Saudi Arabia Must Hang Its Head in Shame over the Barbaric Execution of Two Bangladeshis

 How can the so-called civilised nations of the world, particularly those that proclaim themselves champions of human rights, remain silent in the face of the reported execution of two Bangladeshis in Mecca? Where are the voices that rise so readily in defence of human dignity, the rule of law and the right to life when confronted with such a disturbing case?

The two Bangladeshis, identified as Nazrul Islam Abdul Basir and Siti Akhtar, were reportedly executed on October 14 over alleged “immoral acts” inside a mosque in Mecca. They were said to have been clicking photographs because it was unthinkable to have indulged in a sexual act in the full glare of thousands of people. Yet Saudi authorities have not publicly disclosed detailed information about the specific acts for which the couple were sentenced to death. When the ultimate punishment is imposed, the public is entitled to ask a fundamental question: what precisely was the offence, what evidence was presented, and by what judicial process was the death sentence justified?

The circumstances surrounding these executions raise grave concerns about transparency, due process and the protection of fundamental human rights. Nazrul’s family has reportedly questioned the fairness of his trial. More disturbingly, the Bangladeshi government has stated that it learnt of the executions through media reports and has sought an explanation from Saudi authorities. If the reported circumstances are accurate, the failure to notify the government of the fate of its citizens represents a deeply troubling lapse in transparency and diplomatic accountability.

The reported use of ta'zir punishment makes the matter particularly deserving of scrutiny. Under the Islamic legal framework, ta'zir generally refers to punishments left to judicial or state discretion for offences not subject to fixed hadd penalties. The existence of judicial discretion, however, cannot by itself answer the essential questions of proportionality, procedural fairness and the protection of human life. Discretion must never become a substitute for accountability.

Equally disturbing is the reported method of execution. Beheading, an exceptionally brutal form of capital punishment, raises profound questions about human dignity and the continued use of the death penalty in the modern world. Whatever offence a person is alleged to have committed, the administration of justice must not become an occasion for the state to demonstrate the power to take life without providing a transparent and credible account of the proceedings.

And what of the right to legal representation? Were the accused afforded effective access to counsel? Were they able to challenge the evidence, appeal their convictions and seek appropriate legal assistance? Were the charges, verdicts and sentences communicated to their families and to the Bangladeshi authorities? These are not peripheral questions. They go to the very heart of justice. The reported failure to inform Bangladesh of the executions makes it all the more urgent that these matters be clarified publicly.

Saudi Arabia cannot expect to command international respect merely by virtue of its wealth, religious significance or geopolitical influence. A state that exercises the power of life and death must be prepared to account for the manner in which that power is exercised. Religious sanctity cannot be invoked to place state action beyond scrutiny, nor can claims of morality excuse the denial of basic procedural safeguards.

The silence of the international community, if it persists in the face of credible concerns, would be equally troubling. Governments, human rights institutions and international organisations should seek a full explanation from Saudi Arabia, establish whether international human rights obligations and applicable legal safeguards were respected, and press for greater transparency in capital cases. Bangladesh, in particular, deserves a clear and comprehensive account of the proceedings involving its citizens.

The issue is larger than the fate of two individuals, tragic though that fate may be. It concerns the kind of justice that modern states must be expected to administer. No legal system should be immune from scrutiny merely because its practices are defended in the name of tradition, religion or sovereignty. Tradition cannot be an excuse for cruelty, and sovereignty cannot be a licence for secrecy.

Saudi Arabia must answer the serious questions raised by these reported executions. The international community must not look away. The right to life, the right to a fair trial and the dignity of every human being demand nothing less.

 

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.

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

The Monument Associated with Maulana Jauhar Must Be Reconsidered

Instead of merely demolishing the unauthorised structures of Maulana Mohammad Ali Jauhar University in Rampur, it would be more meaningful to rename the institution after a nationalist Muslim or Dalit leader who made a lasting contribution to education and social upliftment. Retaining the name of Maulana Mohammad Ali Jauhar, in my view, is inconsistent with the secular and democratic ideals of independent India. The choice of such a name reflected the ideological preferences of its founder, Azam Khan.

Maulana Mohammad Ali Jauhar and his brother, Maulana Shaukat Ali, were among the most influential Muslim political leaders of the pre-independence period. Although Mohammad Ali Jauhar briefly associated himself with the Indian National Congress, he later distanced himself from it and aligned himself with the politics of the Muslim League. During his presidency of the Congress, he attended a session of the Muslim League and sharply criticised Mahatma Gandhi, making the controversial remark: “I do hold an adulterous and a fallen Musselman to be better than Mr. Gandhi.” Such statements reflected the deep political and ideological divisions that had emerged during the closing decades of British rule.

