Arun Gawli Walks Free After 17 Years: What His Bail Means for Mumbai’s Underworld

Bail After 17 Years: The Don Who Once Ruled Dagdi Chawl

Seventeen years after he was locked up, Arun Gawli walked out of Nagpur Central Jail into a very different Mumbai. The Supreme Court has granted the 70-year-old bail in the 2007 murder case of corporator Kamlakar Jamsandhekar from Asalfa, Ghatkopar West. He was serving a life sentence under the Maharashtra Control of Organised Crime Act (MCOCA), a law built to crush syndicates and cripple their finances. The Bombay High Court had upheld his conviction in December 2019. With the Supreme Court now hearing his challenge, he steps out—on strict terms and under intense scrutiny.

For a city that still remembers the gang wars of the late 1980s and 1990s, his return is not small news. Gawli’s base was the tightly packed Dagdi Chawl, a working-class fortress that doubled as his political and social stage. He clashed with the biggest names—Dawood Ibrahim, Chhota Rajan, Ravi Pujari—and survived when many rivals didn’t. Over time, he traded the image of a street enforcer for that of a local patriarch and, for a period in the mid-2000s, a legislator after launching his party, the Akhil Bharatiya Sena.

The case that sent him away was different from the public shows of strength people remember. Jamsandhekar, a city corporator, was shot dead in 2007. A trial court found Gawli and several co-accused guilty under MCOCA, saying the crime fit a pattern of organized activity. The High Court agreed in 2019. What the Supreme Court has done now is not erase those findings. Bail doesn’t mean acquittal. It simply allows him to be out of prison while the appeal is argued.

Courts typically attach tough conditions in such cases. These can include staying within set limits, regularly reporting to a police station, avoiding any contact with witnesses or co-accused, and not engaging in activities that could amount to intimidation or tampering with evidence. People familiar with the process expect tight supervision, and any breach could land him back behind bars. Police officers say they are alert to the risk of proxy operations—commands relayed through intermediaries that keep a leader insulated while the machine keeps moving.

That concern is not abstract. The old Mumbai underworld was built on layers: shooters at the bottom, fixers in the middle, financiers and political go-betweens at the top. Leaders rarely made direct calls. Extortion rackets leaned on local disputes—tenants versus landlords, unions versus factory owners, builders fighting over redevelopment tenders. When the internet arrived, some gangs shifted into cybercrime and hawala. Others stuck to construction, sand mining, and protection money. The result: even as famous dons fell, the business adapted.

The New Landscape: Vacuum at the Top, Watchful Eyes on the Ground

Mumbai today doesn’t look like the city of page-one shootouts. Dawood Ibrahim is out of the country and in the crosshairs of international agencies. Chhota Rajan is in Tihar Jail, and his health has been reported as fragile. Ravi Pujari is in Indian custody facing multiple trials. That leaves a vacuum in the old hierarchy. Smaller groups, often localized to a few neighborhoods or a particular trade, run what’s left of the traditional “collection” economy. They’re less flashy and harder to track from the outside, but for residents and shopkeepers, the pressure feels the same.

Gawli’s presence—physical or symbolic—could change that balance. In places like Dagdi Chawl, perception often moves faster than reality. A leader returning home can be read as a signal: loyalty is rewarded, the old network still exists, the phones still ring. That’s why this release has triggered questions beyond just legal technicalities. Does he want back in? Can he even afford to try, given his age, health, and court restrictions? Or does he pivot entirely to community and religious functions, which also build influence but stay within the law?

The timing adds another layer. Local chatter says this year’s Navratri celebrations in and around Dagdi Chawl could be unusually grand. Festivals in Mumbai have often doubled as soft power displays—crowds, music, banners, and public blessings can show who matters on a street. There’s nothing illegal about a big festival. But optics matter, and police tend to increase patrols around such gatherings when high-profile figures are involved, if only to prevent clashes or show-of-strength moments that get out of hand.

Behind the scenes, enforcement agencies will focus on three things. First, communication patterns—who meets whom, which old associates resurface, whether there’s a spike in calls to known handlers. Second, money trails—any sudden movement in construction-linked cash, real estate deals in central Mumbai, or protection demands in markets tied to redevelopment projects. Third, witness security—keeping a close eye on anyone who testified in past cases or is lined up in pending trials, and checking for signs of pressure.

MCOCA, the law at the heart of his conviction, was designed for exactly this kind of network. It allows prosecutors to stitch together a series of cases to show an organized pattern, not just isolated crimes. It brings heavy penalties and makes bail rare. When cases drag on for years, though, courts do consider the time already spent in custody and the pace of appeals. That’s the broader context in which this bail order sits: a balance between punishing organized crime and avoiding endless pre-appeal imprisonment.

There’s also the politics. Gawli built a base by blending neighborhood welfare—help with hospitals and schools, attention to local disputes—with strongman credibility. He contested elections, won a seat once, and kept a small but loyal cadre. If he chooses to re-enter public life in any form, the space is crowded. Mumbai’s politics has shifted since the 2000s, with new alliances, new caste dynamics, and a younger voter base that cares about jobs, transit, and housing more than gang legends. That doesn’t erase nostalgia or fear, but it does limit how far old icons can ride past glories.

Residents in pockets of central and eastern Mumbai describe mixed feelings. For some older families, the return of a familiar figure offers a sense of order—someone who can get paperwork moved or settle a dispute without dragging on for months. For shopkeepers and young workers, there’s anxiety about being pulled into patronage networks again, where silence becomes the price of safety. Both moods can coexist on the same lane. That’s why the next few weeks—who he meets, how visible he stays, whether any old enforcers crawl back out—will tell us more than any speech.

Lawyers watching the case say the legal battle could run for months, even longer. Appeals in serious criminal matters often move slowly. If the Supreme Court finds reasons to doubt parts of the earlier findings, it could reshape the case entirely. If it upholds them, the bail clock can stop quickly. Either way, the message from the courts is clear: liberty during appeal is conditional on spotless conduct.

For the police, the playbook is familiar. Keep the heat on potential extortion nodes tied to transport hubs, building sites, scrap yards, and wholesale markets. Track cash couriers. Lean on data from financial intelligence units. Coordinate with cybercrime cells where intimidation now travels over encrypted messaging instead of hand-delivered threats. And, crucially, keep the peace during festivals, when emotions run high and crowds offer a cover for theatrics.

For now, the city stands at a curious crossroads. The old dons are aging or jailed. The new criminals prefer keyboards to revolvers. Courts are more open to scrutinizing long incarcerations even in hard cases. And yet, one walk through the narrow lanes of Dagdi Chawl reminds you how quickly reputations can sway a neighborhood. With Gawli back home on bail—and every step monitored—Mumbai will test whether its underworld folklore still has room to write another chapter.