On a tense Thursday in Rampur, Samajwadi Party president Akhilesh Yadav stepped into the district jail not as a routine politician, but as an old comrade visiting a man whose political life has become a symbol of both loyalty and suffering. After landing at the Jauhar University helipad, where Azam Khan’s family members and party workers were waiting with anxious hope, Akhilesh made his way to the prison ward. The meeting lasted long enough to send a message: this was not a drive-by gesture. Emerging before reporters, Akhilesh delivered a phrase that seemed intended to echo beyond the prison walls: “Azam was, Azam is, and Azam will remain.” It was a simple declaration, but in the charged atmosphere of Uttar Pradesh politics, it sounded like a vow. He accused the BJP government of targeting the veteran leader through fabricated cases and insisted that no amount of legal pressure could erase Khan’s political existence. “Truth cannot be imprisoned,” he said, suggesting that the case against Khan was not merely judicial but political. The visit itself was theatrical in the best emotional sense: the helicopter, the waiting family, the handshake across prison bars, the quiet words shared away from cameras. But beyond the imagery, Akhilesh was acknowledging that Azam Khan is not just an electoral asset or a Muslim face; he is a fixture of the party’s soul in western Uttar Pradesh. Rampur, with its communally mixed population and history of sharp political contestation, has always been a town where symbols matter. And in coming to Rampur on a working day, Akhilesh was signaling that he will not let Azam be isolated or forgotten. For those who have followed SP politics, the scene was reminiscent of older bonds, leaders who stood by each other in times of adversity, before the era of instant messaging and transactional alliances. Whether the visit will change any legal outcome remains to be seen. But for now, the image of the two men together, one free and one behind bars, gave voice to a narrative that the SP desperately wants to tell: we do not abandon our own.
What Akhilesh had to say after the meeting went beyond the usual courtesies. He spoke with a kind of personal indignation that suggested the fight was not just about Azam Khan, but about a family that had been put through an almost unimaginable ordeal. “No family, particularly no political family, has faced as much injustice as the family of respected Azam Khan,” he said. It was a sweeping statement, but one that carried weight in Rampur, where Khan’s wife and son have also faced legal proceedings and his educational institution has been caught in a storm of investigations and demolition. Akhilesh carefully framed the cases against Khan as “false cases” and claimed that they lacked the power to keep the truth imprisoned forever. “It may take time… there may be some delay. But false cases do not have the power to keep the truth imprisoned,” he insisted. The repetition of “truth” was deliberate; it allowed him to place Khan in the role of a martyr rather than an accused convict. Then he turned to one of the most emotional issues: the alleged demolition of Mohammad Ali Jauhar University, an institution that Azam Khan built as a legacy for the Muslim community and for the region. Akhilesh described the action against the university as an attack on education and knowledge itself, not merely on a building. “Our relationship with Rampur is political as well as emotional,” he said, reminding his audience that the SP has deep roots in the town. For a party that often relies on caste arithmetic and community coalitions, such emotional words are carefully chosen. But for the people who gathered outside the jail, the words must have felt like an acknowledgment of their own sense of grievance. Many in the crowd view Azam Khan as a protector who gave them a university, a voice, and a sense of representation. The demolition of a building, in that context, is not just an administrative action; it is a symbol of a community being told to know its place. Akhilesh, by linking Khan’s personal suffering to the fate of the university, was attempting to broaden the story beyond one man’s legal troubles and place it in a larger narrative of injustice. It was a classic opposition move: make the fight not about a convict, but about education, dignity, and identity. Whether it will convince the undecided is another matter, but in the moment, the message was coherent and emotionally potent.
