When Graduation Ceremonies Become Battlegrounds for Principle
There’s a certain irony in a law school convocation—where future guardians of justice don their ceremonial robes—becoming the stage for a clash over the very essence of justice. When NALSAR University proposed inviting Chief Justice of India Surya Kant as its graduation guest, students didn’t just raise eyebrows; they ignited a national conversation about institutional accountability. As someone who’s watched judicial controversies unfold for years, what fascinates me isn’t merely the protest itself, but what it reveals about the evolving expectations of India’s legal community—and why this moment might mark a turning point.
The Symbolism of a Convocation Guest
Let’s get one thing straight: convocation invitations aren’t just logistical decisions. They’re statements. When a law school chooses a chief guest, it’s essentially curating a living textbook example of legal excellence. That’s why NALSAR students objecting to CJI Surya Kant’s potential appearance isn’t petty politicking—it’s a philosophical challenge to the definition of “excellence.” Personally, I think this debate cuts deeper than the Jantar Mantar protests; it questions whether judicial authority should be celebrated without scrutiny.
The students’ argument hinges on a single phrase from the CJI’s reported remarks—“Don’t waste our time”—that has become a lightning rod. What many people don’t realize is that these words, if accurately quoted, reflect a troubling disconnect between the judiciary and citizens’ lived experiences. When a constitutional court dismisses video evidence of police violence as unworthy of its time, it doesn’t just reject a petition—it erodes public trust in due process.
The Uncomfortable Math of Institutional Integrity
Here’s the calculus NALSAR graduates face: Does a lifetime of legal service outweigh a single perceived moral failure? This isn’t just about one protest or one judge. It’s about whether institutions should tolerate leaders who’ve demonstrated what I’d call “judicial impatience”—a refusal to engage with inconvenient truths. The students’ insistence on “reasoned engagement” isn’t academic nitpicking; it’s a demand for consistency between legal theory and practice.
Consider the DK Basu case invoked in their petition—a 1997 Supreme Court ruling that established guidelines for police encounters. The irony of allegedly violating these safeguards while the CJI dismisses concerns is staggering. From my perspective, this creates a paradox: the very institution tasked with upholding Basu’s principles appears to have ignored them. Students aren’t just protesting a specific incident—they’re defending the integrity of their entire legal education framework.
Why This Fight Matters Beyond Campus Walls
Let’s zoom out. This isn’t merely a student protest; it’s a generational reckoning. Young legal minds are now asking: Should we celebrate judicial careers built during an era of shrinking civil liberties? The NEET exam controversy at the heart of the “Chalo Sansad” protests connects this to broader systemic failures—from education access to protest rights. What many overlook is that these students aren’t demanding ideological purity—they’re seeking institutional courage.
Compare this to the 2012 Delhi gangrape case, where student protests catalyzed legal reforms. There’s a pattern here: youth-driven legal activism challenging complacency. But this time, the target isn’t political legislation—it’s judicial temperament itself. If universities like NALSAR become forums for these debates, we might see a fundamental shift in how legal institutions self-police.
The Hidden Cost of Judicial Arrogance
The phrase “We don’t have time to watch” isn’t just dismissive—it’s philosophically dangerous. Imagine if the Supreme Court had taken that stance during the Emergency era? Democracy needs judges who make time for uncomfortable truths. Personally, I find the administration’s silence on this controversy more troubling than the protest itself; it suggests a preference for ceremonial harmony over substantive dialogue.
This raises a deeper question: Is the Indian judiciary becoming institutionally allergic to criticism? When counsel gets cut off mid-argument, it isn’t just bad manners—it’s a procedural failure. The students understand this intuitively, which is why their demand for consultation matters more than the immediate guest controversy.
What Comes Next?
If NALSAR capitulates to student demands, will it set a precedent for judicial accountability—or create chaos in institutional traditions? My bet is on the former. We’re witnessing the birth of a new norm: legal institutions being held to the same constitutional standards they teach. Whether you agree with the students’ tactics or not, their core insight is unassailable—justice isn’t just about verdicts; it’s about vigilance.
The real story here isn’t about a single convocation. It’s about a generation of legal professionals who refuse to separate procedural excellence from moral engagement. As someone who’s followed judicial controversies for decades, I’ll be watching how other law schools respond to this precedent—and whether India’s judiciary finally realizes that its greatest threat isn’t public scrutiny, but the erosion of its own legitimacy.
