For Minors in Observation Homes, There is Little Hope for Rehabilitation

Jaipur: Two towering iron gates stand between the observation home and the outside world. The first has to be locked before the second can be opened. Curtains hang across the doors just beyond the second gate, ensuring that those inside can neither see outside, nor be seen from outside. The overall security arrangement gives the impression that society is being protected from those inside. Except, those inside are children. 

On my first day inside an observation home in Jaipur, a desk is placed for me in the middle of the premises so I can interview some of the resident children inside. A security guard sits beside me, but quickly drifts off to sleep. I am given the impression that the premises are unsafe with such vigour and by so many, that I briefly consider waking him up.

A few minutes later, I am interviewing a child who landed in conflict with the law because he had an abiding love for scooters and could not resist taking one for a ride when he saw that the keys had been left inside. Another had snatched smartphones because, he says, he loved to take selfies. A third says he stole money given as offerings to certain temples ever since he was turned away hungry from one during a community function years ago.

These were not hardened offenders, but children with stories far more complex than their case files suggested. I interviewed 108 children in conflict with law to study the effectiveness of mental and psychological rehabilitation under the Juvenile Justice (Care and Protection of Children) Act, 2015, as part of my LL.M. dissertation at National Law University, Delhi. The study was conducted across three districts of Rajasthan – Jaipur, Sikar and Jhunjhunu – after obtaining permission from the Rajasthan high court and the Rajasthan Department of Child Rights. Separate observation homes are maintained for boys and girls. However, the number of girls in these homes is significantly lower, and girls are typically detained only in cases involving heinous offences, such as murder. 

Most of the children were booked for petty offences such as theft (22), assault (six), and chain snatching (two). A majority – 59 – were booked under The Protection of Children from Sexual Offences (POCSO) Act, 2012, while only a few (18) had been accused of heinous offences like murder. One was there for cyber fraud.

Why they do the things they do

A lot of the debate around juvenile justice revolves around the question – should children who commit offences be rehabilitated or punished? What I expected to study was rehabilitation, but troublingly, there was not much of it in the observation homes in Rajasthan. The real question is whether there is any rehabilitation taking place even in the case of children who have landed on the ‘rehabilitation’ side of the debate.

Behind the legal labels are stories of poverty, school dropouts, neglectful parents, step-parents, and bad company. Many children are from families where survival itself was a daily struggle.

One of the boys mentioned earlier proudly says that he has been booked three times for stealing scooters. "Why?" I ask. "I like driving Activa," he says. His plan would be simple. If he found a scooter with keys left inside, he would take it for a ride until the petrol ran out. He laughs, "I am unlucky. The petrol usually runs out near a traffic policeman."

Another boy admits that he has snatched smartphones twice – not to sell them or to make money. His immediate purpose was to take selfies. 

Yet many of them, with stories that make it apparent to any adult as to how their tellers should be tended to, have spent weeks and sometimes months and years inside observation homes.

As the interviews continue at the Jaipur observation home, I notice one older boy helping me coordinate the interviews. He calls names, maintains order and appears unusually mature. When his turn comes, he sits calmly and says he has committed murder. Unlike many others, he does not deny his agency in the crime. Then he tells me something I have not forgotten since: "There are very few people like me here.”.

Pointing towards the other boys, he adds, "Most of them haven't done anything serious." What he says next is even more concerning. "When a boy who has committed a petty offence or has been falsely accused comes here, he cannot return to normal life. He learns to abuse because that's how he can survive the bullies here. Then, the society keeps reminding him that he has been to an observation home. Eventually he becomes what everyone already thinks he is."

He says that he believes that if a boy remains at home, confronted daily by his family's poverty and struggles, he will never dare repeat an offence. “But people like me? This place cannot make us worse."

The burden of emotional distress

It is a question as to whether the system was rehabilitating children or introducing them to a future they might otherwise have escaped.

