IN 2015, I WALKED FREE AFTER SPENDING NINE YEARS IN PRISON as one of the accused in the 7/11 Mumbai train blasts. A special MCOCA court acquitted me, holding that the case against me didn’t hold weight.
Yet, during the years of my incarceration, one piece of evidence stood above all else: confessional statements recorded under Section 18 of the Maharashtra Control of Organised Crime Act (‘MCOCA’). On paper, this clause allows confessions made to a senior police officer to be admissible in court. In practice, it is nothing short of legalised torture.
I still remember the words of my co-accused Asif Bashir Khan, whispering through his pain: “Confession is conviction.” I saw him tortured before my eyes, forced to sign statements that came straight from the imagination of ATS officers. When my turn came, I was forced to confess. My interrogator, Arun Khanvilkar, told me it would be easier if I cooperated. I replied: “You can kill me, but I will not sign your bogus story.” I knew that to confess would not only destroy my life but betray the truth. That refusal brought unimaginable brutality upon me, but I endured.
When I later met my co-accused in Arthur Road Jail, I realised that almost all of them except Khan, under unbearable pressure, had signed such confessions. The Anti-Terrorism Squad (‘ATS’) immediately leaked these to the media. Newspapers and television channels carried headlines: “Bombs planted in pressure cookers,” “Conspiracy unravelled,” and “Accused admit guilt.” The public narrative shifted overnight. Friends and well-wishers who once defended our innocence began to ask: “If they themselves have confessed, why should we doubt it?” That was the true power of MCOCA confessions.
