Without Fear or Favour? Three Democracies, Three Judiciaries, and the Strange Business of Justice

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Today, Indian judiciary is facing vigorous scrutiny by the civil society and important stakeholders, barring the Godi Media, of course.

Let’s discuss the anatomy of a judicial system that sometimes forgets what justice is for. Let’s find out where it stands vis-a-vis judicial systems in two other major democracies.

1. Justice: Available in Principle, Delayed in Practice

Justice is blind. Unfortunately, in India, she is also frequently exhausted, overworked, under-resourced and trapped in a queue that began forming before some litigants were born.

A citizen approaches the courts seeking justice. The Constitution promises equality before the law. The lawyer promises a vigorous argument. The judge promises to hear both sides. And the system promises, without specifying a delivery date, to consider the matter.

Meanwhile, the citizen grows older, the witnesses grow forgetful, the evidence gathers dust, and the lawyers' bills continue to arrive with commendable punctuality.

Welcome to the world's largest democracy, where the judicial process can sometimes resemble a relay race in which every participant inherits the baton but nobody remembers where the finishing line is.

Justice Sanjay Kishan Kaul's Without Fear or Favour provides a particularly revealing entry point into this predicament. The memoir raises questions about judicial appointments, the executive's role in the Collegium process and the handling of sensitive cases. Its reported observations have also revived debate about the relationship between former Chief Justice D.Y. Chandrachud and his colleagues.

These are not trivial disagreements over administrative etiquette. They concern the institutional arrangements through which a democracy attempts to prevent political power from becoming judicial power's uninvited supervisor.

The experiences of India, Britain and the United States reveal three different approaches to this challenge. India struggles with opacity and executive friction. Britain has developed a more formalised appointments mechanism but faces serious delays in criminal courts. America protects federal judges through life tenure while making their selection an intensely partisan spectacle.

Each system has its virtues. Each has its failings. And each demonstrates that judicial independence, like constitutional democracy, is easier to proclaim than to maintain.

2. India: Of Collegiums, Governments and Constitutional Courtesies

India's judicial appointment system is an extraordinary constitutional arrangement.

The President formally appoints Supreme Court and High Court judges, but recommendations are controlled by the judicial Collegium, a mechanism developed through Supreme Court judgments rather than created by an express constitutional provision.

The arrangement emerged partly from a legitimate fear: if the government could freely appoint judges, it might appoint people whose greatest qualification was an agreeable disposition towards those in power.

The Collegium was supposed to prevent precisely that.

Yet an institution designed to protect judicial independence has developed its own problems. Its deliberations are largely private, its criteria can appear inconsistent, and the public is often left wondering how one candidate becomes a judge while another disappears into administrative oblivion.

The government, meanwhile, can delay recommendations, raise objections and return names for reconsideration. Under the established process, reiterated recommendations are expected to be honoured, but the interval between recommendation and appointment can itself become consequential.

Enter Justice Kaul's memoir.

The reported concerns about government views being sought before Collegium deliberations raise an uncomfortable question: if the executive's preferences enter the room before judges have independently formed their collective judgment, whose judgment is the Collegium actually exercising?

The government need not issue an order saying, 'Appoint this person and reject that one.' Influence can be subtler. A delay here, an objection there, a request for reconsideration somewhere else: the cumulative effect may matter more than any individual intervention.

Of course, an executive objection is not automatically interference. Governments may possess relevant information about candidates. National security and integrity concerns cannot simply be dismissed because they originate with the executive.

The constitutional question is whether such concerns are examined through transparent, principled procedures or become convenient instruments for rewarding the agreeable and inconveniencing the independent.

There is also the troubling issue of sensitive case assignments. Reports concerning the reassignment of a bench handling a politically consequential matter invite scrutiny, but they do not, by themselves, establish improper interference. Judicial administration must distinguish legitimate roster management from arrangements that could undermine confidence in impartial adjudication.

The point is simple: the public must have reason to trust the process.

A judiciary cannot demand unquestioning faith in its independence while treating reasonable questions about its internal workings as an assault upon judicial dignity.

