Delhi Police has applauded its own efforts by showcasing the statistics on recovering stolen or lost mobile phones. According to their report, out of 4,743 phones that were stolen, snatched or lost in Delhi in 2024, as many as 1,572 have been successfully recovered—amounting to a recovery rate of approximately 33 per cent. In its pursuit of a ‘world-class’ reputation, Delhi Police has chosen to compare its performance not with other Indian states but with international benchmarks.
It claims that in London, only 2 per cent of such phones are recovered, while the overall figure in the US stands at 32 per cent. New York fares slightly better, with a recovery rate of 40 per cent. Based on these numbers, it would seem that 33 per cent of those who lost their phones in Delhi were fortunate enough to have them returned. However, personal experience tells a different story. In fact, some of those with so called ‘recovered’ phones may have been more unfortunate than those who didn’t get any news about their stolen phones.
To explain, I must share my own story. On the afternoon of 31 August 2014, amidst the bustling crowd at the Delhi Book Fair in Pragati Maidan, someone took my phone out of my pocket. It was an LG L9 running on Android OS. When I arrived at Tilak Marg police station to file a report, I found three others already there—all of us victims of phone theft at the same event. An assistant sub-inspector advised us that instead of filing an FIR for theft, it would be easier to simply report the phone as lost. If the phone was recovered, we could collect it directly from the police station; otherwise, retrieving it through the court would be a hassle.
Despite the suggestion, I insisted on filing an FIR, and that’s when my troubles began. The very next day, calls from the police station started coming in. They asked for detailed information—when, where and how the phone was stolen. I had to submit copies of everything: the phone’s purchase proof, my Aadhaar card, PAN card and more. Then, for days, nothing happened. As time passed without any further calls, I assumed the matter had faded away.
By then, I had moved on, trying to find satisfaction in my new phone. One day, a year later, I was suddenly informed that my phone had been recovered. On 19 August 2015, the metropolitan magistrate at Patiala House Court issued a release order, theoretically allowing me to collect it from the maalkhana (storehouse) of Tilak Marg police station. But, as is often the case with our legal system, things weren’t that simple. To claim the phone, I first needed a copy of the magistrate’s order, which required submitting an application on stamp paper.
Even after I’d obtained the release order from court, I didn’t quite get my phone back—it was handed over to me on ‘sipurdari’ (custodial release). And this came with several conditions. First, I had to sign a bond worth Rs 10,000. Then, the entire handover process had to be documented through photography and videography—at my own expense. Before I could take possession of the phone, a panchnama (inventory record) had to be prepared, detailing its model, colour, condition and other specifics. Additionally, all paperwork had to be signed not just by me but also by the person from whom the phone had been recovered. The most frustrating condition of all was that I had to bring the phone to court on every scheduled date.
Technically, the phone was in my possession, I would not regain ownership—the phone would remain court property. After reading through this long list of conditions, I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. I left without even stepping into the maalkhana, having wasted an entire day.
The case had begun, and soon, summons started arriving at my house. Thus began the endless cycle of tarikh pe tarikh—date after date, hearing after hearing. Meanwhile, the case was transferred to another judge. Previously, I had been making my way to Room 21 of Patiala House Court; now, I had to go to Room 7 instead. On one such hearing, I pleaded with the judge to put an end to the case. He agreed— it had dragged on long enough. He assured me that the matter would be closed at the next hearing. But when that day arrived, the judge was absent and another date was assigned. Then, on yet another occasion, the other party failed to show up.
By this point, I realised that skipping a hearing in such a case wasn’t considered a serious offense, so I, too, missed a couple of dates. Finally, on 28 November 2023—more than nine years after I lost my phone—I received yet another summons. This time, by sheer coincidence, everything aligned. The judge was present, I was present and so was the person from whom the phone had been recovered. With the consent of both parties, the judge closed the case then and there.
As I stepped out of the Patiala House building that afternoon, through the thick haze of pollution, I felt an immense sense of relief. A weight had finally been lifted—I was no longer bound by the endless cycle of court appearances. If I had wanted, I could have retrieved my phone from the maalkhana with a bit of effort and some paperwork.
But that old 2012 model was of no use to me anymore. I didn’t even bother trying to get it back. The data Delhi Police shares on mobile phone recoveries over the years is incomplete. It fails to mention how many of these recovered phones were actually returned to their rightful owners—and how many remain buried forever in the police maalkhana, forgotten and unused.
