While flipping through YouTube channels recently, I stumbled upon an interview with Sunil Gupta, the former jailor of Tihar Central Jail, who shared compelling anecdotes from his life as a prison officer. Among the stories, he recounted his final moments with Mohammad Afzal Guru, a death row convict sentenced to death for facilitating the 2001 Indian Parliament attack. Gupta described how, just minutes before his execution, Afzal sang the poignant song “Apne Liye Jiye Toh Kya Jiye, Tu Ji Ae Dil Zamane Ke Liye” from the 1960 movie Badal. This haunting moment resonated deeply with me and brought back vivid memories of my early days as a young lawyer. During that time, I had the privilege of meeting Mr. Gupta in person as part of a Human Rights Organization where I was involved in the Criminal Justice Initiative. Along with my colleagues, we sought his permission to visit Tihar Jail to carry out pro bono work.
Having got the permission to visit one of the Jails at Tihar, as a young lawyer, I spent weekdays rushing from courtrooms to the imposing gates of Tihar Jail. I was granted the opportunity to work closely in the legal cell, interacting with inmates and observing the justice system from an entirely different vantage point. Initially, the idea of entering one of the most infamous prisons in the country was daunting, evoking apprehension and curiosity in equal measure. Yet, those visits became a transformative chapter of my life.
Recently, while reminiscing about those days, I chanced upon Black Warrant, a book co-authored by Mr. Sunil Gupta. The stories he narrates about Tihar’s inmates and his experiences as a jailor struck a deep chord with me. Each incident brought back vivid flashes of my own time inside those prison walls—conversations with inmates, insights from the jail authorities, and moments of quiet introspection that followed each visit.
Looking back, I realize how much those experiences contributed to my personal and professional growth. The resilience of the inmates, the harsh realities of their lives, and the dedication of prison staff taught me lessons that no legal textbook ever could. The initial fear of stepping into a world that seemed so alien transformed into a journey of empathy, understanding, and gratitude.
As a young lawyer eager to learn and embrace challenges, once I overcame the initial apprehension of visiting Tihar Jail, it became something I looked forward to. Every day, after finishing my matters in court, I would head straight to the jail. In those days, luxuries such as taking a taxi or even an auto were beyond my means. Like many young professionals starting out in a new city, I relied on the crowded local buses of Delhi.
Delhi summers were relentless—the heat, the cacophony, and the mingling of body odours in an overcrowded bus created an almost unbearable chaos. The journey to Tihar could take anywhere between one and a half to two hours, sometimes longer, depending on the infamous Delhi traffic. And yet, looking back, I realize it was simply a part of our daily life. We adjusted, as humans do, because the destination made the ordeal worthwhile.
The moment I entered the gates of Tihar, a sense of calmness enveloped me. Passing through the layers of security and walking into the heart of the jail felt like crossing an invisible threshold into a world that few have the privilege to witness. Interacting with inmates, hearing their stories, and gaining their trust brought a sense of purpose that erased all traces of exhaustion from the commute.
Initially, the inmates were guarded and hesitant. Weeks passed before they began opening up, and I understood why. Trust is a fragile thread, especially for those who have been broken by circumstances and the world around them. But once they realized that my visits had no ulterior motive and were driven by a genuine desire to help, their stories began to pour out.
Among the many cases we took on during those days, a few remain etched in my memory, not because of their complexity but because of the profound human emotions they carried. There was a young boy from Nepal who had come to Delhi seeking employment to support his family back home. He was arrested under a fabricated charge under the Arms Act and had been languishing in jail for almost a year, completely cut off from his family. I still remember his tear-streaked face and trembling hands folded in desperation, silently pleading for justice.
Then there was a boy in his early twenties, picked up from a railway station and accused of theft—a crime he swore he never committed. The day he was acquitted, he stepped out of the dock and, with tears in his eyes, bent down to touch my feet in gratitude—a gesture that left me profoundly moved and humbled.
Perhaps the most unforgettable was the case of a Sri Lankan family—a husband, wife, and their young daughter—arrested for overstaying their visas. They had fled to India out of fear of persecution by their government back home. The wife and daughter were housed in the female prison, while the husband was kept in a separate jail for male prisoners. We worked tirelessly to bring their plight before the court and coordinated with the Canadian embassy on their behalf. Through the efforts of many, the family was eventually granted asylum in Canada, where they could reunite with the husband’s brother. I will never forget the heartfelt thank-you note we received from the brother, expressing his profound gratitude for helping his family escape an uncertain future and start anew.
