When Slogans Lose Their Meaning

Slogans are meant to convey an idea, inspire people and give expression to a collective cause. The most memorable slogans in our public life have carried a message that was larger than the words themselves. Consider Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose's famous call, “Tum mujhe khoon do, main tumhe azadi doonga,” or Lal Bahadur Shastri's “Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan.” Slogans such as “Dhan aur dharti bant ke rahegi” and “Jo jotega, woh malik hoga” likewise emerged from particular social and political movements and sought to mobilise people around a cause. Even the more recent “Har Har Modi, Ghar Ghar Modi” was designed to convey a political message and mobilise supporters.

Against this background, slogans such as “Ek kachori, do samosa, in mardon ka kya bharosa” sound less like a meaningful call for social change and more like an attempt at ridicule. Heard in the context of protests over women's safety, the sentiment behind the slogan may be understandable: women have legitimate and serious concerns about sexual violence and personal safety. But the manner in which the slogan expresses that concern deserves scrutiny.

The slogan makes a sweeping generalisation about men. It suggests that men, as a class, are inherently untrustworthy. That is neither fair nor conducive to a healthy conversation between men and women. The overwhelming majority of men are not criminals or sexual offenders. They are fathers, brothers, husbands, sons and colleagues who themselves care deeply about the safety and dignity of women and who have every reason to oppose crimes against them.

Men and women constitute the basic fabric of family and society. They live, work and build their lives together. There are, undoubtedly, men who commit horrific crimes against women, and such offenders must face the full force of the law. But criminality cannot be attributed to an entire gender. Nor is criminal behaviour confined exclusively to men. Individual wrongdoing should be condemned without turning it into a sweeping indictment of millions of people.

A simple analogy illustrates the point. Public transport systems routinely carry warnings such as “Beware of pickpockets.” The warning exists because some people commit theft; it does not mean that every passenger is presumed to be a pickpocket. Similarly, society must remain vigilant against sexual violence without treating every man as a potential offender.

The objective of a campaign for women's safety should be to build greater awareness, accountability and cooperation—not suspicion and hostility between the sexes. Men have an important role in ensuring women's safety, just as women have an important role in challenging harmful behaviour and supporting victims.

The anger behind such protests may have legitimate roots, particularly when a heinous crime has taken place. But slogans matter because language shapes public discourse. A slogan that seeks to unite people around the cause of safety can strengthen a movement; a slogan that places an entire gender under suspicion risks creating an unnecessary divide.

Women deserve safety, dignity and justice. Men deserve not to be collectively branded for crimes they did not commit. A mature society should be capable of demanding accountability from offenders while refusing to condemn an entire gender.

That is why slogans of this kind deserve criticism—not because women's concerns are illegitimate, but precisely because the cause of women's safety deserves a more thoughtful, inclusive and dignified language.

Founding Muslim leaders of Pakistan had no love for Islam

 How is it that most of the Muslim League leaders, who were responsible for the formation of Pakistan, were not opposed to British rule in India, were womanisers of the top order and regular drinkers of wine? Interestingly, they had no love for Islam or Islamic tradition. They married women of different religions and had them converted to Islam either after marriage or just before. Take the example of Aga Khan III; he had several European wives, including Cleope Teresa Mahliano and Andre Carron. He was a Shia Muslim.

The real founder of Pakistan, Mohammad Ali Jinnah, was also not a Sunni Muslim. His grandfather was a Hindu. He married a Persian girl, whose daughter again returned to the original religion. He had diabolical hatred for the followers of Islam. Once, while addressing a meeting at Azad Maidan in Bombay, he looked for the journalists, and when he could see none, he expressed his indignation by saying that he was going to make Pakistan not with the support of idiots and Maulvis, but by the publicity he was getting in the newspapers. He once said that Pakistan was created by him, his stenographer and his typewriter. He was well versed in English but had contempt for Urdu, which he considered to be the language of cooks and servants.

Similarly, the first Prime Minister of Pakistan, Liaquat Ali Khan, married a Christian woman, Sheila Irene Pant, although she was his second wife. The first wife was Jehangira Begum, whom he married in 1918, the year he graduated from Aligarh Muslim University. The ideological father of Pakistan, Allama Iqbal, was a Kashmiri Brahmin. It is also strange that most of the rich and Shia Muslims who fought for Pakistan did not go to the country they helped carve out of India. The Raja of Mahmudabad of Sitapur, Uttar Pradesh, a Shia, was the treasurer of the Muslim League and had opened his treasury for Pakistan. His progeny came back to India to claim the property; however, thanks to the government, a law was passed to declare his property as enemy property, which was ultimately taken over by the government. To everyone's surprise, his son, Mohammad Amir Khan, was a two-term former Congress MLA from Mahmudabad and a popular figure in the Avadh region of Uttar Pradesh. Most often, he is remembered for fighting a prolonged court battle after the government seized his property under the Enemy Property Act. His property included Butler Palace, a big part of Hazrat Ganj, Halwasiya market, and Mahmudabad Qila (fort) -- all of these worth several thousand crore rupees. Besides Lucknow, the Mahmudabad estate’s holdings were spread over Sitapur, Nainital and Mahmudabad.

