Written by Rohini Narayanan and Samrat Pasriccha
In the Bihar Assembly elections, 258 women are contesting against 2,357 men. The numbers tell their own story: Women remain a fraction of India’s political class, even as democracy prides itself on representation. From panchayats to party offices, their participation often takes the form of token representation, with many fielded as stand-ins for male relatives rather than as independent and agentic political actors.
Against this backdrop, the Supreme Court’s decision in Yogamaya MG v. State of Kerala and Ors. feels particularly disquieting. In September, the Court dismissed a petition seeking to bring political parties within the ambit of the Prevention of Sexual Harassment at Workplace (POSH) Act, 2013. “We are not inclined to interfere with the impugned judgment. The Special Leave Petition is accordingly dismissed,” the order read.
With those few words, the Court chose not to engage with a question that goes to the heart of institutional accountability — whether political parties, as employers in all but name, must establish internal complaints committees to address sexual harassment. The decision effectively insulated political parties from a framework that governs every other workspace in India.
In 1997, a three-judge bench of the Supreme Court framed the Vishaka guidelines, mandating mechanisms to prevent and redress sexual harassment at workplaces. Parliament followed with the POSH Act in 2013, translating those principles into law. Yet, in Yogamaya, the Kerala High Court concluded that political parties do not qualify as “workplaces” under the Act and therefore have no legal obligation to institute internal complaints committees.
It was reportedly observed that joining a political party is voluntary and unremunerated, and therefore not equivalent to employment. Extending the Act, the Court reasoned, could “open a Pandora’s box” of blackmail and misuse. Such reasoning, ostensibly cautious, is jurisprudentially untenable. It disregards both statutory text and social reality, where political engagement often constitutes sustained, structured labour.
Section 2(f) of the POSH Act defines an “employee” to include anyone working on a voluntary basis, with or without remuneration. “Workplace” includes any location visited in the course of work. The legislative intent was unambiguous and plain-speaking; however, the Court omitted to base its decision in law.
Thousands of women across the country serve political parties as researchers, organisers, coordinators, and campaign staff. Their vulnerability is not erased by the absence of a payslip. Denying them statutory recourse mistakes form for substance. The POSH Act’s architecture was designed to accommodate such fluidity. By declining to extend it to political parties, Yogamaya circumscribes a law intended to evolve with contemporary workplaces.
The Court’s apprehension about misuse is equally misplaced. The POSH Act already provides safeguards under Section 14, allowing action against false or malicious complaints after due inquiry. The balance between protection and accountability is built into the statute. To exclude entire institutions based on apprehension undermines their normative framework.
Fears of misuse have historically surfaced whenever entrenched hierarchies are asked to submit to scrutiny. Courts, universities, and corporations operate under POSH without collapse. Political parties cannot claim exceptional fragility. Misuse can occur anywhere; it is the absence of procedural mechanisms that sustains impunity.
The democratic promise that every citizen can aspire to leadership remains only partially realised. Women constitute just 13.6 per cent of the 18th Lok Sabha and a slightly higher share in the Rajya Sabha. The forthcoming reservation of one-third of seats for women from 2029 is a step forward, but not enough. Representation cannot only be earned in spirit by occupying 33 per cent of the chairs in the House. It begins by creating conditions necessary to enable women to function within parties, shaping valuable discourse, occupying space on strategy and stage.
The absence of protections and conducive conditions, both in letter and spirit, for women to occupy political spaces impoverishes our political discourse. Without institutional recourse, women often confront harassment through silence or quiet withdrawal. Complaints, when raised, are handled through opaque, ad hoc processes shaped by proximity to leadership and muscle power.
Internal accountability is not alien to political systems. In the United Kingdom, both the Labour and Conservative parties maintain detailed codes of conduct and independent disciplinary mechanisms. In Canada, the Liberal Party has an Ombudsman’s Office to handle harassment complaints during campaigns. These examples demonstrate that political organisations can govern themselves with fairness and transparency. If judicial interpretation has drawn restrictive boundaries, legislative and institutional reform must redraw them.
The Vishaka guidelines were anchored in the recognition that dignity and equality at the workplace are prerequisites for liberty. The Kerala High Court’s interpretation, and the Supreme Court’s refusal to revisit it, narrow the reach of that principle. To read the POSH Act more restrictively than the Vishaka guidelines is legally incongruous.
The Court has repeatedly held that retrogression of rights is impermissible. Yet, in Yogamaya, the result is precisely that — a quiet attenuation of protection. Whether this is a consequence of a heavy board, time constraints, or pendency before benches is irrelevant. The Court cannot blink.
The writers are Delhi-based advocates
