Four Months Behind Bars: Sandeepa Virk’s Account of Isolation, Humiliation and the Silent Suffering of Undertrial Inmates

When actor and digital creator Sandeepa Virk walked out of Tihar Jail on bail in December 2025, she carried more than legal relief — she carried the psychological scars of incarceration.

Granted bail by the Delhi High Court in a Prevention of Money Laundering Act (PMLA) case involving alleged transactions of nearly Rs 6 crore, Virk had already spent over four months in custody.

The court noted that the case pertained to financial dealings dating back to 2008–2013 and that the trial was unlikely to move forward soon, particularly with the main accused still absconding.

But for Virk, the legal arguments were secondary to the emotional toll.

In a recent conversation, she described her time inside Tihar as something she would not wish upon anyone.

Entering prison for the first time, she recalls questioning her fate and wondering whether she was being punished for unknown past errors. The sense of disbelief — “Why me?” — lingered, she said, even after her release.

Her anguish was not confined to the prison walls. The most painful moments, she revealed, were seeing her parents arrive for visitation.

Watching them navigate the prison environment because of her circumstances filled her with guilt and helplessness. Though her family stood by her, the weight of perceived shame was difficult to bear.

Life inside, she explained, was both physically exhausting and mentally corrosive. Sharing overcrowded barracks with hundreds of inmates created an atmosphere she likened to constant tension and internal rivalries.

The absence of privacy, the rigid daily schedule and the monotony of existence compounded the strain. She said her health deteriorated under the pressure — at times she felt too weak to stand without support.

Her description of the living conditions paints a stark picture: unsanitary washrooms, sleeping on the floor, restricted movement governed by fixed hours, and repetitive, uninspiring meals served day after day.

The environment, she suggested, erodes both body and spirit.

She also touched upon disparities within the system. Some women officers, she acknowledged, showed empathy.

Others, she alleged, displaced their frustrations onto inmates. The unpredictable nature of treatment added to the emotional instability that many prisoners experience.

Beyond institutional hardship, there was the burden of public perception. Once news of her arrest became public, she said she was branded a “fraud” in social circles and online commentary.

She contrasted this with what she perceived as more sympathetic attitudes sometimes extended to those accused of violent offences. For someone maintaining her innocence, the social condemnation cut deeply.

She further hinted at the unspoken reality of custodial life — that access to basic conveniences often depends on financial means. Without elaborating in detail, she suggested that inmates with resources are able to navigate the system more smoothly, while those without money endure prolonged hardship.

Perhaps most telling is what she did after release. Virk said she helped arrange legal assistance for two women she met inside — both undertrials from economically vulnerable backgrounds.

One had allegedly stolen Rs 3,000 and remained incarcerated for months while her blind mother and bedridden father struggled outside.

Another had been implicated in a financial matter connected to her husband’s business dealings, with funds transferred into her account without her direct involvement. Virk says she assisted in securing interim relief for them.

Her own case stems from allegations that she received funds linked to an investment scheme in which a complainant was reportedly promised a film role in exchange for investing approximately Rs 6 crore.

The Enforcement Directorate has alleged that portions of the money were routed through her accounts and tied to property purchases and an e-commerce venture.

Virk has denied wrongdoing.

Her experience highlights a broader and uncomfortable truth about incarceration in India: undertrial prisoners — many accused of non-violent or financial offences — often endure months or years behind bars before guilt is established in court.

For individuals unaccustomed to criminal environments, the psychological shock can be severe. The stigma attaches instantly; vindication, if it comes, arrives much later.

The criminal justice system operates on the presumption of innocence. Yet the lived experience of pre-trial detention can feel punitive long before conviction.

For some, imprisonment is not merely a matter of legal custody — it becomes an ordeal marked by anxiety, humiliation, social alienation and fragile mental health.

Sandeepa Virk’s account does not resolve the legal questions surrounding her case.

But it does reopen a larger conversation about the human cost of incarceration — particularly for those who insist they are not hardened offenders, but individuals caught in complex financial or personal circumstances.

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