Introduction — The Prison Beyond Walls
Cinema can be philosophy in motion. It does not merely entertain; it reveals the inner landscape of human struggle. V. Shantaram’s 1957 classic Do Aankhen Barah Haath is remembered as a tale of reform: a warden, Adinath, leads six hardened criminals beyond prison walls to till barren land, believing that labour, dignity, and compassion can redeem them. But the film is more than prison reform. It is a parable of the Arishadvarga—the six inner enemies in Indian philosophy, rooted in traditions like Jainism and Hinduism, notably discussed in texts such as the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, where they are described as obstacles to liberation. These forces—kāma (desire), krodha (anger), lobha (greed), moha (delusion), mada (pride), and mātsarya (envy)—shape human suffering but also offer paths to redemption when tamed, as Shantaram’s film illustrates. Each convict embodies one of these poisons, though their struggles often intertwine, reflecting the complexity of human nature. Each wrestles with their enemy in the fields and, under the warden’s trust and sacrifice, finds a way to transform. Their stories are not theirs alone. They are ours.
Prisoner One: Kāma (Desire)
They call me restless. They call me weak. I remember the taste of things that made the night less unbearable—the hot bread stolen at dusk, the touch that unknotted my chest, the bottle that told me I could forget. Those pleasures were quick medicine; quick, and then gone. They left a hollowness that wanted refilling. When the warden led us into the field, my first thought was escape—to run toward the things I craved. The work felt like chains: sweat stung my eyes, and the sun punished me. At night I dreamed of rooms lit by laughter and warm hands. But there was something in the way the warden moved not a man of comfort, but of chosen hardship. That sight unsettled me. Then a sprout pushed through the black soil one dawn. In the film, this moment is captured when I kneel beside a fragile sprout, my hands trembling as I water it a visual echo of my shift from stealing bread to nurturing life, seen in Shantaram’s close-up of my softened gaze. My craving changed, not disappearing, but redirecting itself. Desire, once for fleeting pleasures, now longed for life itself.
Philosophical reflection: Desire cannot be eradicated. But it can be redirected—from consuming to creating, from lusting to loving.
Prisoner Two: Krodha (Anger)
Anger burnt in me, triggered by orders and the fields’ resistance. Smashing rocks felt like vengeance, a release of pent-up rage. Shantaram’s close-ups of my clenched fists against the barren soil highlight this struggle, showing krodha’s raw force. I wanted to lash out—at the soil, at the sky, at the warden who dared to believe in me. But he never raised his voice, never struck back. His calm was a mirror that made my fury look foolish. That patience was a weapon I could not fight. Slowly, the energy I once wasted on destruction bent itself to the plough. This shift is captured in a scene where my hands, once destructive, grip the plough steadily, with Shantaram’s wide shots framing the field’s transformation as a mirror to my own. My fists still clenched, but now they broke stones for creation. I still burn, but the fire now forges instead of ruins.
Philosophical reflection: Anger is not erased. It is transmuted. Fire, when disciplined, can cook food, forge metal, and warm homes.
Prisoner Three: Lobha (Greed)
I have always counted. Even in hunger, I calculated. Greed whispered: What’s in it for you? The barren land mocked me. No gain here, greed sneered. But when the first harvest came, I tasted bread made from my own sweat, shown in a scene where I break bread with others, Shantaram’s warm lighting reflecting shared abundance. I expected hunger to sour it. Instead, sharing sweetened it. Passing food to another gave me a strange wealth that coins never did. My greed was not gone, but it was tamed. I learnt that what we hoard rots; what we share multiplies.
Philosophical reflection: Greed transforms when it discovers abundance in giving. True wealth is measured not by possession but by the dignity of contribution.
Prisoner Four: Moha (Delusion)
My mind was a theatre of excuses. I told myself I was cursed, fated, wronged. Delusion kept me safe from responsibility. The barren land seemed proof: nothing will grow; nothing can change. Yet, green shoots pierced the soil, depicted in a sweeping shot where I stare, stunned, at the sprouting field, Shantaram’s framing shattering my illusions. Reality broke my illusions. The earth answered labour, not excuses. Moha cracked. My stories collapsed before the stubbornness of truth. For the first time, I saw myself not as a victim but as capable.
Philosophical reflection: Delusion breaks not through argument, but through experience. Reality reforms what illusion resists.
Prisoner Five: Mada (Pride)
Even in chains, I held my head high. Pride whispered, ‘You are above them.’ Labour felt like humiliation. But then I saw the warden—a man with rank, with choice—lifting stones beside me. This is vividly depicted in a scene where Adinath toils alongside us, his sweat-soaked shirt blurring the line between authority and labourer, prompting my stunned pause—a moment where Shantaram’s framing underscores humility’s triumph. If he, who owed us nothing, could bow to the soil, what was my arrogance worth? Pride bent into humility. My ego softened into self-respect. I learnt that to be praised for nothing is hollow; to labour in silence is dignity.
Philosophical reflection: Ego shrinks not when shown a nobler way. True greatness is not domination, but service.
