Tarikh pe tarikh, tarikh pe tarikh. Every citizen who has ever approached an Indian court has felt this frustration. You wait, sometimes decades, for a hearing, only to be told that the judge is unavailable, or that the case will be adjourned yet again. Thirty years of life, hope, and patience reduced to an endless string of dates. And while the rest of the country moves on, the system seems frozen in time, immune to accountability, as if those sitting on the bench exist in a realm far above ordinary citizens. This is the reality of the God syndrome in the Indian judiciary, a system that treats itself as untouchable, unquestionable, and almost divine, where appealing for justice feels more like approaching a deity than claiming a fundamental right.
One small but telling example is the language itself. Why do citizens still have to call judges my lord? Even when the person holds a position of responsibility, there are countless ways to show respect — Mahashay, Sriman, hHonorable, or just ji. Yet the tradition persists, a direct hangover from colonial India, when British officers were titled lord. Laws have evolved, the constitution has been amended, yet the culture of unquestionable authority remains largely unchanged.
The God syndrome is reinforced not just by culture but by structure. Recent reports reveal the hereditary and opaque nature of judicial appointments. In April 2025, ThePrint found that one in three sitting High Court judges in India is related to a sitting or former judge or comes from a family of lawyers. Out of 687 permanent judges across 25 High Courts, 102 were related to judges, and 117 had fathers, grandfathers, or other relatives in the legal field. Similarly, a May 2025 Mint report showed that among 32 Supreme Court judges, at least 11 were closely related to former judges, and an equal number had fathers who were lawyers. Former ministers and past studies echo this pattern. In 2017, Upendra Kushwaha alleged that Supreme Court judges historically came from a pool of just 250–300 families. A 2015 report found that roughly 50% of High Court judges and 33% of Supreme Court judges were family members of existing higher judiciary members.
The Collegium System, under which judges appoint other judges, is opaque and lacks explicit constitutional guidelines. Investigations show little representation from marginalized communities and women, reinforcing a closed ecosystem dominated by elite families. Legal lineage becomes a golden ticket to influence, leaving ordinary citizens powerless.
The system also consistently contradicts its own values. Justice delayed is justice denied is treated ironically rather than as a guiding principle. Citizens wait decades while minor technicalities or deliberate adjournments stall outcomes. Let a hundred guilty go free, but one innocent should not suffer is selectively applied, often leaving ordinary people helpless. Allegations of corruption, bribery, or bias rarely affect those in power, reinforcing the sense that accountability is optional.
No recent example demonstrates this tragic gap better than the case of Atul Subhash. A techie from Bengaluru, Subhash died by suicide on December 9, 2024. In a 24-page note and an 81-minute video, he accused his estranged wife, Nikita Singhania, and her family of harassment and financial extortion. He alleged nine false cases were filed against him, demanded bribes to settle matters, and claimed his four-year-old son was withheld as leverage. Most shockingly, he accused the Principal Family Court Judge, Rita Kaushik, and a court clerk of mocking him and soliciting bribes. During a Jaunpur courtroom interaction, his wife allegedly told him, “So why don’t you die by suicide?” while the judge laughed instead of intervening. After he refused bribe demands of ₹5 lakh from the judge and ₹3 lakh from a clerk, he claimed threats of adverse rulings followed.
Subhash’s death triggered arrests and media coverage, but the wider debate highlights a systemic problem. If citizens cannot trust even the court system to act impartially, how can they believe in justice itself? This tragedy is not an isolated case but a symptom of a larger malaise: a system designed, historically and culturally, to protect itself and its elite networks rather than ordinary citizens.
The judiciary is meant to be a pillar of democracy, a guardian of rights, and a check against power. Yet in many instances, it behaves as if above law, above criticism, and above the people it serves. Citizens are discouraged from questioning remarks, rulings, or inconsistencies. Faith in justice is eroded while fear becomes the default response. Titles and lineage are given reverence, while the principles of equality, fairness, and accountability are treated as secondary.
The solution lies not in rhetoric or symbolic reforms but in structural transparency, accountability, and humility. The culture of unquestionable authority must be replaced with one that recognizes judges as servants of law and citizens rather than untouchable arbiters. Legal lineage and colonial-era traditions should no longer dictate who holds power. Delays, nepotism, and bias must be addressed in both law and practice.
Justice is not a blessing to be granted by a deity. It is a right to be claimed by the people. Until the judiciary remembers this, citizens will continue to approach courts with fear rather than hope, and the God syndrome will remain the greatest obstacle to the justice it claims to uphold.