That would be rather like a restaurant insisting that its kitchen must remain secret because diners might otherwise enquire about the ingredients.

The Collegium's defenders have a compelling argument: judicial appointments must not become a prize distributed by the ruling party. Its critics have an equally important point: independence from the executive cannot justify freedom from accountability.

India needs both.

3. Britain: Less Mystery, More Machinery

The United Kingdom offers a different model.

Following the Constitutional Reform Act 2005, judicial appointments became more institutionally separated from direct ministerial patronage. The Judicial Appointments Commission operates under a statutory framework, while Supreme Court appointments follow a separate selection process involving a specialised commission.

Merit, professional competence and fair selection have a more formal place in the process than in India's largely judge-controlled Collegium arrangements.

This does not make Britain immune to political controversy. Nor does it mean that appointments are mechanically objective. Merit itself requires judgment, and every selection system must confront questions about diversity, professional background and the assumptions embedded in its criteria.

Nevertheless, Britain offers an important lesson: judicial independence is strengthened when procedures are established in advance, responsibilities are clearly allocated and appointments do not depend principally on the private preferences of a small circle of judges.

There is something refreshing about an institutional arrangement that does not require the public to imagine what happened behind a closed door.

But Britain has a different problem. Its courts may be structurally independent and still struggle to deliver justice promptly.

The criminal courts in England and Wales have faced a substantial backlog, with official statistics recording 80,829 open Crown Court cases at the end of June 2026. The figures also show that many cases have remained outstanding for a year or longer.

For a defendant awaiting trial, institutional elegance offers limited consolation.

For a victim waiting to testify, a carefully designed appointments commission cannot substitute for an available courtroom.

For witnesses whose memories fade, justice delayed can become evidence compromised.

Britain's predicament illustrates an essential distinction: independence determines whether judges can decide freely; capacity determines whether they can decide in time.

A country may perform reasonably well on the first test and disappoint on the second.

The British system also demonstrates that governments need not interfere directly with judgments to weaken the administration of justice. Inadequate resources, insufficient judicial capacity and poor planning can produce serious consequences without a single minister telephoning a judge.

Sometimes institutional neglect achieves what direct interference would make politically embarrassing.

4. America: Judges for Life, Politics for Keeps

The United States offers another constitutional experiment.

Federal judges, including Supreme Court justices, enjoy substantial protection through life tenure during good behaviour and safeguards against salary reduction. Their appointments, however, are made through an openly political process: the President nominates, and the Senate provides advice and consent through confirmation.

There is no pretence that politics plays no role.

Presidents seek judges whose constitutional philosophies are compatible with their own. Senators scrutinise nominees, question their records and frequently turn confirmation hearings into ideological combat.

The Supreme Court appointment process can become a national political event, complete with partisan campaigns, strategic manoeuvres and predictions of constitutional catastrophe.

The American system thus presents a paradox.

Before appointment, judicial selection is conspicuously political. After appointment, federal judges possess substantial institutional insulation from the politicians who selected them.

An American president may celebrate appointing a Supreme Court justice, only to discover that the justice does not regard the presidential campaign manifesto as a binding judicial precedent.

This is an important safeguard. A judge is not supposed to function as a political contractor whose services remain available to the party that secured the appointment.

But life tenure is no guarantee of public confidence.

When appointments are intensely partisan, citizens may begin interpreting judgments through the political identity of the judges rather than the legal reasoning supporting their decisions.

The danger is not merely that judges may be ideological. Every judge brings intellectual assumptions and interpretative commitments to the bench. The danger is that the judiciary begins to look like an unelected legislature divided into political camps.

The American experience also raises questions about judicial ethics, particularly at the Supreme Court level. The introduction of a Supreme Court Code of Conduct in 2023 represented an effort to address public concerns, but questions about implementation and enforcement have continued.

A code is useful. A credible mechanism for applying it is better.

If an institution writes its own ethical rules but inspires doubts about how those rules will be enforced, its defenders cannot reasonably expect the public to regard the matter as settled.

America's lesson for India is therefore not to copy its appointment system wholesale. It is to recognise the value of strong post-appointment protection while acknowledging that political selection can damage legitimacy even when judges remain formally independent.