One story, in particular, stays with me to this day. On my very first visit, I met a young man in his mid-twenties, accused of murdering his father. The very idea shocked me to the core. I felt an instant aversion toward him, avoiding any interaction. Days later, I learned the circumstances behind his crime. His father had attempted to sexually assault his newlywed wife in his absence. Overwhelmed with rage, the young man had committed an act he could neither undo nor truly reconcile with.
That revelation shook me. I regretted my earlier judgment and realized how quickly we form opinions without understanding the whole story. It reminded me of a fundamental truth: everyone carries hidden sorrows and untold stories that shape their actions. Often, our judgments are based on hearsay—mere whispers of truth that, even in courts of law, hold no value. This moment taught me the importance of withholding judgment and seeking to understand rather than condemn.
Tihar became my classroom, teaching me invaluable lessons about life, people, and the complexities of human behaviour. Once the inmates trusted me, they shared stories that ranged from heartbreak to humour. There were moments of laughter that lightened the heavy atmosphere of the prison, and there were stories so poignant they left me silent for hours.
Helping those who had been languishing behind bars for petty offenses simply because they lacked proper legal representation became a mission. Appearing for those who could not afford a lawyer and seeing the gratitude in their eyes was deeply fulfilling. To know that I could bring a sliver of hope or a small smile to someone facing despair gave me a sense of satisfaction that no monetary reward could ever match.
Those days of working with strangers—listening, helping, and advocating—shaped me not just as a lawyer but as a person. They taught me empathy, resilience, and the importance of service. And for that, I owe Tihar Jail and its inhabitants a debt of gratitude.
From Monday to Friday, I had the privilege of visiting Tihar Jail—a routine I rarely missed and grew to cherish. Over time, these visits evolved from being a professional responsibility to a source of anticipation and fulfilment. Surprisingly, the hours spent within the jail premises provided a refreshing contrast to the stress of courtrooms. The 5 PM deadline to leave the jail marked the end of one part of my day and the beginning of another—often a two-hour bus journey across the city to my office. Yet, the late evening rides home from office were unexpectedly the highlight of my day. The roads were quieter, the buses nearly empty, and the soft strains of music on the FM radio created a rare sense of serenity after the chaos of the day.
No matter how tiring or demanding the day had been, lying in bed at the end of it, staring at the ceiling, always brought a smile to my face. The thought of having taken even small steps—listening to someone’s story, offering a glimmer of hope, or simply being present—filled me with a quiet satisfaction that words could barely capture. And with that sense of purpose, I would drift off to sleep, ready to face a new day with renewed energy.
What struck me deeply while reading Mr. Sunil Gupta’s book Black Warrant was his acknowledgment of Kiran Bedi’s contribution to jail reforms in India. She embraced Mahatma Gandhi’s philosophy: “Hate the sin, not the sinner.” She believed that a jail should be treated as a hospital for the treatment of social deviants—a perspective that resonated with my own experiences.
My time at Tihar was humbling, not because I accomplished anything extraordinary, but because of what it taught me. It reminded me of the resilience of the human spirit and the importance of understanding rather than labelling people. Those visits weren’t just about legal aid—they were about listening, learning, and finding moments of shared humanity in the unlikeliest of places.
Through this article, my intention isn’t merely to recount my journey but to share a message of hope and positivity. For families and friends of those who are currently incarcerated—regardless of the reasons—it’s important to remember that no one is beyond redemption. Jails, often viewed as places of punishment, can also be spaces of reflection, reform, and growth.
The individuals I met during my time in Tihar taught me that life is complex, and circumstances often push people to make choices they might never have imagined. If we, as a society, can extend compassion, understanding, and a second chance, we can foster not just individual transformation but a collective healing.
In the end, as Mr. Gupta and Kiran Bedi remind us, we must focus not on the darkness of the past but on the light of possibilities. Every individual, no matter their journey, carries within them the potential for change. And it is this belief—that redemption is always possible—that I carry with me to this day.
"It is not our darkness that defines us, but how we choose to seek the light. Every soul deserves a chance to rewrite its story."