Jind (Haryana): Rishipal Singh’s phone buzzed at 7:15 am on 12 May—just ten days after he admitted his nephew Sumit to the Seva Dham drug de-addiction centre. The voice on the other end asked, “Did Chitte have any history of seizures or attacks?”
Singh, the sarpanch of Haibatpur village in Haryana’s Jind, had visited his nephew three times in the past few days, and the boy had seemed perfectly fine. Instead of answering, he asked, “Just tell me—what is wrong with Sumit? Is he okay?”
What they didn’t tell him—what they didn’t dare to say—was that this call came nearly three hours after Sumit Chitte had already died.
“There is no facility. None at all. Even the milk and curd that Singh had asked them to provide for Sumit were not delivered fully,” said Amarjeet, a former patient at the de-addiction centre. “They have opened a business, not a rehab.”
Haryana’s drug crisis is spiralling, but there are too few government-run rehabilitation centres. Private, hole-in-the-wall de-addiction homes are rushing to fill the gap—many of them described as opaque, exorbitant “torture chambers” by patients and families. With no regulation or licensing, illegal centres are thriving, leaving addicts at risk of abuse or even death, while desperate families keep paying, hoping for recovery that rarely comes.
In February, Faridabad police raided two illegal drug de-addiction centres, rescuing 66 inmates and arresting the operators. Some patients had been trapped for six months, cut off from their families and denied care. Acting on the deputy commissioner’s orders, a team of district officials freed 49 people from one centre and 17 from another.
With thousands relapsing due to unregulated, ineffective rehabilitation, these unscrutinised centres often do more harm than good, exposing vulnerable individuals to further trauma.
Many de-addiction centre owners are from Punjab, often from farming backgrounds, who saw Haryana as fertile ground for investment and set up centres across the state to cash in on the growing demand.
Haryana’s drug crisis is spiralling, but there are too few government-run rehabilitation centres. Private, hole-in-the-wall de-addiction homes are rushing to fill the gap—many of them described as opaque, exorbitant “torture chambers” by patients and families.
Drug rehabilitation has become a new sunrise sector in Haryana—a booming industry where private de-addiction centres are sprouting rapidly. Some operate with genuine intent, while others are purely profit-driven.
Walk through any city in Haryana, and aggressive advertisements scream from walls, billboards, and newspapers, promising “Guaranteed Recovery,” “100% Success Rate,” or “Quit Addiction in 7 Days!”
These centres sell hope in a hurry, turning addiction into a business, while many families, overwhelmed and exhausted, see them as an easy way to offload their struggling loved ones—out of sight, out of mind.
The state government has set up 17 new de-addiction centres this year to tackle Haryana’s drug crisis, with Sirsa reporting the highest number of addiction cases. Under a central scheme, the state also plans stricter inspections of medical stores to curb drug abuse and simplify access to free, confidential treatment. In the past five years, 161 centres were opened, but last year alone, 33 had their licences revoked for violations.
But according to Amarjeet, the de-addiction centre in Jind where Sumit was admitted was nothing but a prison in disguise. There was no cook, no sweeper, no doctor—just a group of inmates forced to fend for themselves. Patients took turns cooking for dozens, scrubbing toilets, and washing clothes, while the staff sold the medicines meant for patients.
“We need strong policies, well-equipped rehabilitation centres, and effective preventive measures to break this cycle,” said Dr Pankaj Sharma, a psychiatrist at Civil Hospital, Sirsa. He noted that out of the 30,000 to 40,000 patients he sees in OPD annually, nearly 90 percent are struggling with drug addiction. As of January 2025, the hospital’s OPD has already registered 2,666 addiction-related cases—a staggering figure that underscores the accelerating scale of Haryana’s drug crisis.
“Drug abuse is not just a statistic—it is a devastating human tragedy. If we continue to reduce it to mere numbers, we will never find a real solution,” Sharma added.