5. Professional Ethics: The Bench Is Not Above the Rules

Judges occupy a peculiar position in a democracy.

They exercise immense authority, often without facing voters. Their decisions can affect liberty, property, reputation and the survival of governments. Yet their authority depends not merely on constitutional provisions but on the public's belief that they exercise it honestly.

This makes judicial ethics indispensable.

India has articulated principles of judicial conduct, including the Restatement of Values of Judicial Life. The Bar has its own professional obligations. But the existence of ethical declarations is not the same as consistent enforcement or transparent accountability.

The judiciary must be protected against malicious attacks. Judges cannot be expected to decide controversial cases while conducting a popularity contest on social media.

Yet protection from harassment must not become immunity from legitimate scrutiny.

A judge who makes an error is not necessarily unethical. A judge who reaches a controversial conclusion is not necessarily politically compromised. A transfer or appointment delay is not, by itself, proof of a conspiracy.

But credible allegations of conflicts of interest, improper influence or departures from established procedures deserve examination through appropriate mechanisms.

The same principle applies in Britain and America.

Britain's more formalised arrangements and established conduct guidance provide useful institutional safeguards, but they do not eliminate human fallibility. America's ethical framework likewise faces the challenge of ensuring that rules are credible, consistently applied and capable of commanding public confidence.

The standard should be neither judicial infallibility nor judicial humiliation.

It should be accountability without intimidation.

The public must be able to question judicial conduct without being treated as an enemy of the judiciary. Equally, political actors must not weaponise accountability procedures simply because a judgment has inconvenienced them.

Judicial independence protects the judge from political retaliation. It does not confer a personal entitlement to public reverence.

A court is not a temple in which constitutional questions must be whispered. It is a public institution in which power must justify itself.

6. Dispensing Justice: Three Democracies, Three Waiting Rooms

The ultimate test of a judicial system is not the elegance of its constitutional architecture. It is whether ordinary people can obtain justice without surrendering their savings, their peace of mind or the better part of their lives.

India's backlog remains a formidable challenge across the Supreme Court, High Courts and subordinate judiciary. The National Judicial Data Grid makes pending cases more visible, but visibility is not resolution.

A digital dashboard can tell a citizen that a case has been pending for years. It cannot explain why the case has not been decided, compensate for the financial strain or restore lost opportunities.

India needs more judicial capacity, better case management, stronger court infrastructure, adequate support staff and a serious effort to reduce avoidable adjournments. Vacancies must be addressed, but recruitment alone cannot solve every procedural and administrative weakness.

Britain's criminal-court backlog demonstrates that even comparatively well-established institutions can become overwhelmed when resources and case-processing capacity fail to keep pace with demand.

America's federal courts have their own caseload pressures, although comparisons require caution: the federal judiciary handles only part of the country's judicial business, with state courts dealing with a vast range of ordinary civil and criminal disputes.

Comparing the three countries through one headline figure would therefore be misleading. Their jurisdictions, populations, court structures and reporting methods differ substantially.

Nevertheless, the underlying question is universal.

What does judicial independence mean to a poor citizen who cannot afford prolonged litigation?

What does constitutional supremacy mean to a prisoner awaiting trial?

What does equality before the law mean when the wealthy can sustain a legal battle for years while the less fortunate cannot?

And what is the practical value of a favourable judgment if enforcement takes another round of litigation?

There is a particularly cruel irony here. The richer litigant may be able to treat delay as a strategy. The poorer litigant experiences it as punishment.

In such circumstances, the law may remain formally equal while access to its remedies becomes profoundly unequal.

Justice delayed is not always justice denied, but a system that routinely makes delay unbearable risks turning a fundamental right into a luxury service.

7. The Final Verdict: Independence Must Deliver

Justice Kaul's Without Fear or Favour invites a conversation that India needs to have without descending into either hero worship or political mudslinging.

India's judicial independence must be defended against improper executive pressure. The Collegium must become more transparent, consistent and accountable without surrendering judicial appointments to the government of the day.