Gandhi had initially supported the Khilafat Movement and worked closely with the Ali brothers in the hope of fostering Hindu-Muslim unity. However, after the abolition of the Ottoman Caliphate and the collapse of the movement, their political paths diverged. Mohammad Ali Jauhar became an outspoken critic of Gandhi, accusing him of inconsistency.

From this perspective, it may be argued that institutions or public monuments commemorating personalities closely associated with the politics that culminated in Partition deserve reconsideration. Such historical figures should certainly be studied in schools and universities, but naming public institutions after them raises legitimate questions about the values that independent India wishes to celebrate.

The history of Partition also contains several unresolved anomalies. It has often been argued that, during the negotiations surrounding Partition, there were proposals involving the exchange of major educational institutions, including Aligarh Muslim University and Lahore's DAV College, although these proposals never materialised. Likewise, questions continue to be raised regarding the minority character of institutions such as Aligarh Muslim University and Jamia Millia Islamia, particularly because members of Scheduled Castes who belong to non-minority communities do not receive reservation benefits in these institutions.

It is also noteworthy that Nawab Mohammad Ismail Khan, a prominent Muslim League leader associated with the demand for Pakistan, chose to remain in India after Partition and subsequently served as the first Vice-Chancellor of Aligarh Muslim University in independent India, although all his three sons shifted to Pakistan and enjoyed very high positions in that country. Similarly, a number of Muslims who had migrated to Pakistan later returned and reclaimed their properties in India. These historical developments continue to influence public debate about the legacy of Partition and the manner in which independent India remembers that era.

In my opinion, while personalities such as Maulana Mohammad Ali Jauhar should undoubtedly remain part of India's historical discourse, public institutions and monuments bearing their names warrant a fresh and objective review. Independent India should reserve such honours for individuals whose contributions unequivocally strengthened national unity, constitutional values, and social harmony.

A Misplaced Critique: Why Justice Ujjal Bhuyan’s Observations Miss the Mark

 

Supreme Court Justice Ujjal Bhuyan’s recent remarks at the Justice G.P. Singh Memorial Lecture in Bhopal are, regrettably, neither legally sound nor logically acceptable. Expressing concern over the alleged criminalisation of "normal activities," he criticised what he termed a disproportionate police response to youths organising an Iftar and consuming chicken on a boat on the Ganga River. Questioning their arrest and subsequent three-month denial of bail, he argued that "there is no law prohibiting the consumption of chicken over the Ganga."

With the utmost respect to the honourable judge, I must strongly beg to differ. I wish to draw attention to Section 196 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), which addresses the offence of promoting enmity between different groups on the grounds of religion, race, place of birth, or residence. Criminal liability hinges on two foundational elements: mens rea (guilty intent) and actus reus (guilty act). In this incident, both elements undeniably coexisted. The actions of these individuals on the Ganges were not benign; they constituted a deliberate offence.

In a communally sensitive atmosphere, choosing to break a religious fast by consuming meat on the Ganga—a river revered as profoundly sacred by the majority of the country—was a calculated act of provocation. This was not a simple dietary choice; it was a brazen affront designed to mock and deliberately hurt the religious sentiments of the majority community in a deeply venerated space.

It is unfortunate that instead of commending the authorities for their timely intervention—which likely prevented the situation from spiralling out of control—the honourable judge chose to criticise them. The BNS clearly stipulates that committing an offence in a place of worship or during religious ceremonies carries a penalty of up to five years of imprisonment, alongside a fine. By consuming chicken and discarding the waste directly into the holy river, the intent of these miscreants to foment unrest was glaringly clear.

 

Protests at Jantar Mantar were bound to collapse

 From day one, it was a foregone conclusion that the Jantar Mantar movement was bound to fail, as it was taken over by lumpen elements, transgenders, and loose girls spitting indecent abuse. It was an open secret that the so-called movement was foreign-funded, as the meals distributed at the protest site were ordered from Germany, the US, and Dubai. Now, with the resignation of Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan, there is nothing left, and most of them have already dispersed. The number of students participating in the protest was negligible, as they had already seen through the politics of some Aandolanjivis. Many faces appear only during some or other agitation.

What was most disturbing was that these protestors were crossing all the limits of obscenity during the demonstrations. There was one demonstrator who was seen flashing his private part, and many lumpen girls were seen indulging in vulgar dance. What was all the more condemnable was the misbehaviour towards media persons. They were abused and molested.