Haryana’s drug crisis: OPD cases at Sirsa over the years
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Negligence in Haryana’s illegal drug de-addiction centres
The hall at the Seva Dham Drug De-Addiction Centre in Jind pulsed with music, a desperate attempt to drown out the restlessness creeping among the patients. Thirty-three of them, crammed into the hall, swayed to the beat—not in celebration, but in exhaustion, trying to dance away the agony of withdrawal. Among them was 31-year-old Sumit Chitte, on his twelfth night without drugs. No doctors, no nurses—just patients and their bodies momentarily freed from the chains of addiction on a Saturday entertainment night. That night, they danced hard before collapsing, some on their beds, others on the floor.
Then, at 3 am, Sumit jolted awake, his body convulsing violently. His teeth clenched, fists tightened, eyes rolling back. Patients rushed to his side, massaging his palms and feet. The fit passed. A shaky breath. Relief.
Fifteen minutes later, another attack. The staff arrived, visibly scared, forcing open his locked jaw, slipping a pill inside, and trickling water down his throat. White froth oozed from his lips, but he came back again.
And then the third seizure. This time, his body didn’t fight back. By 4:30 am, Sumit Chitte was gone.
“The post-mortem report is still pending. I’ve visited the police station twice, but nothing has moved forward,” said Singh, his uncle. “It’s been nearly a year—my child died due to negligence. They didn’t care, didn’t take him to the hospital on time, and he was tortured. I filed an FIR, but there’s been no progress.”
Singh rushed to Civil Hospital in Jind, where the centre’s staff claimed they were bringing Sumit for a check-up. He waited. And waited. Frustrated, he finally decided to go to the centre himself. But from a distance, he saw a Maruti Swift pull up. The doors opened. The staff pulled out a stretcher. And there lay Sumit—lifeless. His hand curled unnaturally, his nails and ears tinged blue.
The so-called rehabilitation centre was a single, suffocating hall. Sixteen beds lined up in a row—an illusion of space and order. Yet, 33 people were crammed into that same room.
“Those who spoke too much, who dared to complain, were dragged downstairs to the basement. Their hands were tied to their thighs. They were tortured. Even the so-called ‘staff’ weren’t real staff. Most were just former patients switched into roles of authority after months of being broken down,” said Amarjeet. “The day the police raided the centre, only 15 out of the 33 patients were presented as actual patients—the rest of us were falsely labelled as staff members.”
Food was another cruelty. Patients made it themselves—two kneading dough, three rolling rotis, five in the kitchen. Barely enough to eat. Some afternoons, there was no food at all. The medicines? Sold off. New patients were given a few doses in the first two days, then nothing. Whether someone suffered or not didn’t matter.
And then there was the deception—the carefully staged performances for visiting families. According to Amarjeet, patients were forced to smile, pretend they were getting better. Videos were recorded, proof sent home that everything was “fine.”
But behind closed doors, those same patients were beaten if they refused to play along.
Krishan Kumar, 38, the owner of Seva Dham Centre, told a different story. His centre’s licence was revoked on February 2 this year, and he claimed it was under renewal. He insisted the allegations were far from the truth.
“As per the guidelines, forget about beating—we aren’t even allowed to raise our voices at the patients. Why would we harm them? At most, we impose punishments like restricting conversations or assigning meditation as discipline,” he said. “For me, this is social service.”
Kumar’s connection with addiction runs deep. He was once an addict himself, hooked on smack, before undergoing treatment at a drug de-addiction centre in 2003. After recovering, he stayed back as a staff member for three years, learning the nuances of rehabilitation—how to deal with patients, how to motivate them, and how to guide them toward sobriety.
“I share my own experiences with addiction and recovery. I know what it takes to break free, and some patients have been able to turn their lives around because of that,” he said.
As for Sumit’s death, Kumar maintained that every possible effort was made to save him. Though he wasn’t present at the time, he insisted, “Our staff rushed him to the hospital immediately. Chitte died at 5:30 in the morning, not at 4 am. We did everything we could. One day before his death, he even said he was doing better in the centre and wrote a statement saying the same.”
But Amarjeet insisted that the story told by centres’ owners are largely eye-wash, recalling how anyone who asked for medicine faced punishment. Files were falsified, framing even non-addicts as users.
“In the end, it was never about recovery. It was just about making money, whether we lived or died,” he said.
