If someone wanted to understand what it means for tears to shatter the boundaries of joy and grief, for them to flow for a long time without any specific emotion – some of joy, some of grief and some from the sheer realisation that one’s best years in life have been wasted – and tears that didn’t know whether to fall in celebration or mourning, then they should’ve been in Courtroom No. 19 of the Bombay high court on July 21, 2025.After the judges pronounced the long-awaited verdict in the 7/11 Mumbai serial train blast case, acquitting all the accused after 19 years of incarceration, their tears kept flowing long after the judges had left. They were happy not just because they would be reunited with their families, but also because someone saw through the piles of lies and acquitted them of a crime they had never committed. I wonder if people realise that innocence can be a premise on which enduring bonds and camaraderie can be built. We often see people of the same family, nation or religion share a bond, but we had bonded over our shared innocence. We were all strangers once, but all of us fell victim to a state that couldn’t find the real perpetrators of a crime and it threw us together in the fight against the injustice meted out to us.Asif Khan(centre), who is among the men acquitted in 7/11 train blasts case, attending a funeral meet. Photo: By arrangement.‘Why is he being punished so severely? Maybe he’s guilty’The cycle of police torture was so brutal that when they tortured one of us, they made the rest of us watch. We were horrified even before the torture began. This served two purposes: the accused at hand could be punished, while the ones watching could be scared into dancing to the Anti-Terrorism Squad’s tune. It is the same ordeal that once played out behind the closed doors of police custody that is now being replicated in full public view across India. The torture that was once inflicted in interrogation rooms, with one person brutalised while the others were made to watch, has moved out of the closed doors into the open sky. No one seems to be ashamed or worried about brutalising Muslims, and lynching them in full public view. Ironically, this has become something to be proud of and an assured way of securing success in the political arena.When they used to beat one of us in prison, even our own couldn’t help but wonder: “Why is he being punished so severely? Maybe he’s guilty.” And if he was guilty, then why not just admit it and end the pain.That doubt would vanish the moment the onlooker was dragged in and subjected to the same torture by the very people he once believed were the guardians of law. Then, someone else would be made to watch him. And that new onlooker would wonder about the same things until it was his turn.Small tokens of loveDuring our incarceration, we survived for months on the food provided inside prison – bland, repetitive meals that barely satisfied our hunger. Over time, we grew used to it as there was no alternative. But during our hearing, after weeks or even months, some of our families were allowed to bring home-cooked food to the court. And every time the food arrived, it came not for one, but for all 13 of us.Faisal and Muzzamil’s mother would bring generous portions, always saying, “Not just two, I have thirteen sons in jail.” Zameer’s mother would feed each of us with her own hands and not leave the court complex until we were full. Zameer’s brother would bring chilled paans for all of us.Sajid’s brother would bring ice creams, small tokens of love, through which we could situate our pain in the larger suffering of all the people that were tormented due to this case.Even when food was technically meant for one person, Sajid would take only the rice and gravy, letting others share the rare piece of mutton. In these small acts of sharing, we created a sense of belonging that the jail was so bereft of.After some months in jail, Sajid and Dr. Tanveer became fathers. Dr. Tanveer congratulated me on becoming a fufa (husband of one’s father’s sister). In response, I said to Tanveer, “Not just a fufa, I have also become a chacha (brother of one’s father)!”To celebrate this good news, in a place where every joy is accompanied by a sense of loss because of one’s inability to witness it, I thought sweets must be shared among all the prisoners of the Anda Cell. I went into the canteen to buy some sweets through my PPC (Prisoner’s Personal Coupon). But in the name of sweets, all I could get was Parle-G biscuits.Yet, in those few biscuits, we tried to find happiness. We shared the Parle-G with all fellow prisoners in the Anda Cell.Double heartbreak of losing relativesOne of the most heartbreaking aspects of life in jail is receiving the news of the death of a loved one. Whenever a relative would show up unexpectedly, we would immediately sense that something was wrong. Their sudden presence, their anxious eyes, their hesitation to speak – all of it pointed to the fact that something terrible had happened. They would look at us from across the glass, glance here and there, often unable to meet our gaze and visibly struggling to find the right words. And we, already living in a world where pain was routine, would begin to fear the worst.