CJI’S PARDON FOR INSOLENT LAWYER DILUTES GRAVITY OF OFFENCE TO THE INSTITUTION

Chief Justice B. R. Gavai’s dignified composure in the face of open provocation inside the courtroom this week drew admiration from many, but it also reignited a deeper conversation about the sanctity of judicial
institutions and the limits of personal magnanimity when institutional authority is under attack. When a 71-year-old lawyer, Rakesh Kishore, hurled a shoe at him in open court, the Chief Justice not only remained unflustered but also declined to initiate criminal proceedings against the errant lawyer.

This extraordinary act of restraint, at once graceful and humane, stood in stark contrast to the crude and
contemptuous behaviour of the assailant. Yet, while the Chief Justice’s reaction reflects the highest standards of personal decency, it raises troubling questions about whether such incidents can or should be treated as mere personal affronts rather than as direct assaults on the institution of justice itself.

The incident, shocking in its brazenness, struck at the heart of judicial decorum. A courtroom is not merely a space for argument and verdict; it is a symbol of the rule of law. When that space is violated, particularly by one of its own functionaries—a lawyer sworn to uphold its dignity—the damage is not merely personal or symbolic, it is systemic. By hurling a shoe at the Chief Justice, Kishore did not just insult an individual; he attacked the moral and procedural authority of the judiciary. Such an act is not simply an expression of dissent, as the lawyer has claimed, but a wilful disruption of the sanctity of the institution. In this sense, the Chief Justice’s refusal to pursue criminal action may appear, however unintentionally, to dilute the
seriousness of the assault.

The argument that Justice Gavai’s gesture exemplifies forgiveness and moral strength is not misplaced. In
a time when public figures, especially those in positions of power, often react with punitive zeal to criticism, his refusal to retaliate was both rare and refreshing. It demonstrated a profound belief in the strength of
institutions—that the law does not need to avenge itself through individuals. But equally, there lies a paradox: when the highest judge of the land treats such an assault as a personal slight rather than an institutional offense, it risks setting a precedent that undermines the judiciary’s collective dignity.
Forgiveness is a personal virtue; justice is a collective responsibility. To confuse the two, however noble
the intent, can have unintended consequences.

The larger concern here is not just about one man’s misconduct but about the mindset that produces it. Rakesh Kishore’s act, by his own admission, stemmed from anger over a remark attributed to the Chief
Justice about a god, a remark he perceived as offensive. This conflation of religious sentiment with judicial authority is symptomatic of a worrying trend in contemporary India, where the judiciary, too, is being drawn into the vortex of populist and religious passions. The lawyer’s conduct reflects a dangerous sense of
entitlement—the belief that personal faith and emotion can justify contemptuous acts against constitutional functionaries. To treat this as an isolated outburst would be to miss the point. It represents a
deeper corrosion of civic discipline and respect for institutions, which, if left unchecked, can only embolden
others.

That the Chief Justice was unruffled and continued with court proceedings after the incident is  commendable. It revealed a rare composure that few in public life could muster under similar circumstances. But institutions, unlike individuals, cannot afford to be guided by emotion, whether of anger or compassion. The rule of law depends not on the personal magnanimity of those who uphold it but on the consistent and impartial application of legal norms. When a lawyer commits a criminal act within the sanctum of justice, the system owes it to itself to respond with firmness. Failure to do so risks conveying the impression that judicial decorum is optional, that outrage in the name of belief can find extenuation in emotion.

India has, in recent years, seen too many episodes of aggression masquerading as dissent, where individuals or groups justify violence or contemptuous behaviour on the grounds of faith, ideology, or political grievance. What makes this case particularly disturbing is that it unfolded in the courtroom itself, a place meant to be the last refuge of reason. The judiciary, even with all its imperfections, remains the one
institution that commands respect across political and ideological divides. To let an act like this go
unpunished is to chip away, however slightly, at that respect. It sets a precedent that others with grievances, real or imagined, might feel emboldened to emulate.

There is, of course, a humane argument to be made. Kishore is 71, and perhaps age, frustration, or emotional instability played their part. The Chief Justice’s decision may have been driven by compassion or by a desire not to criminalise an elderly man’s lapse of judgment. But that compassion could have found expression within  framework of accountability. An act of clemency does not require the abandonment of consequence; indeed, the two can coexist. The law, while tempered by mercy, must still uphold the principle that violence and disrespect toward the judiciary cannot be tolerated, whatever the motive.

Ultimately, the incident is less about a shoe being thrown and more about what it represents. It is about the
fraying of public restraint and the creeping normalisation of contempt for institutions that once commanded unassailable respect. Justice Gavai’s magnanimity has earned him admiration as an
individual, but it has also sparked a debate about how the judiciary should protect its institutional dignity. Forgiveness may win hearts, but deterrence safeguards the system. The line between the two must be drawn carefully, lest the act of mercy be mistaken for institutional weakness.