The recent courtroom storm that shook the nation’s conscience — when a 71-year-old lawyer hurled a shoe at Chief Justice of India B.R. Gavai — has triggered widespread condemnation. The incident, unfolding in the very sanctum of justice, was rightly denounced by leaders across the spectrum, including Prime Minister Narendra Modi, as unacceptable in any civilised democracy. Yet beneath the collective outrage lies a troubling question: what drives such public despair toward the judiciary, once regarded as India’s most trusted institution?
Even as civility demands the strongest condemnation of the hurling (or rather, attempted) act, the incident also raises a collateral question — what caused it to trigger in the first place? Dr. Rakesh Kishore is on record stating that he merely reacted to the Chief Justice’s remark, implying that the provocation originated from the Bench itself. By no stretch of reasoning, therefore, can Dr. Kishore be arraigned as a provocateur or for desecrating the fount of justice.
It is also a fact of courtroom life that their Lordships are sometimes given to tongue-in-cheek comments — of the unwarranted kind — much to the discomfiture of hapless counsel who grin and bear it for fear of ‘courting’ displeasure and falling from the grace of judicial divinity. In Dr. Kishore’s case, however, that familiar template took a new shape — setting in motion a renewed discourse on the restraint of speech within the sanctum of justice and on the flourishing of obiter dicta that have too often come to be accepted as judicial prerogative.
To his credit, Chief Justice Gavai chose not to file a complaint against Dr. Kishore. His restraint perhaps reflected an awareness that the act, though condemnable, was born not of criminal intent but of anguish and loss of faith in judicial balance. As Justice V.R. Krishna Iyer once observed, “Compassion is the highest expression of justice.” Chief Justice Gavai’s decision to show restraint may have stemmed from that same wisdom — that sometimes the law must temper punishment with empathy.
Yet this episode has exposed a widening rift between India’s judiciary and the majority community, particularly followers of Sanātana Dharma, who constitute over 80 percent of the country’s 140 crore citizens. Sanātanis have historically embodied tolerance, coexistence, and non-violence — the same virtues embedded in the teachings of Buddhism, Jainism, and the Vedas. But tolerance is now being tested by what many perceive as selective judicial sensitivity.
When a Hindu symbol or deity is mocked in the name of free speech, silence often prevails. But when similar remarks are made about other faiths, outrage erupts, fatwas are issued, and political parties compete to appear “sensitive.” The hypocrisy is glaring. The brutal killing of Kanhaiya Lal, the Udaipur tailor murdered in 2022 for defending former BJP spokesperson Nupur Sharma on social media, remains one of the most shocking reminders of this imbalance. While the Supreme Court in State of Rajasthan v. Kanhaiya Lal condemned the act as “an assault on the rule of law,” many political voices that now demand punishment for a shoe-throwing lawyer remained conspicuously silent then.
Even within the judiciary, patterns of inconsistency have deepened public disillusionment. When the Supreme Court recently dismissed petitions seeking the reconstruction of ancient Hindu temples destroyed centuries ago, but simultaneously entertained other faith-based pleas under the banner of “minority rights,” questions of equal treatment inevitably arose. Article 14 of the Constitution guarantees equality before law — a principle repeatedly upheld in verdicts such as S.R. Bommai v. Union of India (1994), where secularism was defined as “equal respect to all religions.” Equal respect, however, cannot mean selective empathy.
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The Bar Council’s prompt decision to suspend Dr. Kishore’s licence pending inquiry was legally sound, for professional misconduct cannot be excused. But the hasty vilification of the man, without hearing his side, reveals a judiciary increasingly intolerant of dissent. In a video now circulating widely — shared even by independent commentators like Dr. Anand Ranganathan — Dr. Kishore clarified that he was no “lunatic,” but a qualified scholar with a PhD and a law degree, who acted out of deep frustration at perceived judicial bias against Hindu causes. His conduct was impulsive and wrong — but his grievance resonated with many who feel the courts have grown distant from the pulse of the people.
This disconnect cannot be ignored. Over the decades, successive governments — particularly during the Congress era — reshaped the constitutional fabric through amendments and interpretations that often leaned toward appeasement politics. The 42nd Amendment inserted the term “secular” into the Preamble, but practice since then has often turned secularism into code for minority pandering. The judiciary, which should have stood as the guardian of neutrality, has at times appeared to tread the same path. The Shah Bano v. Union of India (1985) case remains the most glaring example: the Supreme Court’s progressive verdict upholding a Muslim woman’s right to maintenance was overturned by the government under clerical pressure, undermining both judicial independence and women’s rights.
In contrast, Sanātana Dharma’s followers have shown extraordinary restraint. Despite centuries of invasions, conversions, temple desecrations, and legal neglect, they continue to uphold non-violence and faith in the system. No mobs, no beheadings, no threats to judges — just the silent endurance of a civilisation that still believes in law and dharma. The shoe incident, therefore, should not be read merely as contempt of court but as a symbol of a society’s growing frustration with perceived injustice and double standards.
As Justice H.R. Khanna cautioned in his immortal dissent in ADM Jabalpur v. Shivkant Shukla (1976): “The Constitution is not a mere lawyer’s document; it is a vehicle of life, and its spirit is always the spirit of age.” When institutions appear blind to that spirit, faith begins to erode.
The message to the judiciary is simple yet profound. Sanātanis are patient, but patience is not endless. Respect for faith, fairness in judgment, and equality before law are not privileges to be granted — they are constitutional imperatives. The courts must introspect, not only to punish offenders but also to restore balance in perception and practice. For in a democracy built on faith and tolerance, the difference between the two can no longer be taken for granted.