Not everyone saw the visit as a noble gesture. Within a day, Om Prakash Rajbhar, a political rival, dismissed the whole exercise as an election gimmick aimed squarely at the 2027 Uttar Pradesh Assembly polls. “They are going today just to create an election gimmick. They are trying to secure Muslim votes with the help of Azam Khan,” Rajbhar said. He then added a barb that was hard to ignore: “But Akhilesh Yadav has forgotten that Muslims will no longer spread the carpet for him.” This was a reference to the waning trust that some Muslim voters may feel toward Akhilesh and the SP, a relationship that is not as unconditional as it used to be. Rajbhar also dug up an uncomfortable point: if Akhilesh truly cared about Azam Khan, why did he wait so long? “He was in jail for so long, but Akhilesh never went to meet him,” Rajbhar claimed, alleging that the senior SP leader’s legal troubles had emerged during a period when Akhilesh was in power or at least strategically able to intervene. The accusation stings because it suggests convenience rather than conviction. Rajbhar’s words reflect a broader political calculation: that the SP’s OBC and Dalit allies, who once formed the backbone of the party’s non-Yadav vote, are now suspicious of a leadership that appears to make Muslim-centric compromises under pressure. By reducing the visit to “securing Muslim votes,” Rajbhar tried to strip it of any moral purity. He implied that Akhilesh had no concern for Azam Khan’s health or family suffering; he only cared about the electoral weight that Khan’s endorsement carried. In the merciless ecosystem of Uttar Pradesh politics, where every meeting is dissected for its arithmetic, this line of attack is expected. Yet it also reveals how difficult it is for a leader like Akhilesh to act simply. If he visits, he is accused of manipulating religion; if he stays away, he is accused of abandoning his allies. The criticism from Rajbhar, whether fair or not, illustrates the embattled position of the SP as it tries to rebuild a coalition that has fractured since its last major electoral defeat. It also raises a question: What constitutes genuine solidarity in politics? Is visiting an imprisoned ally enough, or must a leader prove his loyalty through actions that risk his own standing? For Akhilesh, the visit might be a beginning, but his rivals are ready to remind him that the streets of Rampur have long memories.
The BJP was even less merciful. Narendra Kashyap, a BJP leader, accused Akhilesh Yadav of political opportunism in terms that made no allowance for sentiment. “What kind of strategy could Akhilesh Yadav possibly devise with someone who is currently incarcerated, facing nearly 100 criminal cases, including charges of corruption and document forgery?” Kashyap asked. It was a pointed question, designed to make Azam Khan seem less like a wronged elder and more like a liability. Kashyap further alleged that Akhilesh was exploiting Khan because of his Muslim identity, using him as a mascot for the community while knowing full well that Khan cannot offer a substantive defense from behind bars. This framing portrays Khan as a prisoner of his own misdeeds, not a victim of political revenge. For the BJP, the narrative of opposition leaders exploiting criminals is a familiar one, and wrapping it in the language of concern for truth makes it palatable to a broader audience. On a human level, however, the criticism may miss the point that values in politics are often subjective. To the SP cadre, Azam Khan is not a criminal with 100 cases; he is a fearless leader who has stood up to power for decades. To the BJP, he is a reminder of an older style of Muslim politics that the party has consistently tried to discredit. The heated exchange between SP and BJP over the visit reveals a deeper truth: Azam Khan has become a mirror through which each side sees its own grievances. For the SP, he is proof that the government abuses its machinery to destroy opponents. For the BJP, he is proof that the opposition shelters lawbreakers. The truth, as usual, is more complicated. Khan has been convicted in some cases, acquitted in others, and is facing dozens more; his legal situation is the result of an unusual concentration of criminal charges against a politician, and the courts have yet to finally determine his guilt in most of them. In a more dispassionate world, the appropriate response might be to let the judicial process run its course. But in the polarized landscape of Indian politics, every court appearance is a spectacle, and every prison visit is a campaign rally. Kashyap’s accusation of exploitation may be cynical, but it is also a reminder that no political leader, including Akhilesh, can afford to act purely out of gratitude. The calculus of votes, symbols and power is always present, even when the language is about friendship and truth.
