In August 2026, India witnessed an extraordinary confrontation between its future lawyers and the country’s highest judicial institutions. What began as a student protest at two of India’s premier law universities – NALSAR (National Academy of Legal Studies and Research) University of Law in Hyderabad and the National Law School of India University (NLSIU) in Bengaluru – quickly spiraled into a national debate on judicial accountability, academic freedom, and the limits of institutional power. The controversy has exposed a widening gulf between India’s young legal community and the judiciary they are expected to serve.
The disputestems from a remark by Chief Justice of India (CJI) Surya Kant during a Supreme Court hearing on May 15. The CJI reportedly likened certain individuals to ‘cockroaches and parasites’, a comment he later clarified was directed at people practicing with fake law degrees. But the damage was done. Students interpreted the remark as emblematic of a judiciary increasingly dismissive of the anxieties of India’s youth – especially unemployed graduates and student protesters who have faced police violence. The remark became a spark in a tinderbox of long-simmering frustrations.
On August 9, more than 450 NALSAR students signed a petition objecting to the CJI’s presence at their convocation. NLSIU students and alumni soon joined, issuing an open letter rejecting the participation of both the CJI and Bar Council of India (BCI) officials. These were not marginal voices. These were India’s most elite law students – the very individuals who will shape the future of the bar and bench. Their dissent was not casual; it was constitutional.
The students’ objections were grounded in a broader critique of the judiciary’s recent trajectory. Many believe the courts have grown hesitant to confront executive excesses, slow to hear cases involving civil liberties, and increasingly tolerant of police overreach. As I noted during myrecent interview withPerspectiva on AsiaOne News TV, the students were particularly disturbed by the CJI’s “unwillingness to view videos of police brutality against student protesters” during demonstrations against the NEET-UG paper leaks. For young lawyers trained to see the judiciary as the guardian of fundamental rights, such reluctance was deeply unsettling.
Graduation ceremonies are symbolic moments. They celebrate the values of the legal profession – independence, courage, and fidelity to the Constitution. When students reject the presence of the Chief Justice of India, they are not rejecting the institution itself. They are questioning whether the institution still embodies the ideals it claims to uphold. Their dissent is not a rejection of the judiciary but a call for a judiciary that genuinely merits the respect traditionally accorded to it.
A deeper reason for this generational rupture is the widely acknowledged dysfunction of India’s criminal justice system. Legal experts routinely describe it as broken, where, as one observer put it, “a corrupt police officer is reckoned to have a better shot at ensuring justice than the courts.” The scale of the crisis is staggering: 54 million cases are pending nationwide, 87 percent in district courts. Nearly 17 million cases have languished for more than 5 years. In some states, cases remain pending for 3.5 years, while matters that travel from trial courts to the Supreme Court take an average of 13.5 years to resolve. Judges, overwhelmed by caseloads, often spend 2.5 minutes hearing a case and 5 minutes delivering judgment. One high court judge estimated it would take 320 years to clear the backlog. Meanwhile, 70 percent of India’s prisoners are pre‑trial detainees, even though fewer than half are ultimately convicted – and there is no restitution for those wrongly jailed.
This systemic collapse is not accidental; it is the result of chronic under-investment in the very institutions meant to uphold the rule of law. India’s total judiciary budget for 2026–27 is just $540 million – about 0.08% of the national budget – even as the country allocates roughly $75 billion to defense. The imbalance is staggering. A nation that pours resources into militarization while starving its courts cannot credibly claim to prioritize justice. Underfunded courts, overwhelmed judges, and endless delays are not merely administrative failures; they reflect political choices shaped by a Hindutva‑driven governance model that critics argue privileges majoritarian power and state authority over constitutional rights and institutional integrity. For young lawyers entering this system, the message is unmistakable: justice is not a national priority.
If the students’ protest was remarkable, the response of the Bar Council of India was unprecedented. Led by Chairman Manan Kumar Mishra (a BJP-MP), the BCI issued a directive blocking the entire graduating class of NALSAR from enrolling as advocates across India. The BCI accused the students of disrespecting the judiciary and “harming the legal profession,” but its sweeping punishment appeared more like retaliation than regulation.