Britain demonstrates the value of a more formalised appointments system, while its court backlog warns that institutional independence cannot compensate for inadequate capacity.

America demonstrates the strength of secure judicial tenure, while its partisan confirmation battles warn that politicised appointments can weaken public confidence long after a judge takes office.

India should learn from both without pretending that either offers a perfect template.

The objective must be a judiciary that is independent before appointment, protected after appointment, accountable in its conduct and effective in dispensing justice.

Most importantly, judges must be able to decide cases without fear of government displeasure or favour towards political power. They must also be willing to explain institutional decisions, observe ethical standards and accept legitimate scrutiny.

For a democracy, the judiciary is neither the government's department nor its political opposition. It is a constitutional institution charged with ensuring that power operates within the law.

That responsibility becomes especially important when the executive is powerful, the opposition is weak, public debate is polarised and citizens increasingly look to the courts to settle disputes that political institutions cannot resolve.

But the courts cannot rescue democracy alone. Nor should they be expected to replace competent government, responsible legislatures or accountable administration.

The judiciary must do its own job, and the other branches must do theirs.

Ultimately, the title of Justice Kaul's memoir supplies a standard against which every democracy should measure its courts.

Without fear of the powerful.

Without favour to the politically connected.

Without arrogance towards the ordinary citizen.

And without forgetting that the authority of a judge comes with a duty to serve the law, not personal prestige or institutional convenience.

A democracy does not need judges who are fearless only when the consequences are comfortable. It needs judges who can uphold the law when the powerful would prefer otherwise.

And citizens do not merely need courts that are independent. They need courts that work.

Otherwise, justice will remain a magnificent constitutional promise delivered through an administrative system that seems determined to test the patience of the living and the endurance of the dead.

The law may be blind. The system has no excuse for keeping the citizen waiting indefinitely.

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SRFTI in Crisis: When Politics Invades the Classroom: The Battle for a Film Institute, the Failure of Institutional Authority, and the Politics of Intolerance

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There is something profoundly disturbing about a premier film and television institute becoming a battlefield for competing political ideologies. The Satyajit Ray Film and Television Institute (SRFTI) in Kolkata was established to nurture cinematic imagination, artistic experimentation and intellectual independence. Its purpose is to train filmmakers capable of questioning conventions, challenging established truths and exploring the contradictions of society. Yet in September and October 2026 the institute found itself trapped in a confrontation involving students, outside political organisations, its own administration and the wider machinery of partisan politics.

The immediate trigger was a violent confrontation on 27 September, followed by further tensions in October. Students alleged that members of an RSS-linked organisation attacked them on their campus. The organisation and its supporters accused students of disrupting a legitimately organised programme, assaulting participants and damaging property. Subsequent protests, disciplinary proceedings, the closure of academic facilities and the involvement of the police have deepened the crisis.

Scrutiny is necessary. Partisan cheerleading is not. To describe the SRFTI controversy as an existential crisis caused solely by right-wing attacks is to offer an emotionally satisfying explanation at the expense of a more difficult investigation. Conversely, to dismiss the students as ideological troublemakers who deserve whatever punishment the administration imposes is equally simplistic. The more important questions are these: how did a national institution dedicated to artistic freedom arrive at a point where its classrooms, hostels and administrative offices became arenas of political confrontation? And why has its leadership proved unable to restore confidence, security and normal academic life?

The Auditorium That Became a Political Battleground

According to the accounts presented, the Akhil Bharatiya Grahak Panchayat, an organisation associated with the RSS ideological ecosystem, had booked SRFTI’s main auditorium for a programme. The organisation maintained that the booking was legitimate and that the necessary permission and payment had been obtained. Students objected, questioning the absence of adequate prior communication with the student community and expressing concern about the appropriateness of hosting a politically associated organisation on their campus.

The disagreement escalated into violence. Students alleged that members of the visiting group attacked them with sticks, stones and other objects, accompanied by verbal abuse and accusations that they were anti-national. Allegations also included assaults on women and the use of a sharp weapon. The visiting organisation advanced a contrary account, alleging that students disrupted the programme, attacked attendees, damaged property and disrespected images of Swami Vivekananda and Bharat Mata. Complaints and counter-complaints followed. Injuries were reported on both sides, and police were deployed.

