Rohit, a boy in conflict with the law, entered the observation home late one night. He remembers being left alone afterwards for over a month. “I didn’t even know if my parents knew I was here,” he said. No one explained anything.”With no family visits or emotional support, Rohit’s frustration built up. “The lawyer was driving me crazy. I hadn’t seen the sun in days.” Relief came only when his probation officer (PO) finally visited. “They comforted me and told me to spend two hours a day gardening. It helped me calm down.” With their support and a positive report, Rohit moved to an aftercare hostel at 18. His parents never came, fearing arrest, but he stayed in touch with his officer online. “They motivated me,” said Rohit, now planning to become a teacher.Suresh had a similar start. “That night I cried,” he recalled of his arrival at Dongri observation home. “I didn’t know where I was or what would happen. I wasn’t sure whether to tell the truth or lie.” But the probation officer gradually gained his confidence and helped him sit for his exams. “When I was finally leaving, they came to the gate to see me off.”Both boys were lucky but their stories are rare. “These moments of care happen despite the system, not because of it,” says Sachi Maniar, director of Ashiyana foundation at Umerkhadi Observation and Children’s Home in Dongri.“Sometimes, there’s no PO at all, and a superintendent steps in. Even when present, the PO’s interaction is clinical.” The child meets caretakers, guards, house masters… everyone but the PO. Children are questioned about their case before they’ve even processed what’s happened.Before a court hears them or an order is passed, a child in conflict with the law is supposed to meet the PO. Done right, probation can mean the difference between being written off or written back into society. But in much of India, that meeting comes too late, or not at all.Earlier this month, a first-of-its-kind national consultation in Delhi, organised by the eRsource Cell for Juvenile Justice (RCJJ) at TISS and the department of social work, University of Delhi, put this overlooked link under the spotlight. Over two days, Juvenile Justice Board magistrates, probation officers, NGO workers, and social work faculty from 20 states gathered to discuss what’s broken and how to fix it. “This was the first time voices from across India came together to share what’s really happening on the ground,” said Asha Mukundan, who leads the RCJJ at TISS. What’s happening, it turns out, is POs are working as social workers, counsellors, escorts, data managers all rolled into one,” said Mukundan. “And the case-to-officer ratio is outrageous. In some states, one officer is responsible for hundreds of children.” Most of them are expected to prepare reports, conduct home visits, maintain records, liaise with families, and coordinate rehabilitation, often with little or no support. Bharat Parashar, member secretary of the national legal services authority (Nalsa), shared that the vacancy rate among correctional staff hovers around 45%. The model prison manual recommends one correctional staff per 200 inmates. India currently operates at one per 699. The problem goes beyond numbers. In 2021, the government introduced the legal-cum-probation officer (LCPO), a hybrid role under Mission Vatsalya where one person is expected to serve as both legal aid provider and rehabilitation facilitator. In reality, it blurred lines and weakened impact. “The role of a lawyer is to defend a client, no matter what,” said Mukundan. “A PO’s job is to help the child understand what went wrong and work on it. If you try to be both, you risk doing justice to neither.”The overlap has also raised doubts about how much weight LCPOs carry in JJB decisions. Many admit they’re barely trained to handle the job’s social work demands, let alone trauma or aftercare.“Most get a three-day crash course,” said Mukundan. “It can’t be handed to someone with an administrative background.” POs, she stressed, should hold a degree in social work. “It’s sensitive, child-facing work that needs skill and empathy.”Without trained POs, even basics like social investigation reports or care plans are skipped, forcing JJBs to issue generic orders or by default send children to custodial care. Since most of these children are out on bail, not in visible custody, the crisis is easy to miss and in many cases, probation orders aren’t passed because there’s no one to carry them out.Thus, unlike models abroad where probation includes structured follow-up, children here are mostly left to fend for themselves. “At most, they’re told to report to a police station,” said Maniar. In cities like Mumbai or smaller towns like Bilaspur, she’s seen children cycle in and out of the system for petty offences up to ten times simply because too often, the PO’s role is reduced to just securing bail. “But rehabilitation isn’t bail,” she stresses. “And reintegration isn’t just about release but whether the child can actually survive outside.” When children sense the system has no one to walk with them, they begin to detach, adds Mukundan. “Without a PO checking in or a plan tailored to their situation, they reoffend or give up.”Over two days of the consultations in Delhi, the working groups offered practical calls to separate legal and social roles, hire more trained probation professionals, strengthen inter-state networks, and invest in follow-up beyond bail. The two social work schools leading the effort will now send the report to the ministries of women and child development and home affairs. As Mukundan reminded the room, “If we’re serious about giving children a second chance, ‘probation’ has to be one of the first things we strengthen.”