“How come you’re here today?” we’d ask. “Why are you crying?”“Is my mother okay?”“Is my father unwell?”“Has something happened to my brother or sister?” We would repeat these questions, only to be met with heavy silences and trembling lips. Eventually, when the relative could no longer hold it in, the words would fall. “Your father has passed away.” “Your mother is no more.” “Your sister didn’t survive.” Before one could even process these words, other things like securing parole or bail to attend the funeral would have to be discussed. Mourning the death of a loved one must be situated in the larger legal context here – immediate vakalatnamas would be signed, guards prepared and other formalities done. You would be allowed to mourn for your loved one with your loved ones for a few hours. But then you would have to return to the same cells, staring at the jail’s walls, and do the rest of your mourning here.I remember once, when a prisoner was told of his parent’s death, a jailer quietly remarked, “Our parents die, and so do yours. But the only difference is we were with our parents during their last moments. We sat beside them. We took care of them before they died. We didn’t have to compress our grief into a few hours. You don’t get that.” I recall when Sajid’s sister passed away, I went to console him. He turned to me and gently said, “Please, just leave me alone for a bit.” I nodded and moved to the other side of the cell, trying to give him the space he needed. But that moment stayed with me, because in jail, there is no real space, not the kind you need for mourning, not the kind that allows you to let your guard down and fall apart without fear. Bitter-sweet EidThe saddest days of our time in prison were the days of Eid – a day meant for joy, for meeting our loved ones, holding them close, sharing meals and spending time together. But inside jail, Eid felt hollow. Everything was readily made available: chicken, sheer kurma, sweets – everything except happiness. Everything except family. Eid came to jail only as one more day in our monotonous lives. The joy for which we celebrate Eid never crossed the gate.Some of the men acquitted in the 7/11 train blasts case after their release. Photo: By arrangement.After the Eid prayers, the accused would raise their hands and pray that this would be their last Eid in jail. The only thing that gives meaning to Eid is one’s family. In the absence of family, Eid became nothing more than a day that pushed us into thinking about how Eid ought to be, instead of how Eid was.We prepared Eid cards to be sent to our families. I used to write Eid cards to my relatives, and often for others as well. Now, when I revisit those cards written with tears, I realise they carried not just wishes on Eid, but a deep longing for a moment of connection beyond those prison walls. I’m unable to hold back my tears whenever I revisit those cards.Now, after years when I sit alone to write this, it makes me wonder how these days are finally behind us, how this grief has finally ended. I can now reflect upon this grief and speak of it in the past tense, firmly distancing my present from it.The after-life of the caseAfter my acquittal in 2015, on the very day the judgment was delivered, I decided that I would dedicate my life to the release of all innocent people still implicated in this case. The case walked out of my life, I was unable to walk out of the case. A part of me remained trapped in it even after my acquittal, thinking long and hard about what had transpired and what I could do for the acquittal of my co-accused.What I have dreamt of every moment for the past decade has finally come to a conclusion that I had always hoped for and worked towards. It has given me hope that this case will now finally cease to be a part of my and my co-accused’s life. Though the traces of that grief may be difficult to erase, this judgment marks the closure of two decades of unending pain and longing.Abdul Wahid Shaikh was one of the accused in the July 11, 2006 Mumbai serial train blasts case and the only one acquitted after nearly nine years of wrongful imprisonment. Since his release in 2015, he has consistently called for the release of the remaining accused, asserting their innocence and alleging that the Mumbai ATS fabricated the entire case. He now serves as the General Secretary of the Innocence Network, a pan-India collective of lawyers and activists challenging wrongful terror prosecutions.