These allegations are serious. An allegation, however dramatically presented, is not a judicial finding. Without the conclusions of an independent investigation it would be irresponsible to pronounce either side solely responsible for initiating the violence. Nevertheless one principle admits no ambiguity: a legitimate booking does not confer a licence to intimidate, while ideological opposition does not confer a licence to assault.

If the event had been properly authorised, students could have challenged its organisation through peaceful protest, representations to the administration or other lawful means. If the visitors used violence, they must be held accountable. If students attacked participants or damaged property, they too must face proportionate disciplinary or legal consequences. The law cannot become a weapon that one political constituency is entitled to wield while another is expected to endure it. That is precisely why an impartial investigation matters.

The Right to Enter Is Not the Right to Intimidate

Does an organisation that secures permission to use an auditorium acquire an unrestricted right to conduct its programme without regard to the institution’s educational character, security arrangements or legitimate concerns about campus disruption? Clearly not. Equally, do students acquire a veto over every event involving an organisation whose ideology they dislike? Again, no.

A specialist educational institute cannot operate if every visiting speaker or organisation must first obtain ideological clearance from the most vocal section of its student population. Nor can it remain intellectually credible if outside organisations are permitted to use its premises in ways that intimidate students or turn an academic campus into a stage for partisan mobilisation. The distinction is between access and intimidation, between dissent and coercion, and between lawful protest and political vigilantism.

An institution’s administration must establish clear rules governing the use of its facilities. These rules should apply equally to organisations across the political spectrum. If a programme is authorised, the administration must explain the basis of its decision, communicate the relevant arrangements and ensure adequate security. If objections arise, it must provide a credible mechanism for addressing them. What it cannot do is allow a dispute over an auditorium to become a confrontation in which students and visitors effectively settle their differences through physical force. That is not freedom of expression. It is the failure of governance.

When the Administration Loses Its Moral Authority

The role of SRFTI’s administration, headed by Vice-Chancellor Santosh Ajmera, is central to the unfolding controversy. Students have accused the administration of failing to protect them during the initial confrontation, refusing to address their concerns adequately and subsequently targeting protesters through disciplinary proceedings. They have demanded independent investigations, security guarantees and the Vice-Chancellor’s resignation.

The administration has alleged serious misconduct by students, including the manhandling of the Vice-Chancellor, the occupation and vandalism of his office, damage to property, obscene graffiti and other acts of indiscipline. An institute report has reportedly documented allegations against students, while six students have faced rustication or expulsion.

These are not trivial matters. If students assaulted the Vice-Chancellor, vandalised his office or deliberately damaged institutional property, such conduct cannot be excused merely because they were protesting against an administration they distrusted. A protest does not become morally unimpeachable simply because its participants invoke resistance.

Yet the administration cannot expect unquestioning obedience either. Its authority rests not merely on its formal position but on the credibility, fairness and consistency with which it exercises that authority. If the administration failed to protect students from an external attack, that failure requires examination. If disciplinary action was selective, disproportionate or unsupported by reliable evidence, that too requires examination. If students occupied offices, threatened officials or damaged property, those allegations must be investigated independently. The same standards must govern everyone.

An administration that punishes dissent without establishing responsibility becomes authoritarian. A student movement that treats every administrative decision as illegitimate becomes unaccountable. Neither can sustain an institution devoted to intellectual freedom.

The reported closure of classes, hostels and mess facilities has made matters worse. Students have been ordered to vacate facilities, and academic activities have been disrupted. Whatever the justification offered for these measures, their consequences deserve serious consideration. Students enrolled at a national institute have a legitimate expectation that their education will not be indefinitely derailed by a confrontation that the institution is responsible for helping resolve. Closing classrooms may temporarily reduce the number of people on campus. It does not resolve the grievances that produced the confrontation. An administration can suspend a timetable. It cannot suspend the need for accountability.