Even Sonam Wangchuk, who had brought some energy to the protests, has disowned the CJP movement. One may recall that the day Deepake returned from the US and sought permission from the Delhi police to hold a protest at Jantar Mantar, he was readily granted permission, but there were not a dozen persons with them. It was Mr Wangchuk who brought some Ladakhis to give it the look of a protest.

The real drama began to unfold when some political parties brought their own supporters to participate in the march, and they started pulling the protests in their own directions. Rahul Gandhi, who looks like a dry drug addict, changed the venue from Jantar Mantar to a high-security zone near the PM residence. Others like Akhilesh Yadav, who is totally bereft of any ideas, were clueless about the protests. Persons like Kejriwal were trying to hijack, but Dipake and his company opposed them. Thus, the protest was rudderless from the beginning. However, if the Delhi police is not allowed to take any action against the lumpen elements, it will send a bad message to law-abiding citizens and among law-enforcing agencies.

Experts will have to devise ways to Prevent Unruly Ruckus in Courtrooms

The deplorable drama witnessed yesterday, i.e. Friday, in the Supreme Court courtroom defies all logic in the functioning of the court. Nobody has a ready-made answer to how such sordid scenes can be averted. There is no doubt that both judges on the bench have a high reputation for commendable behaviour, and the way the petitioner-in-person presented his case in court appeared to be mentally deranged. In a short span of a few months, such incidents have occurred twice in the Supreme Court, and if steps are not taken to prevent them, they are bound to occur elsewhere as well.

The petitioner-in-person is said to be an advocate by training. Earlier, the person who attempted to hurl shoes at the then CJI, Justice Gawai, was also an advocate. We have been watching such incidents in Parliament, Assemblies, hospitals and other areas of public life, but courts have been largely free from such unruly behaviour. Heated arguments have certainly taken place between lawyers and judges elsewhere, but no one can blame either lawyers or judges alone. Both have been responsible in their own way; however, what happened yesterday was unprecedented.

In fact, the courts and other experts will have to jointly think over devising ways to prevent the occurrence of such incidents

Appointment of a Dalit as the General Secretary of Ram Janmabhoomi Nyas Must Be Welcomed

 The appointment of Shri Krishna Mohan, a member of the Dalit community, as the Chief Executive Officer of the Ram Janmabhoomi Trust in Ayodhya deserves to be wholeheartedly welcomed. He succeeds Shri Champat Rai Bansal in overseeing the administration of the grand Shri Ram Temple, one of the most significant religious and cultural projects in independent India.

This appointment also serves as a powerful response to the politics of caste symbolism. Those who repeatedly invoke the slogan of "PDA" while claiming to champion the cause of the marginalised now find their narrative seriously weakened. Shri Akhilesh Yadav and his party have long relied on caste-based political mobilisation in Uttar Pradesh. Yet the decision of the Nyas demonstrates that genuine social inclusion is achieved through meaningful responsibility and leadership, not merely through electoral rhetoric. Despite projecting himself as a modern, educated leader, Shri Yadav too often reduces public discourse to narrow caste calculations, exposing the hollowness of his claims.

The contribution of Shri Champat Rai to the construction and management of the grand Ram Temple is beyond dispute. His dedication and administrative ability have earned him widespread respect across the country and abroad. Many facilities available to devotees today—including wheelchairs for the elderly and differently abled, well-organised pilgrim services, and free darshan for all—reflect the vision and commitment of the Nyas. In several respects, these arrangements compare favourably even with those at some of India's most prominent temples.

It is, therefore, both unfortunate and puzzling that attempts are now being made to cast aspersions on the temple administration over allegations relating to donation receipts. In most temples across India, devotees make offerings as an act of faith without expecting formal receipts for every contribution. Any genuine complaint should, of course, be examined fairly. Still, it is equally important that speculation and politically motivated campaigns do not undermine the credibility of an institution built through the sacrifices and devotion of millions.

There is an old belief in the Awadh region that Ayodhya has never spared even the noblest of its inhabitants from controversy. Since the time of Lord Shri Ram and Mata Sita, great personalities associated with this sacred city have faced trials, criticism, and allegations despite their virtue. It is therefore reasonable to expect that a selfless individual like Shri Champat Rai will emerge with his integrity intact after any fair and impartial inquiry.

Ayodhya, once neglected for centuries, has today been transformed into a city of pride and spiritual grandeur. A substantial share of the credit belongs to Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath, whose leadership, together with the Ram Janmabhumi Nyas, has restored the city's historical and civilizational glory. This transformation will be remembered for generations. Those who seek to exploit controversies for political gain or create unnecessary discord around this sacred project may earn temporary headlines, but history is unlikely to judge them kindly.

