In the Mirror of an Illegal Arrest…

Manish Azad
Manish Azad

On January 5, the Uttar Pradesh ATS arrested me from my home in Allahabad. The next day, they presented me in the Lucknow court. It was an exceptionally cold day.

I craved tea badly. My lawyers—Amita, Vishwavijay—and a few friends had arrived, so I felt somewhat relaxed. I asked the tea seller in the court to bring me a cup of tea.

Seeing me standing in the dock, he hesitated, glanced around nervously, and then whispered, “It’s prohibited to serve tea to the accused here.”

This hit me like a jolt of electricity. Overnight, had I become a criminal?

I looked around. Officers of the ATS and government lawyers were sipping tea from earthen cups with both hands, savoring the warmth in the freezing cold.

I wondered how many of them had been involved in illegal arrests, torture, or corruption. How many times had government lawyers saved them while sending innocent people to prison?

And here I was, a person who had never even slapped anyone, never stolen a penny in his life, standing shivering in the dock, longing for a simple cup of tea.

This realization filled me with sudden rage. I remembered Gorakh Pandey’s words: “This world must be changed as soon as possible.”

By evening, I was sent to jail.

After enduring the same ridiculous formalities from the colonial era, including humiliating and intrusive searches in four different locations inside the prison, I finally reached the barracks by 9 PM.

A stern voice shouted, “Take a plate from near the tap and get your food.” I hadn’t eaten all day, so the word “food” sparked a sharp hunger in me.

But when I went to pick a plate, I was shocked, along with other prisoners, to find all the plates were dirty and dry with leftover food. There was nothing to clean them with.

Some prisoners returned their plates and went back to the barracks without eating.

For a moment, I thought of doing the same. But then I realized this was my reality now. How long could I survive without eating?

The last time I was in this jail in 2019, we had clean plates on the first day.

This time, I learned that nearly 50 plates were deliberately left dirty every day for new prisoners, to break their spirit and teach them that self-respect had no value within these walls.

The famous writer Charles Dickens once described prisons as places that “crush the soul while keeping the body intact.”

Before being sent to the barracks, all new prisoners were gathered for a headcount. The same warning I had heard during my previous jail experience in 2019 was repeated:

“This is jail. You must follow every rule. Answer the headcount properly, or your butt will be thrashed red. Also, from tomorrow, everyone will be assigned work. If you don’t want to work, have your family deposit ₹6,000.”

(In 2019, the “fee” was ₹5,000.)

To sleep, we were given two rough, dust-covered blankets—one to lay on and one to cover ourselves. The freezing cold made it impossible for anyone to sleep. Cold air pierced through the barracks like needles.

Groups of prisoners who had come together huddled and whispered among themselves. The rest of us tossed and turned, wrapped in our blankets.

Shivering under the blanket, I thought about the previous night in the ATS lockup in Lucknow.

When they brought me there from my home, it was 10 PM. An ATS officer was waiting for me. As soon as he saw me, he tried to intimidate me:

“There was a lot of pressure on me to also arrest Amita with you. It’s common to arrest people in pairs. But I saw no evidence against her.”

I said nothing. But when he repeated this several times, I couldn’t hold back.

I replied, “Please don’t do me such a big favor. Go ahead and arrest Amita. At least we’ll get to meet in jail every Sunday.”

He didn’t repeat it after that.

At one point, he said, “I don’t do a job; I serve the nation. Look, it’s 10 PM, and instead of being home, I’m sitting here with you.”

I replied, “Well, at least Modi has made serving the nation very cheap.”

When I asked why I was being arrested, he said my 2019 case was still under investigation, and they had found some new evidence. That’s why they had applied UAPA charges on me.

I was surprised—what kind of evidence could surface after six years of investigation?

Since 2014, security agencies have adopted the practice of never finalizing chargesheets in political cases like ours. Each chargesheet ends with a note that “investigation is ongoing.” This allows them to arrest people at any time based on “new evidence” and keeps individuals living in fear of potential arrest.

The officer stood up and said, “You should sleep now. We’ll question you tomorrow.” His “nation service” for the night was over.

Armed Black Cat Commandos patrolled outside. Inside, a guard sat on a chair to keep watch over me.

I tried to sleep under a blanket, but sleep wouldn’t come. Life had taken a sudden turn.

When I woke up after a light nap, I saw the guard snoring loudly beside me. I sat up, now watching over him instead.

By 9 AM, preparations were underway to present me in court for remand. Amid unnecessary formalities, ATS officers engaged me in political debates. One remarked, “You people support Muslims so much, writing endlessly in their favor. But look here—[pointing to someone]—this is the only Muslim officer in the ATS. Still, I trust him completely with the team.”

I caught the word “still” and asked, “Would you use ‘still’ for a Hindu officer? This word insults an entire community.”

My point hit home, and the officer got agitated. He began shouting, cursing socialism, and praising Modi.

As I left for court, another officer said I might not get remand. I replied, “I fully understand your power.”

At court, I saw friends and activists, including Mohsin Khan, author of Allah Miyan ka Karkhana, waiting with his lawyer brother.


Suddenly, I remembered the “Arrest Memo” in my pocket. It stated I had been “absconding for four months” and was arrested based on a tip-off. This was a blatant lie, as ATS officers had regularly visited my home since 2020.

Such falsehoods are so ingrained in their system that they don’t even feel ashamed.

By the evening of my release, one thought echoed in my mind:

“All my tribe is in the slaughterhouse.
Even if I survive, solitude will kill me.”

Manish Azad is a political Activist, Poet and writer

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