How Delhi riots bail denials expose a broken justice system

By Raqif Makhdoomi 

I sat numb in the corner when I heard that my bail had been rejected. It felt as if all the doors had been shut on me, and I couldn’t figure out what to do. As a law student, I knew that the trial court wasn’t the end of the road. Yet, I felt hopeless.

I had just spent six months in prison, but when my bail was denied, it felt like I had already spent six years. When I spoke to my father on the phone, I could sense the frustration in his voice. He sounded broken, tired of a justice system that had failed him, yet forced to rely on the very same system to get his son out. His only hope was in the High Court.

When my lawyer applied for bail there, my father was sure I would walk free. But I knew better. I had followed politics too closely to believe the court would take a risk. The bench included a senior judge in the race to become Chief Justice of Jammu and Kashmir, and I was sure he wouldn’t risk annoying people in power by granting bail in a case that had already made national headlines.

The order came after being reserved for a while. As expected, my bail was dismissed. I had to wait for the trial court to decide my fate, even though my trial had barely begun.

When I met my father after the High Court’s rejection, he was more disheartened than ever. During that mulaqat, he told me not to practice law after finishing my degree. “The law doesn’t work anymore. The courts don’t serve justice,” he said. I couldn’t respond. I knew how much he had run from one office to another while my bail was pending in both trial and High Court. His efforts had been crushed, leaving him no other way to channel his pain except by telling me to give up on law itself. I let him speak because it was his way of coping and preparing to fight again.

I had almost buried those memories—until I read the recent news of Sharjeel Imam, Umar Khalid, Gulfishan Fatima, and others being denied bail in the Delhi riots case. It instantly pulled me back to my own time of false hope. I remembered how I had once believed that the High Court would act like a true High Court and set me free. Instead, I faced the same crushing disappointment they are facing today.

The Delhi High Court dismissed all their bail pleas in a matter of seconds, declaring, “All the appeals are dismissed.” The judges seemed unmoved by the fact that the accused have spent five years in jail without trial. Gulfishan hasn’t stepped out for even a single day on parole since her arrest. Each day they remain imprisoned, it isn’t just them but democracy and the justice system itself that remains in chains.

The trust people once had in courts is crumbling. Denying bail in the Delhi riots case has only deepened that mistrust. Many had hoped the court would finally show courage and allow them freedom, especially since none of them were involved in any violence during the protests. Meanwhile, those who incited violence with their speeches—like Kapil Mishra and Anurag Thakur—enjoy power and privilege. Mishra, who threatened protestors, is now a minister, and Thakur is thriving in Parliament. When asked in court why Mishra hadn’t been arrested, the police claimed they couldn’t trace him—even as he tweeted actively from his verified account. That is the Delhi Police for you. Today Mishra sits in the Secretariat, yet still beyond the reach of law.

Instead, people like Sharjeel, Umar, and Gulfishan are targeted—because they lack political backing and, more importantly, because they are Muslims. In today’s India, many are quick to believe Muslims are guilty by default. The past decade has systematically built this narrative. Just look at Assam and see what has been created.

The High Court, while denying bail, said, “Trial against Umar Khalid and others will progress in natural pace; hurried trial will affect rights.” What a cruel joke. These men have already spent five years behind bars without trial. Their fundamental rights have been trampled on for half a decade, and yet the court dares to speak of protecting rights.

As a law student, I have lost the passion for practicing law that I once had in my first semester. The way courts function today has drained me of that faith. Some of the accused have now approached the Supreme Court. Let’s wait and see whether the apex court delivers Supreme Justice—or Supreme Injustice.

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Raqif Makhdoomi is a law student and human rights activist. He is a former Public Safety Act detainee and currently an undertrial in a UAPA case. He has spent over two years in jail under charges of UAPA and PSA