The Politics of Saffronisation and the Politics of Overreaction

The confrontation has acquired significance beyond SRFTI because it fits into a much wider political struggle over cultural institutions. The BJP and the RSS have long faced accusations that they seek to reshape India’s educational and cultural institutions according to a particular ideological vision. Their supporters counter that institutions historically dominated by left-liberal intellectuals have marginalised alternative viewpoints and that greater ideological diversity is necessary. Both arguments deserve examination on their merits.

It is legitimate to question whether cultural institutions have become ideologically homogeneous. It is equally legitimate to question whether attempts to correct that imbalance are being pursued through political pressure, partisan appointments or the normalisation of ideological conformity. But the answer to one form of ideological dominance cannot be another.

A film institute must accommodate diverse political and cultural perspectives without becoming the captive of any political organisation. Its students should be free to make films that challenge religious orthodoxy, criticise governments, explore uncomfortable historical questions or examine the lives of communities that mainstream cinema neglects. They should also be free to create work that explores religious belief, civilisational traditions and national identity. The test is not whether a film pleases the government, the opposition, the RSS, the Left or a student union. The test is whether its creators can pursue their artistic vision without intimidation or arbitrary punishment.

That principle becomes especially important when outside political organisations enter an educational campus. Their presence is not automatically illegitimate. Neither is opposition to their presence automatically anti-national. Calling protesting students anti-national, urban Naxals or similar epithets does not answer their objections. It attempts to discredit the objectors before their arguments have been examined. But students must resist the temptation to deploy equally sweeping labels against every person associated with a contrary ideology. A democracy cannot survive if disagreement is routinely transformed into a contest between patriots and traitors.

The Dangerous Convenience of Political Labels

The events of 4 October, when supporters of the Hindu Jagran Manch reportedly gathered outside the institute amid allegations of disrespect towards images of Vivekananda and Bharat Mata, further intensified tensions. Reports described attempts to breach the campus perimeter and the throwing of stones or bottles, with police intervention. These allegations, too, require verification. Nevertheless the episode illustrates the danger of allowing symbolic disputes to escalate into physical confrontations.

Swami Vivekananda’s legacy cannot be adequately defended by intimidating students. Nor does criticism of an image, a political organisation or an ideological programme automatically constitute hostility towards the nation. National symbols and revered historical figures deserve neither compulsory political endorsement nor deliberate provocation designed to inflame religious or cultural sentiments. The proper response to a genuine grievance is lawful complaint, peaceful protest and reasoned argument.

The same standard applies to students who use provocative graffiti, offensive language or acts of vandalism to express political opposition. Such actions may attract attention, but they can also undermine the credibility of a movement and provide its opponents with a convenient justification for punitive action. Political symbolism becomes particularly dangerous when each side assumes that its own outrage is evidence of its own innocence. The question is not which side can generate the loudest indignation. It is which side can substantiate its claims.

Why Is the Crisis Being Reduced to a Right-Wing Conspiracy?

Prominent figures from the film industry, including Naseeruddin Shah and Anurag Kashyap, have expressed support for students or amplified concerns about the controversy. Their interventions have helped draw public attention to the dispute. Such support can be valuable. Artists have a legitimate interest in defending freedom of expression and the independence of cultural institutions. But celebrity solidarity cannot substitute for evidence.

The assertion that SRFTI is facing an existential crisis solely because of right-wing aggression goes beyond what the publicly described circumstances establish. The institute is experiencing a serious crisis of governance, campus security and academic continuity. Whether the initial violence was organised, politically motivated or initiated by a particular group must be established through evidence rather than inference. Similarly, the administration’s account cannot be accepted uncritically merely because it appears in an official report. Official authority is not a guarantee of impartiality, just as student activism is not a guarantee of factual accuracy.

The state government has reportedly established a Special Investigation Team to investigate the initial confrontation. Its findings, along with the relevant police records, institutional documents and testimony from witnesses, should help clarify the disputed events. The public deserves answers. Who initiated the physical violence? What do medical records and contemporaneous evidence establish? Were campus security arrangements adequate? Did the administration respond appropriately? Were disciplinary proceedings based on independently verifiable evidence? Were visiting organisations subjected to the same rules that would apply to comparable organisations with different political affiliations? Until these questions are answered, categorical declarations of innocence or guilt serve political interests more effectively than they serve the truth.