To understand why this visit mattered so much, one has to understand who Azam Khan is and how long his partnership with the SP goes back. A ten-time MLA from Rampur Sadar and a former cabinet minister, Khan has been one of the most recognizable Muslim leaders in Uttar Pradesh for decades. His oratory, his willingness to take on ideological opponents, and his ability to marshal his constituency made him an indispensable ally to the SP, first under Mulayam Singh Yadav and later under Akhilesh. But since November of last year, Khan has been lodged in Rampur district jail, after being convicted in a forgery case. That conviction, which carries a prison sentence, is the reason he cannot simply walk out and join the campaign trail. The legal labyrinth around him includes not only ordinary criminal cases but also an Enforcement Directorate investigation into the Maulana Mohammad Ali Jauhar Trust and Mohammad Ali Jauhar University, concerning the alleged diversion of government contract funds through private contractors and their use for creating assets linked to the trust and university. The ED questioned him at Rampur jail on October 13 as part of that money-laundering probe. At the same time, Khan faces a two-year sentence in a case related to alleged remarks about government officials during the 2019 Lok Sabha campaign. Add to that the contested story of the university’s demolition, and you have a picture of a man whose political life and family institutions have been systematically dismantled, at least in his supporters’ eyes. Akhilesh’s visits in the past, in March 2024 to Sitapur jail to discuss strategy and candidates, and in February 2020 when Khan, his wife and his son Abdullah were all jailed, show that the relationship is not just about one election. It is a long history of shared struggles. But even that history cannot erase the uncomfortable fact that Khan’s legal troubles have made him a symbol in a larger war over the meaning of justice in India. Is he a victim of vindictive prosecution or a man finally facing the law after years of impunity? There is evidence to support both narratives, and not surprisingly, each side chooses the one that serves its political purpose. For Akhilesh, the visit was an act of defiance, a declaration that no court order or jail wall can sever the bond between the SP and its most loyal Muslim face. For Khan, the visit was an acknowledgment that he remains relevant, that his ordeal is not hidden in a forgotten cell. That mutual recognition may be the most human aspect of the entire affair.
The visit to Rampur did not occur in a vacuum. It came at a moment when the SP and BJP are engaged in a furious political battle over the future of Uttar Pradesh, with the 2027 Assembly elections already looming. Akhilesh has recently accused the BJP government of electoral malpractice, saying that Basic Shiksha Adhikaris and district inspectors of schools are intimidating people and facilitating electoral manipulation, and he has urged the Election Commission to act impartially. He has also promised to regularise Shiksha Mitras as full-fledged teachers if the SP returns to power, a populist pledge aimed at a large bloc of contract teachers and their families. In this context, the Azam Khan visit is not merely a nostalgic trip; it is part of a broader attempt to build a narrative about the BJP’s arrogance and the SP’s empathy. But the human story underneath the politics remains moving. A leader in his seventies, sitting in a prison cell, is visited by his party president and friend. The words “Azam was, Azam is, and Azam will remain” are, on one level, a simple assertion of identity. On another level, they are a promise that the man will not be erased from history, no matter how many cases are filed or how many buildings are demolished. For the people of Rampur, many of whom have known Azam Khan for decades as a benefactor, a street-corner leader, and a protector, the visit probably felt like a small victory. It may not win a single court case. It may not halt the demolition or the investigations. But it tells them that their own champion still matters to someone beyond the jail gates. In a country where politics is increasingly transactional, where alliances shift with the breeze and commitments are based on opinion polls, the sight of an opposition leader traveling to a district jail for no immediate benefit other than solidarity is almost old-fashioned. It reminds us that at the core of democracy is not just policy or ideology, but also a set of relationships, some complicated, some dysfunctional, but all human. Rampur’s streets will remain tense. The legal battles will continue. The accusations and counter-accusations will not stop. But on that one day, in that small prison visiting room, politics yielded for a moment to something simpler: one man refusing to let another man face his troubles alone. Whether that is enough to change the outcome of the 2027 election is another matter entirely.