Reading Umar Khalid: What it means to return to your cell after 'Mulakat'

September 21, 2025 by News Desk

Raqif Makhdoomi

I came across Umar Khalid’s article late at night. I wanted to skip it, but my eyes caught the line “Umar Khalid writes from jail,” and I couldn’t resist myself. I clicked on the link and started reading it. His choice of topic made me recall the hope I had when I was in prison. The words “Nurturing Hope” made me remember how I used to pray and wait for every “Mulakat” [Meet-up with family], because that used to be the only way of knowing the progress in the case.

The buzz in the Mulakat Room [Meeting Room] was always about the case progress and when they were expecting to be bailed out. The eagerness of the family and the hope of the prisoners are the only two emotions that fill the meeting room. No family member wants to leave, and no prisoner wants to go back to the barracks, but jail rules are rules. After a limited time, you have to leave. The tears in the eyes don’t fall, because no one wants to break the hard-earned strength. The tight hugs and endless kisses mark the end of the meet-up. The family members keep looking back to get the last glance, and the prison waits until they disappear.

Going back to prison after the meet-up is like entering a grave alive. The mixed emotions are really hard to control. Some are strong enough to keep the emotions under control, while others express it through tears. Those who express it through tears are given hope, and those who control it are asked about the family’s well-being after they return from the meeting room. But deep down, everyone in the prison knows the state of mind.

Umar Khalid, in the beginning of his article, mentions the book The House of the Dead, which he completed just before penning down the article. The title of the book defines the whole idea of prison. In the real sense, a prison is a place where the dead people live. People behave like normal humans but are dead in reality. The dead people have a house to live in—and that’s the prison in a real sense. I read Guantanamo Diary by Mohamedou Ould Slahi. Ould Slahi had returned after his studies and was picked up by the FBI soon after his return. He was released but was detained again on false charges of spying. In his book, he writes about how badly he was tortured—not only physically, but emotionally too. The U.S. government tried to use a honey trap method on him, but he, being a person with strong belief, refused to fall for it. He writes about how he was deprived of offering Namaz and wasn’t allowed proper food and sanitation. When I read the book in prison, I thanked Allah for saving me from this kind of torture.

Umar Khalid quotes a line from the book: “We aren’t alive though we are living, and we are not in our graves though we are dead.” To understand the line and to connect with these emotions, one has to experience the life of prison themselves. And I, having spent a good time in jail, can easily understand what the author actually wants to say.

At another place in the article, Umar writes about a person who has been awarded the punishment of “Imprisonment till last breath,” which means the person has to stay in jail until he or she dies. He got this punishment after the President of India granted him a pardon following a death sentence. So, there appears to be no way out for him. But even after all doors are locked for him, he has hope against hope about going out of jail and living a free life.

That’s how hope works in jail. I met people who were involved in crimes like murder, POCSO, NDPS, rape and murder, and many other heinous crimes—but they were still optimistic about coming out of prison. And their hope used to become my hope of getting out too.

The judiciary hasn’t stepped back in ensuring that these people stay in jail. In the cases of Sharjeel Imam and Umar Khalid, judges “rescued” themselves from hearing the cases. When judges rescue themselves, who shall ensure justice? There have been hundreds of hearings, but the bails remain undecided. The Supreme Court has made it clear in many important judgments that “Bail is the law, and jail is the exception.” But for Shifa-Ur-Rehman, the exception has become 4 years; for Tahir Hussain, it’s 3.5 years; for Sharjeel Imam, 5 years; for Umar Khalid, 4.5 years; for Shahrukh Pathan, 4.4 years; for Khalid Saifi, 4 years; for Meeran Haider, 4 years; and for Gulfisha, 4.4 years.

Luckily, these people have found a way to present their stories to the public. There are many others who remain unheard, but they represent their voice too. Advocate Shahid Azmi once delivered a lecture on UAPA cases. He explained how the syndicate works. The real culprits never get arrested, and scapegoats get trapped.

Raqif Makhdoomi is a law student and human rights activist