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.

 

Vande Mataram: A Question of History, Conviction and Political Appeasement

 The scene created by Mrs Sonia Gandhi at the Congress Headquarters on 15^th August, while Vande Mataram was being sung, was deplorable. The conduct of Rahul Gandhi, the Congress leader, and Mallikarjun Kharge was equally condemnable. But what Mrs Sonia Gandhi did was particularly inexcusable.

The historical record surrounding Vande Mataram makes the episode even more significant. Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore sang Vande Mataram at the Calcutta Session of the Indian National Congress in 1896. The song subsequently became deeply associated with India's national movement and was adopted for all-India occasions at the Banaras session of the Congress in 1905.

In 1923, at the Kakinada Session of the Congress, Pandit Vishnu Digambar Paluskar sang Vande Mataram. Maulana Mohammad Ali Jauhar, who was presiding over the session, objected to the singing and walked out in protest.

The controversy took a further institutional turn in 1937. The Congress Working Committee decided that, at national gatherings, only the first two stanzas of Vande Mataram would be sung. The decision was taken after deliberations involving several prominent Congress leaders, including Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, Subhas Chandra Bose, Maulana Abul Kalam Azad, Rabindranath Tagore, Rajendra Prasad and others. Thus, it is historically inaccurate to portray the 1937 decision as the personal decision of Jawaharlal Nehru alone.

The stated concern was that the later portions of the song contained religious imagery that could offend sections of the Muslim community. Consequently, the first two stanzas were considered suitable for use at national gatherings.

In 1950, Vande Mataram was accorded the status of India's National Song, while Jana Gana Mana was adopted as the National Anthem. The two therefore occupy distinct but constitutionally recognised places in India's national tradition.

This history inevitably raises a difficult question.

If restricting Vande Mataram to its first two stanzas was intended, at least in part, to address the objections of sections of the Muslim community, did that accommodation actually resolve the underlying political disagreement? If it did not, then what was the justification for asking the overwhelming majority of Indians to accept restrictions upon a song that had become a powerful symbol of the freedom struggle?

And if the accommodation was insufficient to satisfy the Muslim League and other communal forces, why did the Congress nevertheless choose to modify the manner in which Vande Mataram was sung?

More fundamentally, one may ask whether the Congress leadership, in its pursuit of communal harmony, sometimes went too far in accommodating communal objections at the cost of the sentiments of millions of Indians who regarded Vande Mataram as a symbol of national pride and sacrifice. These questions become even more significant when viewed against the events that followed. India was ultimately partitioned in 1947 on communal lines. In that historical context, the decision to restrict the national use of Vande Mataram inevitably invites debate over whether such compromises genuinely promoted national unity or merely encouraged further demands for political accommodation.

The issue, therefore, is not simply about a song. It is about a larger question: How far should a national movement, and later a national political party, go in accommodating religious objections to symbols that have become deeply embedded in the country's struggle for freedom and national identity?

These questions become even more significant when viewed against the events that followed. India was ultimately partitioned in 1947 on communal lines. That is a question which deserves to be examined through history rather than partisan politics.

 

India Must Recognise Balochistan

 The Government of India must formally recognise the newly declared Government of Balochistan. For all practical purposes, Balochistan has severed its ties with Pakistan. The Baloch people never acceded to Pakistani rule in spirit, culminating in their long-awaited declaration of independence on August 11th.

As Pakistan’s principal military quadrant and home to its strategic nuclear assets—now effectively under Baloch control—the changing dynamics in Quetta demand an immediate response. The Government of India’s silence on this unfolding reality is baffling. Pragmatic realpolitik dictates that India takes the lead in rallying international recognition for an independent Balochistan.

Neither the military nor civil writ of Islamabad holds sway over Baloch territory any longer. For decades, the authoritarian, Punjab-dominated military apparatus maintained a heavy-handed grip on the region, suppressing its persistent demands for freedom. Accounting for nearly 350,000 square kilometres—roughly 44 per cent of Pakistan’s total landmass—Balochistan is geographically its largest province. In truth, save for Punjab, no province—whether Sindh, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, or Pakistan-occupied Jammu and Kashmir (PoJK)—wishes to remain part of the federation.

History bears testimony to this structural flaw. Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, revered as Sarhadi Gandhi, steadfastly opposed the partition of India. Ironically, the ideological impetus for Pakistan originated among Muslims of the United Provinces (now Uttar Pradesh) and Bengal. While Bengalis carved out Bangladesh in 1971, the ideologues from UP chose to remain in India—sparing themselves the plight of the Mohajirs in Pakistan yet causing enduring damage to India’s economic and communal harmony.

One hopes that the liberation of Balochistan serves as a definitive eye-opener for the global community.

 

Artificial Intelligence Is the Only Way Forward for Judicial Reform

 Justice P. S. Kailasam, who served on the Supreme Court in the 1970s, once observed that on Mondays and Fridays the Court heard roughly 280 Special Leave Petitions (SLPs), and nearly half of them were admitted. Today, the picture is dramatically different. More than 96,000 cases are pending before the Supreme Court of India, with some litigants waiting for justice for over three decades.