Raids at rehab centres: Inhumane conditions, family betrayal
Police jeeps screeched to a halt outside the high-walled compound in Faridabad, their red-blue lights casting jagged shadows across the street and drawing curious onlookers. Rusted gates creaked open, revealing dim corridors leading to cramped rooms. Inside, officers found a suffocating space—thin mattresses scattered across the floor, belongings strewn about, and an air of quiet desperation. Weak and dishevelled inmates stood in silence, some nervous, others relieved. As officers began escorting them out, they asked, “Who here was held against their will?”
“They picked me up from my house, claiming to be from the CBI. They even harassed the women in my family,” one man stepped forward to tell the officers. “Five to seven men forced me into a vehicle and brought me here. At the centre, we weren’t allowed to talk to anyone. They treated us like slaves, making us work from 5 am to 10 pm. There was no treatment—not even a single medicine was given to anyone.”
In February, Faridabad police raided two illegal drug de-addiction centres, rescuing 66 inmates and arresting the operators. Some patients had been trapped for six months, cut off from their families and denied care.
These centres operated like black holes, barely acknowledged by the neighbourhoods they hid in. “A black dog would be stationed outside the Ismailpur facility, barking at anyone who dared approach, guarding a world hidden in plain sight,” a local resident said.
Two individuals, Sunil and Sunil Kumar, both residents of Delhi, were arrested for running unauthorised de-addiction centres in Basantpur, Faridabad, without valid licences. Rescued individuals reported being held against their will and denied medical care. Many said their families were unaware of their whereabouts, and they were charged anywhere from Rs 3,000 to Rs 10,000 despite the lack of proper rehabilitation services. The facilities had been operating illegally for over a year, without medical staff, psychiatric professionals, or even basic infrastructure. The overcrowded, unsanitary centres crammed dozens of people into tiny rooms, with barely enough mats to sleep on.
One excerpt from the police FIR states: “The accused failed to produce any valid license or documentation for running a rehabilitation facility. The individuals found inside stated that they were confined against their will, subjected to inhumane treatment, and denied contact with their families.”
Inside, life was rigid—prayers three to four times a day, strict routines, and an unspoken hierarchy enforced through violence. Nabi Ullah, a repeat inmate since 2021, had been there five times, each stay lasting from weeks to months. His daughter arrived after the police raid, but by then, he had already endured nearly three weeks inside.
Mornings began at 5:30 with prayers, followed by hours of chores—rolling out endless rotis for 40 people. Saturdays were the only relief when a select few controlled the TV remote.
“The owner never laid a hand on anyone himself; he had enforcers for that. Meanwhile, his dog lived like royalty while the inmates barely had rights,” said Nabi Ullah.
Medical care was nonexistent. When patients got sick, they were given paracetamol and Zandu balm. Food was scarce and diluted to stretch portions. Survival hinged on money—those who paid Rs 6,000 got curd, milk, and tobacco; those who paid Rs 4,000 faced harsher conditions. Even a bed was a privilege. Some weren’t even addicts—just “burdens” their families wanted to get rid of.
“These centres operated without government approval. The detainees were cut off from their families and denied proper diets, water, and medical care—treated like prisoners in a free country. One facility crammed 49 people into a single 20×14-foot hall, with only mats on the floor. The conditions were inhumane, a clear violation of fundamental rights,” said Ranvir Malik, SHO of Palla village, Faridabad. While one centre had slightly more space, both facilities exploited people’s vulnerabilities for profit, turning human suffering into a business model.
“The government is fully committed to both the supply-side crackdown and demand reduction. We have set benchmarks for treatment, trained doctors, and are working with top institutions and NGOs to tackle this issue,” said G Anupama, Additional Chief Secretary of the Social Justice, Empowerment, Welfare of Scheduled Castes and Backward Classes and Antyodaya Department (SEWA). She outlined the Haryana government’s comprehensive approach, which includes law enforcement action, medical intervention, and partnerships with experts to combat drug addiction.
Outside, the cycle continued. A woman in her 50s sold desi liquor for Rs 10 a cup with free chakhna (snacks) near Nabi Ullah’s home. By afternoon, a dozen men would gather, drowning their realities in cheap beer. Drunk and unsteady, Nabi Ullah stumbled up and down the stairs, pausing for breath, mumbling about cigarette breaks, only to return after getting more alcohol.
