You don't have the phone, but you have the chat screenshot. Is it valid in court?

You find a screenshot of a WhatsApp chat that proves your case. But the phone belongs to someone else—can you still use it in court?

Shafi Mohammad had the evidence. Messages, screenshots, digital records—everything that could make or break his case. But he didn't own the phone those messages came from. The device belonged to someone else. And the law, as written, demanded a certificate from the person who controlled that device. Without it, the evidence was, on paper, dead.

The question the Supreme Court had to answer in Shafi Mohammad v. State of Himachal Pradesh was deceptively simple: If you possess authentic electronic evidence but cannot get the required certificate because you don't own the device, does the law shut the door on you?

The courtroom fell silent as the lawyer held the printed screenshot between two fingers. The paper was thin, the ink slightly smudged from handling. On the evidence table, the phone itself sat—its screen cracked, the glass webbed with fine lines, a physical reminder of the device Shafi Mohammad did not control. The judge leaned forward, peering at the screenshot as though the truth might be hiding in the pixels.

When the certificate became a wall

Section 65B of the Indian Evidence Act is the gatekeeper for all electronic evidence in Indian courts. It says that any electronic record—emails, WhatsApp chats, call logs, CCTV footage—must be accompanied by a certificate signed by the person who controls the device from which the evidence was extracted. That certificate must state that the device was working properly, that the data was recorded in the ordinary course of business, and that the copy is accurate. The smell of old paper and ink filled the room as the court clerk shuffled through the file, searching for that elusive certificate.

For years, this certificate requirement—the practicality of the Section 65B(4) certificate requirement, as the Supreme Court termed it—was treated as mandatory. If you didn't have it, the evidence was inadmissible—the court wouldn't even look at it. This created a brutal logic: the person who owned the device had to sign the certificate. But if that person was the accused, or a hostile witness, or simply unreachable, the evidence disappeared. The file on the judge's desk felt thin—too thin for a case that could reshape evidentiary law.

Shafi Mohammad's case exposed this gap. He had electronic evidence that was relevant and authentic. But he couldn't get the certificate because he didn't possess the device. The prosecution argued that without the certificate, the evidence should be thrown out. The defence said that would be a denial of justice—the law couldn't have intended to let the truth die because of a procedural formality.

Consider a hypothetical: A wife receives a screenshot of a threatening WhatsApp message sent by her husband's brother. The message was sent from the brother's phone. She has the screenshot on her own phone, but she cannot access the brother's device. The brother refuses to cooperate. Under the old reading of the law, that screenshot would be dead evidence—no certificate, no admission. But under the reasoning in Shafi Mohammad, the court could still consider it, provided she can prove its authenticity through other means: perhaps the testimony of a mutual friend who saw the message, or forensic metadata showing the screenshot was not doctored.

Another scenario: A tenant has a screenshot of a rent payment confirmation sent by the landlord's assistant. The assistant's phone is lost. The landlord denies receiving payment. The tenant has the screenshot but no certificate. Should the court ignore the evidence and let the landlord evict the tenant? The Supreme Court in Shafi Mohammad said no—not when the evidence is authentic and relevant, and the certificate is impossible to obtain.

Why the court looked at the device differently

The Supreme Court in Shafi Mohammad v. State of Himachal Pradesh took a pragmatic view. It observed that electronic evidence is admissible if it is authentic and relevant, subject to the court being satisfied of its authenticity. The certificate is a tool to prove authenticity—not an end in itself. The judge held the printed screenshot between two fingers again, turning it over as though searching for a watermark of truth.

The court's central reasoning was this: The mandatory certificate requirement under Section 65B(4) applies only when the person producing the evidence is in control of the device that generated it. If a person is in possession of authentic electronic evidence but cannot possibly secure the certificate because they don't own the device, excluding that document "will lead to denial of justice." The words hung in the air of the courtroom, which had grown so quiet that the scrape of a chair sounded like a gunshot.

In other words, the court said: The law exists to serve justice, not to block it. If you have the evidence, and you can prove it's genuine through other means—cross-examination, corroborating testimony, forensic analysis—the absence of a Section 65B certificate should not automatically kill your case. The phone on the evidence table sat silent, its cracked screen reflecting the courtroom lights like a fractured mirror.

The court's logic was built on a simple premise: procedure is the servant of justice, not its master. When a procedural requirement becomes a weapon to hide the truth, the requirement must bend. This was not a radical departure from precedent—it was a recognition that the law must adapt to the realities of modern life, where electronic evidence often passes through multiple hands and devices.

The catch that changed everything

But here's where the story gets complicated. This specific pronouncement—that the certificate is not always mandatory for a party not in possession of the device—was later referred for reconsideration to a larger bench of the Supreme Court. That means the law is currently in flux. A smaller bench made the ruling in Shafi Mohammad, but a larger bench will now decide whether that ruling was correct. The file on the judge's desk now carries a note in red ink: "Referred for reconsideration."

So as of today, the position is this: If you are in the same situation as Shafi Mohammad—you have electronic evidence but don't own the device—you can argue that the certificate is not mandatory. But you should also be prepared for the possibility that a future judgment might reverse this position. The uncertainty is palpable in every courtroom where electronic evidence is tendered. Lawyers lean forward, waiting for the larger bench's decision, knowing that a single judgment could change the evidentiary landscape overnight.

The court's reasoning in Shafi Mohammad was driven by a recognition that rigid procedure must sometimes yield to the pursuit of authentic truth. The court demonstrated what lawyers call judicial agility—the ability to adapt a rule to prevent it from causing injustice. When a procedural requirement becomes a weapon to hide the truth, the court said, the requirement must bend. The cracked phone on the evidence table seemed to nod in silent agreement.

This ruling was a landmark not because it overturned a statute, but because it interpreted it with common sense. The court looked at the practical reality: electronic evidence is everywhere, and the person who generates it is not always the person who needs to use it. To require a certificate from an uncooperative or unreachable device owner is to hand that person a veto over the truth. The court refused to allow that.

What this means for your case

If you are a litigant or a lawyer dealing with electronic evidence from a device you don't control, here is the practical takeaway: Do not assume the evidence is dead just because you cannot get the Section 65B certificate. You can still produce the evidence and argue its authenticity through other means—such as the testimony of the person who saw the messages, forensic reports, or corroborating documents. The court has the power to admit it if it is satisfied of its authenticity.

But be warned: The law is unsettled. A larger bench of the Supreme Court is reconsidering this very issue. Until that judgment comes, the safest strategy is to try every possible way to get the certificate—even if it seems impossible. Write to the device owner. File an application in court. Show that you tried. Because if the larger bench reverses Shafi Mohammad, the certificate requirement will snap back into full force. The file on the judge's desk will close, and the cracked phone will be returned to the evidence locker, its secrets once again locked behind a procedural door.

The uncertainty creates a strategic dilemma for lawyers: Do you rely on Shafi Mohammad and argue for admission without the certificate, or do you bend over backwards to obtain the certificate, knowing that the larger bench could restore the mandatory requirement? The prudent answer is to do both—argue the law while exhausting every practical avenue to get the certificate. That way, whichever way the larger bench rules, your evidence has the best chance of being admitted.

THE PLAY: If you possess electronic evidence but not the device, produce it anyway and argue authenticity through other means—but simultaneously exhaust every avenue to obtain the Section 65B certificate, because the law may change.

The court ended where it began: with a screenshot and a question that still has no final answer. The phone on the evidence table sits silent, its cracked screen a metaphor for the fractured state of the law—broken, but still capable of reflecting the truth.