. It’s an oft-repeated assertion, but also one which bears repeating simply given the urgency and magnitude of the problem.
Moreover, the perpetrators of the assault have still not been arrested – and the police said that they ‘couldn’t conclusively understand’ why Faiz was wearing women’s attire. This idea that while filing a police complaint, it’s entirely possible for a victim to become a perpetrator, is common.
In August 2019, the Alwar sessions court acquitted all six accused in the Pehlu Khan case, and pointed out “serious lacunae” in the police investigation. In a 92-page judgement, it was pointed out that the Investigating Officer didn’t obtain certificate of Pehlu Khan’s medical fitness from doctors before recording his statement; a standard procedure.
When Pehlu Khan was lynched to death in 2017, it was seen by the entire country, thanks to a viral video. The perpetrators of the lynching were clearly visible in the video.
And yet, the police had not seized and produced mobile phones with which the video of the incident was said to have been shot, reported The Hindu. This, coupled with the fact that no forensic laboratory’s test was conducted, was a serious lapse in investigation. An important piece of evidence now rendered inadmissible.
An inherent distrust of the police and the police’s inefficiency isn’t restricted to Alwar in Rajasthan alone; it’s a nationwide predicament, cutting across communities. In Jalna in Maharashtra, the parents of a 19-year-old gangrape survivor was threatened by cops who said that "they will register a case against them." An FIR was later registered against the inspector. In Delhi, Sikhs protested against the police when it emerged that a Sikh driver and his son were brutally thrashed by policemen.
According to the Status of Policing in India Report 2018’ by Lokniti-Centre for Study of Developing Societies, 32 percent among Muslims, 31 percent among Christians, 27 percent among upper castes, 29 percent among SCs, 37 percent among STs and 45 percent Sikhs either “highly distrust” or “somewhat distrust” the police.
We are supposed to depend on the police for our protection and for justice, but how can we, when we can’t trust them? When just the word “police” inspires fear?
The fear seems warranted - not just in instances limited to headlines about police brutality, custodial deaths and mistreatment of juvenile - but a serious issue, rooted in prejudices and perceptions. After all, the police aren’t aliens. They are men and women like you and me, who we expect keep away their prejudices to serve ideas of justice.
The prejudices persist, worryingly so. A 2019 detailed study of the police force in India reveals that nearly half of India’s police force feels that Muslims are naturally more likely to commit violence.
In a startling insight, one in every three policemen maintain that it’s only natural for a mob to punish the alleged accused in cases of cow slaughter. Puts the Pehlu Khan case in perspective, doesn’t it?
While debates on police reform continue, from within and outside the police, I can’t help but think of Rati Ram Jatav. His son was allegedly lynched to death in Rajasthan’s Alwar district after a road accident. He was assaulted by locals after his motorcycle accidentally hit a woman and died two days later in July 2019. The police registered it as an accident, but Jatav protested and demanded that a case of murder be filed against the people who beat up his son. Unhappy with how the police was investigating the case, Rati Ram Jatav committed suicide by consuming pesticide in August 2019.
Investigation, as always, is still underway.
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