There is, therefore, a need to study the communal Muslims, and a campaign should be started under the leadership of Arya Samaj to bring them back to Hinduism and bring about a lasting solution to the communal problems. In fact, a large number of Muslims in Pakistan, Baluchistan, Afghanistan, and Bangladesh can be convinced to return to their original fold.

Garba and the Question of Participation

 A controversy is raging these days over whether non-believers, or more particularly non-Hindus, should be allowed to participate in Garba, the traditional dance performed during the Navratri festival, particularly in Gujarat and Maharashtra.

Some argue that if members of different communities wish to participate together, there should be no objection, as such participation can promote cordiality and harmonious relations. But the issue is not quite as simple as it is sometimes presented.

If participation is being justified in the name of communal harmony, the principle should apply consistently. Why should participation in one religious festival be singled out while participation in other festivals such as Holi or Diwali is viewed differently? And if the argument is genuinely about social interaction and brotherhood, there should also be no hesitation in allowing Muslim women to participate freely in Garba. A claim of harmony cannot be selective or one-sided.

There is also a legitimate concern about maintaining the character of a religious festival and ensuring public order. If individuals enter such gatherings with the intention of harassing women, creating disturbances, or provoking communal tensions, the authorities are justified in taking preventive measures. Religious and community leaders can play an important role in this regard. If they genuinely wish to promote communal harmony, they should encourage young people to respect the religious character of festivals, maintain proper conduct and stay away from any activity that could lead to harassment, confrontation or disorder.

The government and the police, too, should apply the law uniformly. Their priority should be to prevent harassment and communal disturbances without allowing any religious gathering to become a source of confrontation.

Garba is, after all, a religious and cultural tradition. Participation in it should be governed by mutual respect, good conduct and regard for its religious character—not by political slogans, communal provocation or opportunistic claims of brotherhood.

 

Equal Trial for Cognisable Offences: No Exceptions

 According to reports in several newspapers, senior advocates Mahesh Jethmalani and Harish Salve have rightly questioned why an FIR was lodged against a former judge of the Delhi High Court only after burnt currency notes were discovered at his residence. The principle is simple: the law must be the same for all. Yet in this case, excuses were advanced that cast serious doubt on the system's transparency.

Consider the hypothetical: if a High Court judge commits murder, can they hide behind judicial immunity? Justice Varma’s case illustrates the problem. Following the cash recovery on March 14, 2025, then CJI Sanjiv Khanna constituted a three-member committee—Justices Sheel Nagu, G.S. Sandhawalia, and Anu Sivaram—to probe the incident. Delhi High Court Chief Justice D.K. Upadhyaya submitted a preliminary report, noting that a fire broke out in the judge’s house while he was in Bhopal. But does physical absence absolve responsibility? If terrorists store an AK-47 in a judge’s residence, intending to kill, can the judge escape liability simply by not being present?

The Supreme Court’s landmark judgment in K. Veeraswami vs Union of India (1991) is deeply flawed. It holds that judges of constitutional courts cannot face criminal prosecution—including the registration of an FIR—without prior permission of the Chief Justice of India. This creates a discriminatory shield unavailable to ordinary citizens. Crime investigation is the domain of experts, and the police should be empowered to act after lodging an FIR, without procedural hurdles that protect a privileged few.

Take another example: MPs and MLAs enjoy immunity for what they say or do inside the House. But if one legislator murders another on the floor of Parliament, can they claim immunity from trial? Clearly not. Immunity provisions were designed to protect legitimate functions, not to shield individuals from accountability for cognisable offences. If loopholes exist that allow such misuse, they must be amended.

True equality before the law demands that every citizen—judge, legislator, or layperson—be held accountable for cognisable offences. Anything less undermines the very foundation of justice.

Enhancement Age of District Judicial Officers is a WElcome Step

 The Supreme Court of India’s direction to enhance the retirement age of judicial officers in the district judiciary from 60 to 62 years is a welcome and much-needed step. A three-judge Bench, headed by the Chief Justice of India, Justice Surya Kant, and comprising Justice Joymalya Bagchi and Justice V. Mohana, has directed seven consenting States—Chhattisgarh, Karnataka, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Sikkim, Tamil Nadu and West Bengal—to amend their respective service rules to formally raise the age of superannuation from 60 to 62 years.

