CJI Surya Kant Deserves Commendation for Refusing to Meet Opposition Leaders

Chief Justice of India Justice Surya Kant deserves to be complimented for refusing to meet a delegation of politicians that included the Leaders of the Opposition in the Lok Sabha and the Rajya Sabha. The CJI rightly observed that meeting to discuss matters connected with pending cases would violate the constitutional principle of separation of powers and established norms of judicial propriety.

The INDIA Bloc leaders had sought an appointment to submit a memorandum raising concerns over the Chief Election Commissioner of India, alleged arbitrary arrests of students, the closure of metro stations, the cancellation of trains, and other issues.

What is particularly objectionable and surprising, however, is the very decision of these political leaders to seek an appointment with the CJI to raise such issues. Did they not understand that the judiciary cannot be approached as a forum for political intervention, nor can political leaders expect the Chief Justice to entertain representations that may have a bearing on matters falling within the judicial domain? The constitutional separation of powers is not a mere formality to be invoked selectively; it is a fundamental principle that must be respected by all constitutional functionaries.

The CJI was also right in maintaining that the responsibility for preserving law and order rests primarily with the executive and the police, not the judiciary. Decisions concerning crowd control, public order and the deployment of police forces must ordinarily be taken by the officers on the ground, who are best placed to assess the prevailing situation. Senior police officers may formulate plans and strategies, but their effective implementation must depend upon the judgment of the personnel dealing with the situation on the spot, within the framework of law.

It is equally important to remember that political leaders, including those holding the highest constitutional offices, cannot seek private audiences with judges to discuss cases pending before them. Not even the Prime Minister or the Home Minister can legitimately seek to influence judicial proceedings through private discussions with a judge. If such conduct would be improper on the part of the highest executive authorities, it cannot become acceptable merely because those seeking an audience belong to the Opposition.

The same principle applies to advocates, irrespective of their seniority, standing or professional reputation. No advocate can claim the privilege of privately discussing the merits of a pending case with a judge outside the established judicial process. Matters requiring judicial consideration must be placed before the court through recognised procedures, in accordance with the law and the principles of fairness.

The CJI’s refusal, therefore, sends an important message: the judiciary is neither an extension of the executive nor a forum for political lobbying. Its independence depends not only upon judges resisting improper approaches but also upon political leaders respecting the boundaries imposed by the Constitution.

Justice Surya Kant’s decision deserves commendation for upholding judicial propriety and reaffirming the institutional distance that must exist between the judiciary and political parties. In a constitutional democracy, the credibility of institutions rests as much on the restraint they exercise as on the powers they possess. This refusal is a welcome reminder that no political leader, however influential, can claim a special channel of access to the judiciary.

CEC can be removed only through certain procedures

 It is nothing short of astonishing that advocates claiming to practise before the Supreme Court should participate in a march demanding the removal of Chief Election Commissioner Gyanesh Kumar. One would expect those who claim familiarity with constitutional law to know that the CEC cannot be removed at the government's whim or by street pressure. His removal is governed by a constitutional process comparable to that applicable to a Supreme Court judge. Unlike a minister, who can be removed by the Prime Minister or, in a state, by the Chief Minister, the CEC enjoys constitutionally protected tenure. Neither political expediency nor public agitation can substitute for the procedure prescribed by the Constitution.

The CEC can be removed only on the grounds of proved misbehaviour or incapacity. The process requires a motion signed by at least 100 members of the Lok Sabha or 50 members of the Rajya Sabha, followed by its admission by the presiding officer. A three-member inquiry committee must examine the charges and allow the CEC to respond. If the charges are not established, the proceedings end. If they are established, both Houses of Parliament must adopt the motion by the constitutionally prescribed special majority in the same session. Until this process is followed, demands for removal remain political slogans, not a constitutional determination. The removal of other Election Commissioners follows a different procedure: the President may remove them on the recommendation of the CEC.

This raises a fundamental question: what business does the Supreme Court Bar Association have in involving itself in a politically charged demand that disregards the constitutional mechanism for removal? A professional body representing the legal fraternity must be guided by constitutional principles, not by the temptation to play to the gallery. Advocates are entitled to protest, but they cannot claim constitutional principles as their professional inheritance while ignoring them when politically convenient.

Equally troubling is the reported intervention of the Bench directing the police to release the advocates concerned. The question is not whether the police are invariably right—they plainly are not. The question is whether the law should be allowed to take its course, subject to judicial scrutiny, rather than being pre-empted merely because those involved happen to be members of the legal fraternity. Neither the police nor the judiciary is infallible; both must remain accountable to the law. The rule of law cannot mean one standard for ordinary citizens and another for advocates.

Another claim circulating in newspaper reports is that the CEC overruled the objections of the other two Election Commissioners. This assertion demands closer scrutiny. The Election Commission is a multi-member body, and its decisions are governed by the applicable statutory framework, including the principle of majority decision-making. The CEC does not possess an unfettered veto over the other Commissioners. If a decision was taken against the majority view, the precise proceedings, recorded dissent and applicable legal provisions must be examined before accepting or rejecting the allegation. A newspaper report is not a substitute for the record, and an allegation is not a fact.

As for the protests reportedly organised by the so-called Cockroach Party, with the backing of other opposition parties, the less said, the better. Political opposition is legitimate in a democracy; so is peaceful protest. But neither political mobilisation nor professional solidarity can override the Constitution.

The real test of constitutional commitment is not whether one can raise a slogan demanding someone's removal, but whether one understands—and respects—the law governing that removal. For advocates, particularly those claiming to practise before the highest court of the land, that distinction should be elementary.

 

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.