The Students Must Not Become What They Oppose

There is an uncomfortable lesson here for student movements. The history of student activism includes courageous struggles against authoritarianism, censorship, discrimination and political repression. Students have often defended freedoms that established institutions were unwilling to protect. But the historical nobility of student protest does not make every action undertaken in its name legitimate.

If students assaulted people, vandalised offices, threatened administrators or prevented others from exercising lawful rights, they cannot evade responsibility by invoking resistance to saffronisation. Nor should disciplinary proceedings become a mechanism for silencing legitimate criticism. The appropriate response is to distinguish peaceful protesters from individuals responsible for specific acts of violence or vandalism. Evidence must establish individual responsibility, and penalties must be proportionate to the misconduct proved. Collective punishment is particularly dangerous because it replaces the examination of individual conduct with the punishment of a group.

The same principle applies to political organisations operating outside the campus. Responsibility for violence must be established against those who committed, encouraged or facilitated it, rather than indiscriminately attributed to everyone who shares their ideological affiliations. Justice requires precision. Political vendettas thrive on generalisation.

Restore the Institute Before Politics Destroys Its Purpose

The most immediate victims of this deadlock may ultimately be the students whose education is being interrupted. Film-making is not merely a theoretical discipline. It requires collaborative work, access to equipment, practical exercises, screenings, rehearsals and sustained engagement with teachers and fellow students. An extended shutdown can damage training that cannot simply be recovered by announcing a new timetable. The institute’s reputation is also at stake. A premier national institution cannot indefinitely remain in the headlines for allegations of violence, administrative paralysis and political confrontation.

The way forward is neither complicated nor ideologically partisan. First, the investigation into the initial clash must be transparent, credible and sufficiently independent to command public confidence. Secondly, allegations of assault, vandalism and misconduct must be examined separately, with the evidence disclosed to the extent legally permissible. Disciplinary action should follow established procedures and allow those accused a fair opportunity to respond. Thirdly, the administration must establish enforceable security protocols for campus events, including clear rules governing external organisations, advance communication, risk assessment and emergency responses. Fourthly, academic activities and essential student facilities must be restored as quickly as safety permits. Any restrictions should be justified, proportionate and regularly reviewed. Finally, the administration and student representatives must enter structured dialogue, preferably with a credible independent facilitator if mutual trust has collapsed.

The objective should not be to manufacture a political victor. It should be to restore an institution in which disagreement can occur without intimidation, violence or retaliation.

Conclusion: A Film Institute Is Not a Political Fortress

The SRFTI controversy is not simply a story of right-wing aggression, nor is it merely a story of unruly students challenging legitimate authority. It is a test of whether India’s public institutions can withstand the pressures of polarised politics.

If external organisations used intimidation or violence against students, they must face the consequences. If students resorted to assault or vandalism, they must face the consequences. If the administration failed in its duty to protect the campus, apply rules fairly or maintain academic continuity, it must answer for those failures. No political affiliation should provide immunity. No ideological commitment should provide an excuse.

The larger danger is that institutions designed to cultivate independent minds are increasingly judged by whether they serve the political narratives of competing camps. One camp may describe every protest as anti-national. Another may describe every disciplinary action as fascism. Both formulations offer the comfort of certainty while evading the hard work of establishing facts.

The tragedy is that the students, teachers and administrators of SRFTI should be debating cinema, storytelling, aesthetics, technology and the moral responsibilities of art. Instead they are caught in a confrontation in which political identity threatens to eclipse educational purpose.

Satyajit Ray’s legacy was not built on obedience to authority or the mechanical repetition of ideological slogans. It was built on observation, complexity, human dignity and the courage to look at society without convenient illusions. An institute bearing his name should be judged by those standards.

The real existential danger is not that one political ideology may temporarily prevail over another. It is that an institution dedicated to independent artistic thought may lose the capacity to defend independence itself. And when that happens, the casualties are not merely the reputations of politicians, administrators or student leaders. They are the freedom to imagine, the courage to question and the education of an entire generation.

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