His daughter, Zoya, spoke with quiet frustration. “I’ve stopped walking through my neighbourhood because of him. He drinks, collapses on the streets, and starts touching people’s feet in a daze. Boys in the area mock me—‘Look, the addict’s daughter.’”
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Haryana’s drug crisis is catching them young
A 12-year-old boy in Haryana sat across from Sharma, caught in the grip of addiction. When asked how he got into drugs and why no one warned him about the dangers, his answer was both shocking and revealing.
“Nowhere on the packet is it written that it will kill you. I’ve seen people in music videos partying, consuming drugs, surrounded by women, living on yachts, and leading lavish lives. I wanted the same.”
His words laid bare a largely ignored reality: the glamorisation of drug use in popular media and its profound impact on impressionable minds. While Punjab took action a decade ago under Chief Minister Captain Amarinder Singh by banning content that glorifies drugs, gun culture, and the objectification of women, Haryana’s drug crisis shows the state has yet to follow suit. Sharma questions this inaction, stressing the need for immediate change.
Songs like, ‘Enna vi na dope shope maareya karo (“Don’t do too much dope and stuff”), or ‘Jinni teri college di fees jhalliye, enni naagni jattan da putt khanda tadkey’ (Sung to a girl being wooed, it says Your college fee is what this son of Jatt spends daily on heroin”) have cemented an image of drugs as synonymous with leisure, power, and status.
Nowhere on the packet is it written that it will kill you. I’ve seen people in music videos partying, consuming drugs, surrounded by women, living on yachts, and leading lavish lives. I wanted the same
Sharma argues that traditional awareness efforts, like posters or murals with slogans such as ‘Nasha buri cheez hai’ (“Drugs are bad”) are ineffective when the youth on digital media are surrounded by content that glorifies substance abuse. “We should also create digital campaigns,” Sharma said.
Every day, Sharma walks into a world where addiction has rewritten the rules of life. Faces change, but the stories remain painfully familiar. A desperate boy rushes his mother to the hospital; another carries in his father, a man who once carried him on his shoulders, now too weak to stand on his own.
The pattern of addiction has shifted. What once began with cigarettes and alcohol now jumps straight to heroin. Sharma recalled moments he wishes he could forget. “I once saw a pregnant addict deliver her baby. The moment they cut the umbilical cord, that newborn—who had just taken his first breaths—was already in withdrawal.” A life barely begun, already fighting demons it never chose.
What’s the hope for Haryana’s de-addiction centres?
Despite the bleak landscape, change is underway. Anupama said a new drug abuse monitoring portal, currently under trial, has been developed to track de-addiction centres and each patient in real-time—“not just their personal and sociological details, but more importantly, the treatment they receive based on their symptoms.” She added that the portal would preserve patients’ identities and handle data securely. “At the same time, the government must have a clear understanding of the scale of the crisis to implement effective solutions.”
But the psychiatrist urges authorities and society to address the origins of drug inflow, the rise of de-addiction centres in Haryana, and the persistent cycle of addiction and relapse. The Department of Social Justice and Empowerment, originally established for pensions, now funds drug de-addiction centres. “There should be a dedicated body to tackle Haryana’s drug problem,” Sharma said.
Haryana’s drug crisis faces a significant barrier: stigma. Addicts are treated as criminals rather than patients. Sharma said that until the phrase ‘Nasha burai hai’ (“addiction is evil”) persists, nothing will change. He called for treating addicts with compassion and understanding, and recognising addiction as a medical condition requiring treatment and societal support.
Sharma and his team transformed a makeshift de-addiction centre in Civil Hospital, Sirsa, into a 30-bed facility. But more than that, it’s the centre’s unique approach to rehabilitation that stands out. Patients are entrusted with taking care of plants placed in their rooms. They do it diligently, only to watch a leaf fall every day. They are encouraged to reflect on their families and how they feel watching them struggle and fall.
“Addicts often forget what their families do for them. This is a small effort to help them rediscover the value of caregiving,” said Sharma.
