What’s the worst thing that can happen to you after your mobile phone gets snatched? I’d say, getting it back. Because that’s when the real struggle begins.
Let me start from the beginning.
On the ill-fated day, on 9 August, I left home at 10 am as usual with a spring in my step, ready for a new day. On my way to the metro station in an e-rickshaw, I was already setting up calls and meetings for the day on my phone, when I felt a jolt of force. And suddenly, my phone was gone.
It happened less than 10 minutes away from my home. I gaped out of the rickshaw , to see two men on a Royal Enfield Bullet racing against time. Panicked, anxiety-stricken, I started repeating the license number of the bike that was carrying these two miscreants away, while my fellow passengers looked on with concern, clutching hard at their phones and bags.
At the police station, the cops got to work right away and got the details of the bike through the license number. I accompanied the proactive cops to check CCTV footage from the housing societies near the spot where my phone was snatched.
Even when armed with camera footage and bike details, it still felt like a miracle when a police officer messaged me with a photo of my phone within three days, asking if it was mine.
They found my phone, along with four other mobiles, from the two men riding that bike.
Someone on Twitter called me “God’s favorite child” for it.
And I felt like it for a day. Until I did not.
The process to get my phone back from the court gave me first–hand experience of all that I have so far observed as a fly on the wall being a court reporter.
‘Bail for my phone’
To get physical custody of my phone, it took several trips to the court in Greater Noida, several days off from work, enduring lawyers’ strikes, and a surety of Rs 30,000.
Here’s why.
You see, when the police find your snatched phone, after you file an FIR, the phone becomes a case property— a part of a criminal trial— and you have to go through a legal process to reclaim it.
You have to file an application for the phone’s release in the court, with some evidence like the phone’s receipt to prove that it is in fact your property. The court then demands a report from the police authorities on whether such a phone was recovered, and whether it is still required for the probe. After the judge receives the report, the person demanding the phone back needs to appear before the court and make a plea for its release.
The court then passes an order, directing release of the phone, subject to certain conditions, like submitting appropriate surety, and an undertaking that they’d present the phone in court whenever asked.
It’s basically like getting your phone out on bail. The idea behind the procedure is to ensure that you bring your phone to the court whenever the judge needs it during the trial, and if you fail to do so, it may forfeit your surety. The procedure is the same for any goods, including phones seized in heinous crimes.
In my case, the Noida court judge passed an order for the release of my phone on 28 August, but on a surety of Rs 30,000. This was the amount mentioned in the receipt of my phone, which I bought in 2019.
The phone in question is a five-year-old OnePlus 6T, with a shattered back glass. I’d be lucky if Amazon exchange agrees to give me even Rs 250 for it. But instead, I had to get a friend to accompany me to court, and bring his FD of Rs 30,000 along as surety, that he can’t encash till the trial and ‘tareekh pe tareekh’ concludes. The alternative, I was told, was keeping somebody else’s vehicle’s registration certificate as a surety— an asset that far outweighs my phone’s current value.
I pleaded for the phone to be released on a personal bond, or for the surety amount to be reduced, considering the current valuation of the property. But none of my pleadings made any difference.
Also read: Lack of pockets in women’s clothing is actually political. Time to bring them back—ASAP
A strike for every cause
Being a court reporter, I’ve always been aware of the number of strikes that lawyers, especially in Uttar Pradesh, usually go on.
The Allahabad High Court is in fact hearing a suo motu criminal contempt case, after taking cognizance of a Prayagraj district judge’s report, claiming that between July 2023 and April 2024, judicial work was disrupted due to lawyers abstaining from work or resorting to strike for 127 days out of a total of 218 days, as per reports. In fact, earlier this month, the Allahabad High Court made it clear that going on strikes or abstaining from work for the death of a lawyer or an officer of the court could be criminal contempt.
During the days when I was trying to get my phone back, I witnessed this abstinence playing out right in front of me — lawyers going on a “condolence strike”, and on a strike to protest against the high court asking them not to go on a strike.
Several of these strikes and court holidays in the second half of August ensured that it took me over 20 back-breaking days to obtain an order for the release of my phone. There were days when I’d just show up at court, only to be told that the lawyers were preparing to gather at the chowk for another strike and that no progress would be made that day.
When I finally managed to get a certified copy of the court order, I rushed to the police station — looking forward to the end of this ordeal, rather than getting the phone back. By now, my energy and resources had both depleted. The mere thought of not having to endure this procedure tomorrow made me forget about the potential loss of the surety amount of Rs 30,000.
It took a total of 15 minutes for the officers to hand me back my phone, and finish all the formalities.
“We recovered five phones because of her,” one of the officers told another with a grin.
Views are personal.
(Edited by Aamaan Alam Khan)