 

Hopefully, the Indo-Bangladesh border will soon be fenced

 One shudders to think about the situation in West Bengal if Mamata Banerjee had again returned to power. Lawlessness and goondaism would have gone beyond imagination. The way Bangladeshi intruders occupied the streets and roads, and nobody had the guts to speak against them because the administration of Mamata Banerjee was always there to stand by the lawbreakers.

The fencing of the Indo-Bangladesh border could not be carried out because there was no local administrative support. The Bangladeshi intruders are now creating hurdles in fencing off the borders.

As a result of the porous border, cattle smuggling and other problems have crept up in India. The total length of the Indo–Bangladesh border in West Bengal is 22,17 km, out of which 1648 km has already been covered by a fence. With the change of government in West Bengal, it is hoped that the rest of the border will soon be fenced.

The way protest marches were taken out on the renaming of Suhrawardy Street after Gopal Prasad Mukherji, who was also known as Gopal Patha, the Hindu leader of pre-partition India, who saved thousands of Hindu men, women and children, is a matter of shame. Some people say the street was not named after the killer Suhrawardy, who later became the Prime Minister of Pakistan, but after his nephew, who happened to be the Vice Chancellor of Calcutta University. The moot question is why the name of any Suhrawardy should be there in any form?

What is more tragic is that the TMC has not expressed any regret so far over this situation in West Bengal, for which it is directly responsible. It is expected that the border will be fenced sooner rather than later, making the lives of the people and the security of the country safer.

 

 

 

 

Refusal of Lawters body to take up any case is unjustifed

 Disturbing reports from Ayodhya indicate that the district's legal fraternity has resolved not to represent individuals accused of misappropriating donations made to the Ram Mandir. If the allegations are true, the alleged theft of devotees' offerings is unquestionably reprehensible, and those responsible should be punished in accordance with the law. However, how can a body of lawyers effectively treat an accused person as guilty even before a court has conducted a trial?

The lawyers' association has adopted this position as a mark of protest against the alleged misappropriation of temple donations. It has reportedly also warned that any advocate who appears on behalf of the accused will face a penalty of ₹5 lakh.

In addition, the association has demanded that prominent temple trust functionaries, including Champat Rai and Anil Mishra, leave Ayodhya, failing which it has threatened to blockade the entire city. This collective boycott has reignited an important constitutional debate about every accused person's right to legal representation and a fair trial.

Indian law, including the Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita, recognises the right of every accused person to be represented by a lawyer. Where an accused is unable to engage or afford legal counsel, legal assistance is available through the Legal Services Authorities constituted under the Legal Services Authorities Act, 1987.

The right to legal representation does not imply innocence. Rather, it ensures that guilt or innocence is determined through a fair, impartial, and lawful judicial process. Indian courts have consistently affirmed that the legal profession exists to serve the administration of justice, not to reflect public outrage or popular sentiment. Representing an accused person is not an endorsement of the alleged crime.

Although an advocate may exercise personal discretion in accepting a brief, the legal framework of India is unequivocal: every accused person, irrespective of the nature of the allegations, is entitled to competent legal representation and a meaningful opportunity to defend themselves before a court of law.

An advocate's foremost duty is to uphold the rule of law, which rests on the fundamental principle that every person is presumed innocent until proven guilty. The presumption of innocence is a cornerstone of criminal jurisprudence and remains intact until a competent court records a conviction after a fair trial.

Indeed, even when a lawyer personally believes, or is aware, that a client may have committed an offence, professional ethics require the lawyer to provide competent, diligent, and fearless representation within the bounds of the law. A lawyer's duty is not to determine guilt, but to ensure that justice is administered through due process and that the constitutional guarantees of a fair trial are preserved for every individual.

Law without morality is a body without a soul

It is often said that “law without morality is a body without a soul.” The maxim suggests that what is legally permissible may not always be morally acceptable, and what is morally objectionable may not necessarily amount to a legal wrong. In a recent judgment, the Punjab and Haryana High Court held that a married woman meeting her former partner on a single occasion, even in a compromising situation, cannot automatically be treated as proof of adultery.

The case arose from a matrimonial dispute involving an Indian Navy officer who alleged that his wife refused to share a bed with him and continued to maintain a relationship with her former boyfriend after marriage. The Family Court granted a decree of divorce on the ground of mental cruelty. However, while considering the allegations of adultery, the High Court observed that a solitary incident was insufficient to establish that the wife was living in an adulterous relationship. The Court reiterated that adultery is a serious allegation and must be proved through cogent, convincing, and continuous evidence rather than through suspicion, assumptions, or isolated encounters.

