By MEENAKSHI GANGULY, NEW DELHI

IN THE CROWDED WESTERN PART OF New Delhi sits a vast but packed prison surrounded by high yellow walls. Built in 1958 for a few thousand thieves, murderers and other malefactors, Tihar Jail is now home to more than 11,500 prisoners, most of them trapped by cumbersome judicial process that keeps  suspects imprisoned as “under trials,” often for terms much longer than if they had simply been found guilty. While the grounds are quiet and green, the living conditions are hard, with about 100 people sharing quarters intended for 25.

Prison authorities, however, love to show off their teeming institution. That’s because reforms set in motion several years ago by crusading policewomen Kiran Bedi have transformed the medieval hellhole into a place, Tihar administrators say wryly, that even criminals have ceased to fear. When Bedi took charge of prisons, it was a breeding ground for corruption and savagery, where new criminals were trained, killers recruited and dope   addicts created. Less than a decade later Tihar, the largest prison in Asia, is being showcased to penal experts around the world as a place where human rights- no joke- is a prime concern. There is better food, satisfactory hygiene, proper medical attention and effective rehabilitation programs. “We know that the truly criminal-minded will never change” says Ajay Agrawal, the current police chief of Tihar. ”But now there is hope for the others in the majority.”

In the days before “Madam” Bedi arrived in 1993, an understanding between prison staff and criminals provided fertile ground for running gangster operations outside the walls. There were appalling incidents of bullying, both by wardens and prisoners. Jitender Dev Srivastava, jailed since 1987 for trafficking narcotics, says violent quarrels were common. Guards, vastly outnumbered, stayed clear of the fighting. “Believe me. It was a terrible, terrible place,” Srivastava says. “Now everyone is busy and has less time to think about crime.” He points to his barrack mates practicing for an athletic competition: “Earlier, they would have all been abusing each other.” The games, an annual contest involving Tihar’s six prisons, are among the innovations that won Bedi the Ramon Magsaysay Award for government service in 1994.

Bedi, who was transferred out in 1995, turned Tihar around partly by bringing in volunteers willing to organize prisoners’ time. More than 50 groups work in Tihar today, providing legal aid, running literacy and health programs and encouraging inmates to enroll for private degrees through study centers and courses by mail. Meditation courses help cool hot tempers. Celebrity appearances at cultural shows provide positive role models. Convicts even make their own line of potato chips and other munchies marketed under the brand name TJ’s (for Tihar Jail’s) Special. And overall amenities are vastly improved. “The prisoners are getting better food and medical attention than the staff,” says jailer Shivanand Khemani, with a laugh. “ And we work 12- hour days. Tell me, who are the real prisoners?”

Indeed, some believe conditions have become too good. While the bulk of Tihar’s menial jobs- cooking, cleaning, managing wards- are delegated to convicts, most aren’t required to pitch in. Only those prisoners who have faced trial have to work; 85% are still “under trials” and tend to hang around doing nothing. Some deliberately enter prison by committing small but culpable crimes to avoid gangster enemies or because they can get better food and lodging. The number of inmates rises by about 10% each winter, as some opt for the four blankets handed out in jail over shivering on the pavements.

Once upon a time, Tihar tended to take in mild criminals and send them back hardened. Heroine could be found more easily in the cell than on the streets. Satish, a 41-year-old addict, has been in and out of prison for the past 25 years. “We used to break the light bulbs so the jailers could not see us smoke,” he says. Now, the bulbs are all intact. Addicts take part in counseling sessions or receive vocational training. Prisoners and visitors who once smuggled dope into Tihar now are frisked thoroughly.

At Jail No.1, the Association for Scientific Research on the Addictions runs a novel program to wean inmates off heroin. About 200 new prisoners enter the jail every day, a few dozen of whom, on average, are addicts. Program leader Dr. H.S. Sethi divides them into a “family tree”. Groups of four newcomers, known as “younger brothers,”are placed in the care of a ‘big brother’ who is meant to ensure that they are not bullied and to help them handle withdrawal. Groups of four big brothers, in turn, are managed by a “family head”. Ultimately, every one of the 700 enrolled in the program is assessed and monitored by the “family.” It seems to work. In the past seven years, more than 15,000 addicts have joined the program; it recently won praise from the United Nations Drug Control Program, which is using the model to create a global network of youth against drug abuse.

Among Tihar’s model prisoners is Leo Sande Gasnier, a Norwegian who was caught smuggling marijuana from India three years ago. Gasnier, now 22, says he spent his adolescence stoned and angry. He was forced to go clean in prison and then discovered meditation. With newfound introspectiveness, Gasnier confessed and accepted his 10-year sentence at Tihar, even though the prosecution lacked evidence. “ I was guilty and deserved to be punished,” he says.

Of course, many more of Tihar’s inmates contend that they don’t deserve to be looked up. “Everyone, from peon to P.M., is committing some crime,” says Srivastava. “Crime has not ended because we are in jail.” But the improved conditions, he believes, help prevent the relatively innocent from adopting lives of crime. “Earlier,” he says, “any man who came in here went out a criminal.” Jail may not put an end to crime, but Tihar is at least helping prisoners live a life free of misdemeanor.