Prisoner Six: Mātsarya (Envy)
I measured myself by others. Their gain was my loss. Their praise was my wound. When another man’s crop grew, envy whispered, ‘Why him, not me?’ But when his harvest fed me, shown in a scene where I eat from a shared plate, Shantaram’s communal framing dissolving my resentment, something shifted. His success was not theft—it was survival for all of us. Envy loosened its grip. I saw that another’s growth could sustain me too.
Philosophical reflection: Envy dies when we see others’ flourishing as part of our own. Solidarity begins when walls between me and you dissolve.
The Inner Field
The barren land became their mirror. Desire, anger, greed, delusion, pride, envy—all wrestled within them. But labour, trust, and compassion tilled their inner soil. Kāma turned from lust to love of creation. Krodha from destruction to drive. Lobha from hoarding to generosity. Moha from delusion to clarity. Made from arrogance to humility. Mātsarya from envy to solidarity. The harvest was not only grain. It was transformation.
The Interwoven Enemies
While each prisoner is framed through a single inner enemy for clarity, their struggles often intertwine, reflecting human complexity. For instance, Prisoner One’s kāma may spark mātsarya when another’s harvest thrives, just as Prisoner Five’s mada carries traces of krodha when challenged. Shantaram’s characters are not one-dimensional; their transformations reveal how the Arishadvarga overlap, requiring a holistic taming of the self. This layered struggle mirrors our own, where no single enemy stands alone.
The Warden’s Sacrifice
Then came the final test. The warden’s life was taken, depicted in a haunting scene where Adinath falls amid sprouting fields, Shantaram’s stark contrasts highlighting his sacrifice. His body fell where sprouts had just risen. Grief tore through the men. Guilt rose: our sins killed him. Anger and pride resurfaced. But gratitude silenced all. He gave his life because he believed in us. His sacrifice became the final harvest—not of grain, but of meaning. The men, once prisoners of their inner enemies, became carriers of his legacy.
The Unseen Walls
The field was a sanctuary a world apart where the only laws were the warden’s compassion and the earth’s impartial answer to labour. But true reform is never proven in a sanctuary. It is proven in the world a world of memory, of prejudice, of hunger, of temptation. The inner enemies, though subdued, remain familiar beasts with deep tracks worn into the mind. Would Lobha’s generosity endure when poverty pressed like a claw? Would Mātsarya’s newfound solidarity hold when others received what he was denied? Would krodha, once channelled into the plough, stay harnessed when insult returned? Yet, transformation is not guaranteed. Some prisoners might falter—a return to lobha when poverty bites, or a flare of krodha when society scorns their past. The film’s sanctuary of fields shields them from such tests, but the world beyond, with its prejudices and temptations, might unravel their progress. The warden’s compassion cannot shield them from markets that cheat or communities that shun. This shadow asks us: can reform endure when the world resists it? The answer lies not in certainty but in persistent effort. The harvest of the self, like the harvest of the earth, is never final. It must be protected, reseeded, and defended against the storms that come each season. Transformation is not an end state but a practice—fragile, renewable, and ever at risk of decay. This is not to doubt their change but to remind us that the battle with kāma, krodha, lobha, moha, mada, and mātsarya never truly ends. The film’s optimism shines as a beacon, yet we must also see the shadows it casts. The message is not that we are once-for-all redeemed, but that vigilance is the price of freedom. For the temptations of desire, anger, greed, delusion, pride, and envy are not left behind in prison fields—they are present in classrooms, courtrooms, hospitals, and boardrooms. The lesson of the warden is not that we conquer these enemies once, but that we must meet them daily with trust, compassion, and labour, wherever we stand.
Tilling the Inner Field: Practical Steps
The warden’s lessons extend beyond the screen, offering tools to confront our inner enemies: • To tame kāma, redirect desire toward meaningful goals—practice mindfulness or journaling daily to focus on creation over consumption. • To temper krodha, channel anger through constructive work or empathetic listening, as a teacher might model calm in a tense classroom. • To loosen lobha, share resources generously, like a manager allocating credit fairly among a team. • To pierce moha, test assumptions with evidence, as a scientist questions hypotheses. • To soften mada, seek feedback and cultivate humility. • To dissolve mātsarya, celebrate others’ success to strengthen solidarity. These practices, rooted in labour and compassion, mirror the prisoners’ work and make their harvest ours.
Reflection—The Prison in Us All
The six convicts are not distant figures in a black-and-white film. They are mirrors. We all crave like Kāma. We all rage like Krodha. We all count like Lobha. We all excuse Moha. We all boast like Mada. We all compare like Mātsarya. But we also carry within us a warden—the voice of conscience, compassion, and courage. When that voice dares to trust, to labor, to suffer, even to sacrifice, the barren soil of our hearts can bloom. Do Aankhen Barah Haath is therefore not just a story of prison reform. It is a parable of inner reform. It whispers: • Freedom is not merely walking outside walls. • Freedom is walking outside the enemies within. • Redemption is not bestowed—it is tilled into being.
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