Learned trial court, in its rightful wisdom, also observed that the conduct of the respondent-wife in meeting her male friend, being a single incident, cannot be said to indicate that she was living in adultery with him. The marriage had taken place in November 2021, and no child was born from the union. The husband alleged that his wife was quarrelsome, frequently returned home late, refused to share a bed with him, and spent long hours on her mobile phone talking to other people. The wife denied these allegations and, in turn, accused the husband and his family of subjecting her to dowry-related harassment. She further alleged that her father-in-law had improper intentions towards her and that her husband failed to support her when she complained about his conduct.

The Family Court found serious inconsistencies in the wife's version of events. It was observed that her allegation against her father-in-law appeared improbable, particularly because she continued to communicate with him despite claiming that he had improper intentions towards her. On that basis, the court treated her allegations with caution.

Judgments of the High Courts and the Supreme Court serve as precedents that guide the adjudication of future cases involving similar issues. Therefore, judicial pronouncements often have implications extending beyond the parties before the court. One has reasons to disagree with the High Court's approach and argue that matrimonial fidelity occupies a special place in Indian society, particularly among Hindus, where marriage is regarded not merely as a contract but as a sacrament. From this perspective, the vows exchanged during marriage represent solemn commitments that courts should seek to uphold in order to preserve mutual trust and confidence between spouses.

Others may contend that courts must distinguish between moral disapproval and legal proof. They may argue that a finding of adultery should rest on clear and convincing evidence rather than conjecture, however strong the suspicions may be. The maxim Fiat justitia ruat caelum.Let justice be done though the heavens fall is the most appropriate in this case. The debate, therefore, lies at the intersection of law, morality, and the institution of marriage—a field in which courts are often required to balance legal standards of proof with prevailing social and moral expectations. That the judges have thus "made a mockery of the law by keeping the tradition and morality at bay. Oliver Wendell Holmes had said that” The life of the law has not been logic; it has been experience."

Time to Replace the Press Council of India with a Media Council(Concluding Part)

The limitations of the Council are not merely jurisdictional. It is often criticised for lacking effective enforcement powers. Its authority is confined largely to issuing warnings, admonitions, or censures. It cannot impose meaningful penalties, levy fines, suspend operations, or enforce compliance with its decisions. Consequently, many of its rulings are ignored, reducing its effectiveness and diminishing its relevance.

Moreover, the rise of corporate ownership, concentration of media power, paid news, advertorial masquerading as journalism, and growing ideological polarisation have transformed the media environment in ways that the existing statutory framework is ill-equipped to address. Political considerations and institutional constraints have frequently undermined the Council's credibility and capacity to act as an independent regulator.

In the digital era, the regulatory focus has increasingly shifted toward the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting and various rules framed under the Information Technology Act. These mechanisms now address much of the content regulation relating to digital and broadcast media, further marginalising the role of the Press Council.

Adding to its diminishing relevance is the fact that the Working Journalists Act, one of the principal legislative pillars recommended by the First Press Commission, has effectively been subsumed within the new labour codes, including the Occupational Safety, Health and Working Conditions Code, the Industrial Relations Code, the Code on Wages, and the Code on Social Security. With the dilution and fragmentation of the original statutory framework governing journalists' service conditions, one of the historical justifications for the existence of the Press Council has substantially weakened.

The time has therefore come for a fundamental reappraisal of media regulation in India. Rather than attempting to retrofit an institution designed for the print era, Parliament should consider replacing the Press Council of India with a comprehensive Media Council of India. Such a body should encompass print, electronic, digital, and emerging forms of media under a single regulatory framework. It must be independent of both governmental and corporate influence, representative of diverse stakeholders, and vested with limited but meaningful enforcement powers to ensure accountability.

A Media Council equipped with adequate statutory authority, transparent procedures, and jurisdiction across all media platforms would be better suited to protect freedom of expression while promoting responsibility, accuracy, ethical conduct, and public trust. In an age where information travels instantly across multiple platforms and reaches millions within seconds, India requires a regulator designed for the realities of the twenty-first century, not one conceived for the media environment of the 1950s. Media Council must be constituted with the peers of the profession.

The Press Council of India played an important role in the formative decades of Indian democracy. Its historical contribution deserves recognition and respect. However, institutions must evolve with changing times. The continued existence of a body whose jurisdiction and powers are increasingly inadequate serves neither the media nor the public interest. The moment is ripe to bid farewell to the Press Council of India and establish a robust, modern, and effective Media Council capable of meeting the challenges of the contemporary information age.