The Court has further directed the remaining States and Union Territories to take an urgent decision, in consultation with their respective High Courts, within two weeks on adopting the enhanced retirement age. However, the enhancement to 62 years is not automatic. Judicial officers attaining the age of 60 years will be required to undergo a rigorous assessment of their suitability and performance by the concerned High Court before being permitted to continue in service until the age of 62.

The principle underlying this decision, however, should not be confined to the district judiciary. In my view, the retirement age of judges of the High Courts and the Supreme Court should also be reconsidered and uniformly raised to 70 years. Experienced judges often acquire their greatest judicial maturity with age and experience. Giving them a longer tenure would provide greater institutional continuity and, potentially, more time to contribute to the development of consistent and well-reasoned jurisprudence.

At present, the retirement ages of judges of the High Courts and the Supreme Court are constitutionally fixed at different levels. Any enhancement would therefore require a constitutional amendment by Parliament. The Supreme Court and the High Courts, however, can place their considered recommendations before the Government and Parliament for appropriate constitutional action.

A uniform retirement age of 70 years for judges of the High Courts and the Supreme Court could also have an important institutional advantage. It would substantially reduce the incentive for judges of the High Courts to seek elevation to the Supreme Court merely because of the difference in retirement ages. The concern regarding lobbying and other unhealthy practices surrounding elevation to the Supreme Court has also been discussed in the book The Supreme Whispers. A uniform retirement age could, therefore, help ensure that elevation is viewed primarily as a matter of judicial merit and institutional requirement, rather than as a means of securing a longer judicial tenure.

There is also a broader demographic consideration. Life expectancy, health standards and the ability of individuals to remain professionally productive have increased considerably over the past seven decades. The age structure and social conditions prevailing when the Constitution came into force cannot necessarily be treated as the benchmark for determining the appropriate retirement age in the present era. If senior judges remain physically and mentally fit and continue to meet the required standards of competence and integrity, there is a strong case for reconsidering the existing constitutional limits.

Re-entry of Recent Retirees

Another particularly welcome aspect of the Supreme Court’s decision is the window provided to judicial officers from the compliant States who retired on or after 31 March 2026. Such officers have been permitted to exercise an option to return to judicial service, subject to the condition that they have not, in the intervening period, accepted another government post or office of profit.

The Bench also rejected objections raised by some State Governments concerning parity with other civil servants and the additional financial burden that may arise from such an arrangement. The Court recognised an important distinction: judicial officers, particularly direct recruits entering service at the District Judge level, generally enter judicial service at a considerably later age than many other government employees.

Permitting experienced judicial officers to continue serving therefore has a practical as well as institutional justification. At a time when vacancies in the subordinate judiciary remain a serious concern, retaining judges who already possess substantial judicial experience can help address the shortage without requiring the system to wait for newly appointed officers to acquire years of courtroom and adjudicatory experience.

It may also have the advantage of postponing certain post-retirement financial liabilities while simultaneously making use of the experience and institutional knowledge of judges who have already served the judiciary.

The larger question, therefore, is whether retirement in the judiciary should be determined primarily by age or by a combination of age, health, competence, integrity and performance. The Supreme Court’s present approach in the case of the district judiciary—where continuation beyond 60 is linked to suitability and performance—offers a possible model for a broader reconsideration of judicial retirement ages.

The objective should not simply be to keep judges in office for longer. It should be to ensure that the judiciary continues to benefit from experienced, competent and independent judges for as long as they remain capable of making a meaningful contribution to the administration of justice.

Appointment of Distinguished Jurists as Judges Would Have Been a Disaster

 Justice Ujjal Bhuyan has recently raised a pertinent question: why, even after 76 years of the Constitution, has the Supreme Court of India never appointed a distinguished jurist as a judge of the Court?

The question deserves serious consideration because the Constitution expressly provides for such a possibility. Article 124(3) makes a person eligible for appointment as a Judge of the Supreme Court if he or she is, in the opinion of the President, a “distinguished jurist.” Interestingly, this qualification is specifically provided for the Supreme Court and not for the High Courts. The Constitution, therefore, deliberately kept open a route for bringing persons from outside the conventional pool of judges and practising advocates directly to the Supreme Court.

Justice Bhuyan observed that when the collegium system did not exist, one explanation offered by the Central Government was that there was not sufficient depth in Indian academia for distinguished academics to be seriously considered for elevation to the Supreme Court. He also pointed to another, perhaps more probable, explanation: that neither the Central Government nor the collegium has seriously explored this constitutional provision.