One of the children in the home was a migrant worker's son from Bihar. He had fallen in love with a girl from his school. He says she was regularly beaten by her alcoholic father. Believing he could rescue her, he convinced her to leave with him. They planned to travel to Varanasi, get married and start a new life.The police found them before they could leave. The girl returned home. The boy landed in an observation home, where he had already spent nearly a year when I met him.

Before ending the interview, I ask whether he wants to set up a home in the future. His answer comes instantly. "I will marry only her. And if I don't get her I will never marry anyone,” he announces.

Not every story is told quite this way. Another boy booked under POCSO speaks only of revenge. "When I get out, I will make her life hell," he tells me. I try to say that that path is likely to destroy both their lives. I am not sure he listens.

It is hard to escape the disturbing realisation that these institutions are not merely holding children but also shaping them. Some enter after making foolish mistakes and leave carrying the identity of criminals. But almost all of them carry the stigma of having once been behind these locked gates.

The emotional distress was also impossible to miss. On a visiting day, I watch a boy cry throughout his meeting with his family. The moment they leave, he runs to the playground and begins dancing wildly by himself. Another repeatedly rubs his hands against the sharp edge of my desk until I stop him, fearing he will injure himself.

These were small moments. But together they suggested a deeper reality. There was an enormous amount of emotional distress inside these homes and very little attention being paid to it. I also witness security guards and staff shouting at children over trivial issues. I watched children plead to be taken upstairs for vocational classes only to be told, falsely, that the classes had been cancelled. The real concern was that moving them increased the risk of escape, a guard tells me. I also observed a guard repeatedly reprimanding a child for failing to make a proper entry in the outgoing diary. The guard's conduct escalated to such an extent that the child was unable to remain calm. Yet, had the child reacted in any way, an internal case of misconduct could have been registered against him, while the guard himself would likely not have been held accountable for his behaviour.

A cycle

The system, in many ways, appeared designed around containment rather than rehabilitation. Part of the problem lies in resources. Caretakers and counsellors are expected to manage vulnerable children while earning salaries that many would find difficult to survive on. Staff shortages are routine. Facilities often function with far fewer employees than sanctioned. In practice, personnel assigned to one home frequently end up handling multiple homes simultaneously. 

The quality and frequency of counselling in juvenile homes remain deeply inadequate. In many cases, children receive counselling only when a Social Investigation Report has to be prepared, reducing what should be a sustained rehabilitative process to a procedural formality.  While there is no official record tracking repetition of offence among children, those alleged to have reoffended often face stricter treatment, including denial of bail. The responsibility, however, is rarely traced back to the rehabilitation process itself, even though preventing repetition of offence among the children is one of its primary objectives.

More troubling is the attitude of staff members. Many children are viewed primarily as security risks rather than individuals in need of support and guidance. As a result, considerable resources are directed towards surveillance, security checks, and confinement. The outcome is predictable. The children spend long hours largely on their own. 

The more time I spent inside observation homes, the harder it became to accept the word "rehabilitation." What I witnessed was a cycle. Many children enter because of neglectful parenting, poverty, poor education or other influences. The state responds by detaining them in institutions where meaningful rehabilitation is scarce. They leave carrying the stigma of having been in an observation home. Reintegration becomes difficult. Reoffending becomes easier. And then the cycle begins again.

This is perhaps why Ashok Tangade, a juvenile expert from Beed, Maharashtra, argues that the problem lies in how rehabilitation itself is understood. “People often speak of rehabilitation as if it ends with teaching a child a trade. It does not. A child may learn tailoring, computer skills, or carpentry, yet still remain unequipped to face the prejudice, rejection, and stigma waiting outside the institution's gates. The law does not regard these children as criminals, but society often does. When an institution begins to feel safer than the community a child is expected to return to, rehabilitation has failed in its most fundamental purpose," Tangade says.

Unless rehabilitation means constant guidance, education, counselling, emotional support, skill development and genuine reintegration into society, the locked gates of observation homes may be doing far less reforming than we imagine.

Shruti Jain is a journalist currently pursuing LL.M. at National Law University Delhi. 

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