FAIR PLAY: The training helps the women stand on their feet after their release

Arti Sonu, 22, is among the millions of women who want to look as beautiful as former Miss World Aishwarya Rai and actor Karisma Kapoor. And to make her dream come true she has undertaken a six-month diploma course in beauty culture. Her batchmate in the course, Kiran Latha Sharma, 28, has more down-to-earth aspirations. "Some day, I would like to start my own parlour," she says.

What makes the dreams of these two women so precious is the fact that they germinated in an environ that retards hope so completely that self-confidence is shredded beyond recognition. For the two budding beauticians are prisoners serving time in Delhi's Tihar Central Jail, Sharma for murdering her husband and Sonu on drug charges. They are among the 480 women prisoners housed in Jail No. 6 (A). The cold and grey confines of the prison got a break eight months ago when the authorities set up a beauty parlour to impart vocational training to interested inmates. The move was part of the rehabilitation programme for the inmates. The oasis of hope doubles as an in-house salon where women prisoners in Asia's largest prison can mask the ugly reality of their lives.

Affiliated to the Jamia Institute in Delhi, the parlour has a full-time trainer in Kishwar Khan. For Khan, who used to train women in other centres of the institute, the Tihar unit is rather special. There's an innate sense of satisfaction in helping these hapless women look beautiful. "It boosts their self-confidence," says Khan. Indeed, the women make a beeline for the parlour every time their relatives come calling. "Sometimes, the visitors are unable to recognise the women because they are almost looking like heroines," she laughs.

The parlour is a sparsely furnished square room that was once a prison cell. Now it is arguably the noisiest and most colourful place in the jail. There are three chairs facing a long mirror along one wall. When they are occupied, the rug on the mosaic floor serves as the working area. A wooden bench is for customers awaiting their turn. The only trappings of a beauty parlour are the creams, lotions, nail enamel and inexpensive herbal cosmetics, and the kitschy posters of film actors Aishwarya Rai, Karisma Kapoor and Madhuri Dixit that scream for attention from the badly plastered walls.

For inmates who want to indulge themselves, a pedicure costs Rs 25, a head massage Rs 20 and hair dyeing Rs 30. This is not a profit-making venture from a purely business point of view. The parlour gets only about six customers during the two hours it is open between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. from Monday to Friday. The money is used to buy the cosmetics and accessories for the parlour.

Of course, the underlying intention is to keep idle minds occupied. "It helps take the prisoners' mind off other distractions," admits Khan. Also, the training comes handy after a prisoner completes her term. Says Jail Superintendent Sunita Sabharwal: "At least they will be assured of an honest living." To add credibility to their training, the inmates are given certificates on completion of the course. There are also awards for the best hair stylist, best beautician and best henna artist. Nowhere on the certificates is the word Tihar mentioned.

When she speaks, there is no trace of guilt on Sharma's face. If there are gloomy thoughts, the wet sandalwood paste masks them well, and you see only confidence and the will to put the past behind and move ahead. "I have learnt whatever I needed to," she says. "At least now I know what I am good at." Before she was jailed, Sharma worked in a garment export firm on a meagre salary. Now she hopes to be her own boss. Sonu too is full of optimism. With an earlobe adorned with five studs, lipstick, painted nails and eyebrows threaded to a fine line, she could easily pass off for a Bollywood extra. Pointing to the tacky posters on the walls, she blurts, "Even we want to look like them."

Till they are released from jail, both Sonu and Sharma will train other inmates in beauty culture. They leaf through glossy fashion magazines and watch the prison television for new ideas and trends. And new career options. Arching finely pencilled brows, Sharma makes an entreaty from behind her mask: "I would like to be a model. Would you know anyone who can offer me a job after my term ends?" Clearly, the parlour has given prisoners the freedom to dream.