The history of Article 124(3) is equally interesting. During the Constituent Assembly Debates, H. V. Kamath proposed that the pool of persons eligible for appointment to the Supreme Court should not be confined to judges and advocates and should also include distinguished jurists. The Constituent Assembly ultimately accepted the proposition.

But the fact that the Constitution permits such an appointment does not necessarily mean that every eminent academic would make an effective Supreme Court judge.There is an important distinction between being a distinguished jurist and being a successful judge.

A Supreme Court judge is not merely required to possess exceptional knowledge of constitutional theory or jurisprudence. The Court deals with an extraordinarily wide range of disputes—constitutional matters, civil and criminal cases, commercial disputes, contracts, corporate law, taxation, service and employment matters, arbitration, intellectual property and numerous other areas of law.

A distinguished academic may possess extraordinary analytical ability and may have contributed significantly to legal scholarship. But judging requires a different skill set. A judge must be able to listen to competing arguments, identify the precise issues arising from the facts, apply established principles to those facts, evaluate evidence where necessary, consider precedent, and ultimately arrive at a decision that can withstand scrutiny.

The challenge becomes even greater at the Supreme Court level, where a judge may hear a constitutional challenge in one matter, a commercial dispute in the next, a criminal appeal thereafter and a service-law matter immediately afterwards.

Legal scholarship and judicial decision-making are therefore related, but they are not identical disciplines. There is another institutional concern. An academic career often rewards the development and defence of a particular intellectual position. Judicial office demands something different: openness to competing arguments and the willingness to modify or abandon an initial view when the law, facts or reasoning demand it. A judge cannot approach a case with a predetermined intellectual commitment.

This does not mean that academics are incapable of becoming good judges. Nor does it mean that every practising lawyer or sitting judge necessarily possesses the qualities required of an exceptional judge. The point is simply that academic eminence by itself cannot be treated as an adequate substitute for judicial experience.

The absence of a distinguished jurist from the Supreme Court for more than seven decades may therefore be viewed not merely as a failure to utilise Article 124(3), but also as evidence of the difficult question that the provision presents: How do we identify a distinguished jurist who possesses not only intellectual brilliance but also the temperament, breadth and practical judgment required of a Supreme Court judge?

India has produced outstanding legal scholars. Names such as Upendra Baxi, Subhash Kashyap and several others immediately come to mind. Their contributions to legal scholarship and public discourse are undoubtedly significant. Yet intellectual eminence alone does not establish that a person would necessarily have been an effective member of the Supreme Court.

Indeed, had the Constitution-makers intended academic distinction alone to be the decisive criterion, there would have been little reason to preserve the broader expression “distinguished jurist.”

The real test must therefore be higher.

Article 124(3) should neither be treated as a dead letter nor invoked merely to increase the diversity of the Supreme Court's professional background. If the provision is ever used, the person chosen must be someone whose intellectual contribution to law is matched by judicial temperament, practical understanding of litigation, institutional independence and the ability to decide disputes across the entire spectrum of the Court's jurisdiction.

The question, therefore, is not simply why has India never appointed a distinguished jurist to the Supreme Court? The more important question is: Do we have a distinguished jurist who can also become a distinguished judge? That is the standard that Article 124(3) should demand

Maneka Gandhi’s demand to ban Pachis used by Jain Munis is very reasonable

 Jainism has been one of the finest sects of Hinduism. However, in practice, it has adopted not only all the evil practices of Hinduism but, in many ways, has gone far beyond it.

There are five Mahavratas or anuvratas in Jainism. They are Ahimsa (Non-violence): It demands absolute non-injury to all living beings—subtle or complex—in thought, speech, and physical action. That is why Jain munis observe chaturmas and do not move from one place to another, lest any insect die in their movement. Satya (Truthfulness) is the second Vrat, which ordains speaking the truth with kindness and restraint, avoiding deceit or speech that causes harm. Asteya (Non-stealing): Not taking anything that is not willingly given, including abstaining from exploitation or unfair acquisition. Brahmacharya (Celibacy): Complete sexual abstinence for monastics, and strict fidelity and sensory restraint for householders. Aparigraha (Non-possessiveness/Non-attachment): Detachment from material possessions, wealth, and emotional fixations to curb greed and desire. But today, all the Vratas are thrown to the wind by Jains.

That is why there is no reason to disagree with animal lover Maneka Gandhi, who says that pachis are made from peacock feathers and that thousands of male peacocks are killed to make them. Feathers are grown only among male peacocks and not females.

It is very strange that some Jains, who do not move out of fear of killing even an ant, are opposed to very sensible logic.

Therefore, in all fairness, the ostentatious pachis made from male peacock feathers should be immediately banned to save peacocks and to respect the sentiments of millions of people.