The reaction was swift and uncompromising.Academics, lawyers, civil society groups, and former judges condemned the BCI’s action as an assault on academic freedom and a misuse of regulatory authority. Under intense pressure, the BCI withdrew the ban– but not before shifting blame onto NALSAR faculty for “failing to guide” the students. The episode revealed a troubling willingness within the BCI to commingle dissent with misconduct, and to use its institutional power to silence criticism.
The Supreme Court’s intervention was swift and decisive. A three-judge bench headed by CJI Surya Kant rebuked the BCI’s overreach. In a striking moment, the CJI asked, “Who is the Bar Council of India to come between the students and me? The BCI has no business here.” The Court barred the BCI from taking any coercive action against students or faculty and affirmed that peaceful protest is a constitutionally protected right. The CJI even reminded the courtroom that he himself had been a student activist.
This judicial pushback was important, but it did not erase the underlying tensions. The Supreme Court Bar Association (SCBA), fresh from its elections, attempted to project unity. Newly elected SCBA President Pradeep Rai referred to the CJI as a “father figure” and pledged full cooperation with the bench. Yet such diplomatic gestures at the top did little to address the dissatisfaction simmering among students and young lawyers.
The controversy reveals a generational shift in India’s legal culture. For decades, the judiciary operated within a framework of hierarchy and deference. Criticism of judges was discouraged, and institutional authority was rarely questioned. But today’s law students have grown up in an era of social media transparency, global rights movements, and rising authoritarianism. They expect institutions – especially the judiciary – to be accountable, accessible, and principled. They are unwilling to accept reverence without reason.
Their protest also highlights a deeper crisis of trust in India. Many young lawyers believe the judiciary has become increasingly complacent, even complicit, in the face of executive overreach. As I noted in my book – ‘Modi-fied’ India: the Transformation of a Nation(Peter Lang, 2026) – since 2018, critics have viewed the judiciary as “a rubber-stamp or a partner-in-crime to sanctify BJP’s agenda.” Whether one agrees with this assessment or not, the perception itself is damaging. A judiciary’s legitimacy rests not only on its judgments but on public confidence in its independence.
The BCI’s actions further eroded that confidence. By attempting to punish students for peaceful dissent, the Council signaled that institutional prestige mattered more than constitutional values. Its reversal demonstrated that public pressure still matters– but also that academic freedom in India remains fragile. When regulatory bodies react oversensitively rather than constructively, they risk undermining the very profession they are meant to protect.
The controversy also raises important questions about the boundaries of criticism. The line between legitimate critique and threats to judicial independence is clear: criticism of judicial reasoning, conduct, or public statements is not only permissible but necessary in a healthy democracy. What must be protected is the independence of judicial decision-making, not immunity from scrutiny. Students did not attempt to influence cases or intimidate judges. They challenged the symbolism of celebrating an institution they believe has strayed from its constitutional mission.
Ultimately, this dispute is not about a convocation chief guest. It is about a deeper crisis of trust between India’s young legal community and its highest judicial institutions. It is about whether the judiciary can listen to criticism without perceiving it as disrespect. It is about whether regulatory bodies can tolerate dissent without resorting to coercion. And it is about whether India’s next generation of lawyers will inherit a judiciary that commands respect through its actions rather than through protocol.
If handled wisely, this moment could be transformative. The judiciary has an opportunity to engage with students, reaffirm its commitment to constitutional values, and rebuild trust. The BCI can reflect on its role and recommit to protecting academic freedom rather than policing it on behalf of a Hindutva‑driven political culture that critics argue has become increasingly exclusionary, majoritarian, and intolerant of dissent. And students can continue to assert their voices, shaping a legal culture that is more democratic, more transparent, and more courageous.
India’s judiciary is facing a generational reckoning. Whether it emerges stronger or more fragile will depend on how it responds to the voices of those who will one day lead it.
Dr Habib Siddiqui is the author of the book: ‘Modi-fied’ India: the Transformation of a Nation (Peter Lang, 2026)
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