The pillars of the Juvenile Justice Court hold the weight of stories that unfold in the building. The unsettling silence in corridors lingers like a cry to be heard. Behind the heavy thuds of wooden doors in courtrooms, justice moves in the shuffle of papers, piling up of files by the hour, and the announcements of case numbers. As decisions are recorded, children wait, clutching to their belongings, eyes fixed on the bench and beyond it, towards a future that awaits them.
When Vidya Shankar Chakravarthy, former member of the Juvenile Justice Board, titles her book Help! Can You Hear Us?, it is a question that echoes through these same court halls, which is later carried with the children to the government-run juvenile homes.
The book captures Vidya’s life and the body of her work. In 1998, this former chairperson of the Juvenile Welfare Board, Chennai, started an NGO with a group of adoptive parents who wanted to make a change for children. They had identified a gap in the adoption landscape, wherein older children were often sent to orphanages and left there. “We thought of creating a transit shelter to try and prepare these children to be placed in adoption or foster care and prepare the families as well,” recalls Vidya.
As that work progressed, they came face-to-face with the social defense department, where rescued children were routed through juvenile homes. Conversations with the department led to a collaboration. She began working with and at these homes in Chennai between 1999 and 2001, as a civilian who refused to remain at the periphery.
“At the homes in Chennai, we [the NGO] tried to improve infrastructure, brought in donations, funds, volunteers, cleaned up, and did a lot of work there,” she says. What began as volunteer support soon evolved into structural engagement. In July 2001, the government proposed her name and appointed her chairman of the Juvenile Welfare Board of Chennai district. “From being a housewife to becoming a civil society member, I had a ringside view and was also given the tools in my hand to operate. So, I did what needed to be done.”
System and sensitivity
Beyond her official hours, Vidya went inside the homes to sit with the children, play, eat, sing, dance, and help them study. “I have spent hours and hours with them to know what was actually going on in their lives,” she says. Looking at her extensive work, within a year and a half, her name was proposed again for Juvenile Court magistrate. “I had six court sessions a week. That was my life for five years,” she shares. The conversations, home visits, courtroom judgments, and the details of every case, was etched in her memory.
Case by case, she and the welfare board examined files and sent back children who did not need to be institutionalised. Funds from her organisation were used to repair toilets, install steam cooking equipment, and set up dining halls. Major changes were made in at least five or six homes in Tamil Nadu, with incremental improvements elsewhere.
The system was earlier a place sealed for the public with no accountability. “Whatever was being done to children was considered a favour. I broke open those practices and I said children have rights.” In her book, she speaks on behalf of the children of these homes. It is dedicated to them, she says.
For ten years, she focused on strengthening the system and gave the government a blueprint. The book contains such suggested reforms and standards for institutions. It is meant to be a manual. “This book must function as a textbook for beginners in the juvenile justice system,” says the author.
After her tenure ended, Vidya buried her memories. “I wanted to forget all about it. I pushed it all underground for more than 15 years. I didn’t dare to open that part of my heart, my soul, and my mind. I didn’t want to think or talk about it.” It was only in 2020, encouraged by former principal advisor to the Government of India T Ramasamy, that she began writing.
Rebuilding the frameworks
The book narrates 40 to 50 case studies, with names and places changed. The stories of positive interventions, failures, and the sadness she carried are printed. Vidya hints that the “book is an important piece of literature in the juvenile justice system.”
Her assessment of the present is layered. “Now, people are more aware [of child rights], and they don’t incarcerate children, which used to happen 25 years ago. The infrastructure has also substantially improved. The government has put in money, and has brought in some sensitisation.”
But, she cautions, “There is a condescension, a kind of sarcasm, and lightheartedness as far as these children’s needs are concerned, which is something that needs some heavyweight lifting to change.”
For the change to even take root, the media, she feels, plays a complicated role in the entire process. “There is a huge deluge of information being thrown at you. So that is the power that is being misused by the media. Whereas those powers, if translated as being change agents for children, would immensely benefit every sector of children.”
At its core, she argues that while rescue and protection systems exist, “The failure is in rehabilitation and prevention.” The priorities for children, she insists, “need to be voiced a lot louder.” As a country, we must all pledge our time, effort, money, energy, resources, and thought processes for children. “In the next 10 years, if we focus on child safety, we will be a far more developed nation than anywhere,” concludes Vidya.