5 min readJan 29, 2026 12:46 PM IST
First published on: Oct 9, 2025 at 12:48 PM IST
Earlier this week, a shoe was thrown at Chief Justice of India B R Gavai inside the Supreme Court during the hearing of a case. The act, committed by a 71-year-old lawyer, was as disturbing as it was symbolic — disturbing, because it violated the sanctity of the courtroom; symbolic, because it revealed how anger, once confined to social media, now finds expression within the very institutions that embody reason and restraint.
The Chief Justice’s response was marked by composure. He directed that no charges be pressed, and the matter be closed. The Bar Council of India, however, suspended the lawyer, terming his conduct inconsistent with the dignity of the Court. Yet beyond the immediate condemnations and commentaries, the incident warrants reflection — not on the act itself, but on the circumstances that made it possible.
This is not the first time a judge of the Supreme Court has faced an attack. In 1968, Justices Hidayatullah and Grover were assaulted with a knife inside the courtroom; in 1975, grenades were thrown into Chief Justice A N Ray’s car; and in 2009, a litigant hurled a slipper at Justice Arijit Pasayat during proceedings. But this episode is of a different order. Those earlier attacks came from outside the legal fraternity — from aggrieved citizens or litigants alienated from the system. This one came from within: From a lawyer, an officer of the Court, whose professional oath binds him to uphold its dignity and assist in the administration of justice. When such a breach arises from the Bar itself, it signifies not merely anger but a failure of faith in the very institution the advocate is sworn to serve.
The act was outrageous; its causes are more disquieting. It exposes two deeper ruptures in our civic and judicial discourse.
The first concerns the manner in which judicial speech is now transmitted and consumed. In the age of instant reporting, courtroom remarks are often excerpted, stripped of context, and circulated as stand-alone assertions. The focus is rarely on the legal question being examined but on the personality of the judge or the phrasing of a single comment.
In Chief Justice Gavai’s case, what was an offhand dismissal of a publicity-oriented petition concerning a Lord Vishnu idol was reduced, in headlines, to an episode of irreverence. The nuance — that the Court was discouraging frivolous public interest litigations — was largely lost. Such forms of reportage, designed for engagement rather than understanding, substitute provocation for explanation. They create not informed criticism, but indignation untethered from the substance of adjudication.
The second rupture lies in the growing tendency to attach political or religious meaning to judicial outcomes. When a judgment aligns with one’s position, it is celebrated as justice; when it does not, it is condemned as prejudiced or ideological. The identity and background of the judge become a lens through which justice is interpreted.
When Justice Ahsanuddin Amanullah criticised misleading advertisements in the Patanjali contempt case, his remarks were recast as an attack on Sanatan Dharma simply because the company’s founder is a Hindu religious figure. Conversely, when the Supreme Court delivered its verdict in the Ram Janmbhoomi case, it was portrayed by many as the judicial consecration of a Hindu nation. Both tendencies reflect the same malaise — a refusal to see the Court as an institution governed by law rather than by creed and oblique considerations.
Such attributions strike at the core of judicial authority. The power of a court rests neither on coercion nor on consent, but on trust — the collective belief that its decisions, though imperfect, are reasoned and sincere. When that belief falters, criticism ceases to be corrective and becomes corrosive.
The attack on Chief Justice Gavai, therefore, is not merely an aberration in courtroom decorum; it is a manifestation of a wider loss of faith. It represents the collapsing distinction between disagreement and distrust, between critique and contempt.
Chief Justice Gavai’s decision to forgive his assailant demonstrated a quiet strength — an affirmation that the authority of the Court lies not in retribution but in restraint. Yet forgiveness must be accompanied by reflection. For the Bar, this means reaffirming its duty to preserve the dignity of the Court; for the media, recognising that accuracy is not the enemy of immediacy; and for the citizen, recovering the patience to read before reacting.
The writer leads Charkha, the Constitutional Law Centre at the Vidhi Centre for Legal Policy
In the age of instant reporting, courtroom remarks are often excerpted, stripped of context, and circulated as stand-alone assertions. The focus is rarely on the legal question being examined but on the personality of the judge or the phrasing of a single comment. 
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