The centre incorporates board games, structured discussions with sponsors, and future planning sessions to prepare patients for life beyond addiction. Specialised audio lectures guide patients through addiction’s three stages: denial, hesitant acceptance, and fragile recovery.
While resources are limited, the centre provides both de-addiction and a post-recovery plan. It stands as Haryana’s only facility that helps patients rediscover their purpose, rebuild their self-worth, and find meaning beyond substance abuse. Sharma and his team hope to expand, creating more centres to support those fighting addiction and help them reclaim their lives.
Sirsa’s silent prison: Survivors, stigma, systemic abandonment
In the shadowed corners of Sirsa, behind bolted doors and whispered warnings, lies a cruel paradox—centres meant for healing instead break the very souls they claim to save. With no proper facilities nearby, desperate families send their loved ones across the border to Rajasthan, clinging to hope. But hope is a fragile thing, and for many, the journey to recovery ends in torment.
One survivor, Tarsem, now free but forever haunted, recalled the nightmare he barely escaped.
“They beat us. They starved us. Seventy of us packed into a suffocating space with just one washroom. If you made a mistake, you got beaten—sometimes to death.”
He had gone willingly, believing in the promise of medical care and counselling. Instead, he found himself sedated with nameless pills, held in a haze of pain and submission. There were no doctors, no psychologists—just men who thrived on power and profit.
“They stripped us down to our boxers and blasted us with water from a pipe. That was our bath. For a month, I survived on two dry rotis a day and tea without milk. They charged me Rs 25,000, but there was no treatment—only torture. I had to secretly message a friend to get me out before they killed me,” said Tarsem.
Back in Rori, his village, the air is heavy with grief. Every week, another young man is lost to heroin. Families mourn in silence, suffocated by stigma, their pain unnoticed. With no government rehab centres, they are forced to trust these unregulated prisons disguised as de-addiction centres. Escape is rare. Survival, not guaranteed.
In a dimly lit home, a mother still calls for her son—a boy stolen by addiction at just 20. He never took medicine, never stepped into a de-addiction centre. Two years of heroin, and then, nothing.
“Mujhe mera bachcha wapas nahi milega… kabhi nahi mila mera beta. Ek baar toh mil jaaye bas (I will never get my child back. I never got to see my son again. If only I could see him just once),” she said, her voice a fragile thread, trembling, lost in grief. As if speaking the words might somehow undo the past.
But the cause of her agony—drugs and those who profit from them—operate openly.
“Drug addiction is not just an enforcement issue; it’s a societal battle. Peer pressure and alienation are major causes. We need a collective effort—government, media, and the public—to fight this menace,” said Anupama.
In the middle of Bada Gudha’s sprawling fields stands a lone cemented house, its massive metal door shut tight against the world. A knock broke the silence. A man stepped out, his gaze sharp with suspicion.
“What is it about?” he asked, voice flat, before leading the way inside. The ‘office’ is a cramped space—a table, three chairs, and an air thick with unspoken truths.
Then, the owner arrived—warm, welcoming, unnervingly polite. But when asked to see the rest of the centre, his expression flickered. Without a word, he locked the door behind him and disappeared inside. Five minutes passed. When he returned, his voice was low, his movements quick—hushing, shushing, silencing the shadows that lurked within.
Beyond the office, the so-called ‘centre’ stretched out in eerie quiet. Bathrooms without doors. No beds—only scattered mattresses. A single television, not for patients, but for the owner’s friends.
“Right now, only my friends are staying here,” he said, motioning towards five or six young men cramped in the kitchen. Some rolling rotis. Others just standing. Silent. Expressionless. Hiding.
He claimed the place was awaiting a licence. As he walked through the space, he gestureed toward empty rooms, painting a vision only he could see—a counsellor’s room here, patient beds there, an open yard soon to be a basketball court.
He was once an addict himself. Now, he said, he wanted to help others. To serve. To share his experience.
But outside, whispers told a different story.
“I went near that area a month ago to collect fodder,” said Sukhvinder Singh, a 43-year-old farmer from Bada Gudha. “The people inside were screaming, cursing, crying out in distress.”
(Edited by Prashant)