Incidentally, Justice Kailasam was the father-in-law of senior Congress leader P. Chidambaram and the father of designated senior advocate Nalini Chidambaram. P Chidambaram also finds mention in K. K. Venugopal's recent memoir, An Accidental Lawyer: My Adventures in Law and Life. Nonagenarian KK Venugopal is himself a legendary lawyer.

In a written reply to the Rajya Sabha, Union Law Minister Arjun Ram Meghwal stated the other day that the Supreme Court has 96,024 pending cases, including 10,094 pending for more than ten years, 558 pending for over twenty years, and 26 cases that have remained unresolved for more than thirty years. Across the country, the total pendency has crossed 5.64 crore cases, highlighting the staggering burden on India's judicial system.

The Minister pointed out that case disposal falls within the judiciary's domain and that delays arise from several factors, including the complexity of cases, the availability of evidence, and the cooperation of investigating agencies, witnesses, and litigants. He also referred to measures such as the ₹7,210 crore e-Courts Phase III project and the establishment of Fast Track Special Courts to improve access to justice and reduce pendency.

While these initiatives deserve appreciation, they do not address the fundamental problem. Unless Artificial Intelligence is integrated extensively into the justice delivery system, the backlog will continue to grow. Merely increasing the sanctioned strength of judges—from the Supreme Court to the district judiciary—will not produce the transformative results that the country urgently needs.

Consider the thousands of cheque dishonour cases under Section 138 of the Negotiable Instruments Act that continue to clog district courts. Many of these cases involve repetitive factual issues and standard legal questions, making them ideal candidates for AI-assisted case management. Likewise, the cross-examination of multiple witnesses, which can often be completed within a day through proper scheduling and technological assistance, routinely stretches over several years because of procedural delays and inefficient case management.

It is perplexing that the Indian judiciary, from the Supreme Court to the district courts, remains hesitant to embrace Artificial Intelligence on a meaningful scale. AI is not a substitute for judges; it is a tool that can significantly enhance judicial efficiency by assisting in research, document analysis, scheduling, transcription, translation, precedent identification, drafting, and case management, thereby allowing judges to devote more time to adjudication.

India is home to one of the world's largest pools of scientific and technological talent. Yet even comparatively modest reforms, such as the widespread live streaming of court proceedings, have taken years to implement and are still absent in hundreds of courts. This slow pace of technological adoption reflects an institutional reluctance to embrace innovation.

Resistance to AI often stems from concerns about reliability, accountability, judicial independence, and the possibility of technological errors. While such concerns deserve careful consideration, they cannot become an excuse for maintaining an outdated system that is already overwhelmed by mounting arrears. Proper safeguards, human oversight, and phased implementation can address these legitimate apprehensions.

The judiciary exists to deliver timely justice. When millions of citizens spend years—sometimes decades—awaiting decisions, incremental reforms are no longer enough. Technology, particularly Artificial Intelligence, is not a luxury but a necessity. Nations that embrace technological innovation will strengthen their justice systems; those that resist it risk falling further behind. If India is serious about judicial reform, the large-scale adoption of Artificial Intelligence is no longer a matter of choice—it is an imperative.

 

Allahabad High Court Judge's Appropriate Decision to Recuse Himself

 An Allahabad High Court judge has, in my humble opinion, taken the right decision to recuse himself from a case. He stated in open court that he had been approached by both parties to show them some favour. In my humble opinion, the matter concerns the grant of bail to a large number of persons lodged in jail.

There was a time when even the faintest whisper casting doubt on a judge's impartiality was enough for the judge to recuse himself or herself, without the slightest hesitation. I vividly remember an incident involving the Presiding Officer of the Industrial Tribunal at Tis Hazari Courts, Delhi. He recused himself from hearing a case on the ground that the counsel appearing for the management was a distant relative of his. I personally told him that I had no objection to his deciding the matter, but he politely declined and recused himself, nonetheless.

The Presiding Officer was a retired District Judge from Uttar Pradesh who had been appointed by the Delhi government to head the Industrial Tribunal. Such conduct by judges inspires confidence not only among litigants but also in the minds of the general public. It reinforces the fundamental principle that justice must not only be done but must also be seen to be done.

The contrast with the present day is striking. Increasingly, parties are compelled to seek the recusal of judges, often leading to public controversy and allegations against the judiciary. The proceedings in certain high-profile cases, including those involving Mr Arvind Kejriwal, illustrate how contentious such issues have become.

There is, of course, a legitimate concern that unscrupulous litigants may make baseless allegations against judges who are otherwise fair, honest, and upright, merely to secure a different Bench. However, where circumstances create a reasonable apprehension that a judge's impartiality may be questioned—or where the judge himself discloses that attempts have been made by litigants to improperly influence the proceedings—it is both prudent and appropriate for the judge to step aside. Such tactics may succeed only once or twice, but they cannot become a substitute for the judicial process.

In the present case, the Allahabad High Court judge has adopted the most appreciable course. Had he proceeded to hear the matter, whichever side lost would almost certainly have questioned the fairness of the outcome. By recusing himself, he has protected not only the integrity of the proceedings but also the credibility of the institution he serves