The Bench and the Few : How Savarna Oligarchy Captured India’s Judiciary

At the first Round Table Conference of 1930, convened to discuss constitutional reforms in British India, Dr B. R. Ambedkar spoke about the need to protect the oppressed classes of this land. He warned that once the British departed, power in India would fall into the hands of an oligarchy—a rule by a privileged few. That warning, made nearly a century ago, turned out to be prophetic.

Oligarchy, Ambedkar foresaw, is as dangerous to a nation as dictatorship. When power is concentrated among a handful of people, governance bends entirely to their interests, suppressing everyone else. Such concentration of power, he said, would eventually destroy a society. India’s subsequent history has borne out that truth.

Today, the country’s wealth, economy, media, and knowledge production are controlled by just four communities; in Kerala, by three. The judiciary, like the legislature and executive, has not escaped this concentration of power.

It is unnecessary to name these groups—if four other communities were to replace them tomorrow, the problem would remain unchanged. Governance monopolised by a few privileged castes is destructive to democracy. Ironically, many of these “dominant” communities are, in numerical terms, minorities themselves.

This power structure extends across every sphere—media, education, private enterprise, and knowledge production. The judiciary cannot stand apart; it mirrors society. Compare Kerala’s courts with those in Bihar or Rajasthan and the pattern becomes clear: each reflects its social hierarchy. The judiciary is a mirror of society’s power structure.

The data from the Supreme Court underscores this. Over 75 years, 40 percent of its judges have come from one dominant community, and most of the rest from just two or three others. From Kerala, 18 judges have reached the Supreme Court—14 from the state’s three powerful oligarchic communities. Only two Muslims and two Dalits have made it so far. No judge has ever come from the Ezhava community, Kerala’s largest by population. Everywhere, the judiciary reflects social privilege—a measure of how deeply oligarchy has captured the system.

In 1920, the Justice Party government in the Madras Presidency introduced reservations in education. Until then, Brahmins—only 2.5 percent of the population—held 65 percent of seats. Reservations reduced that to 19 percent. But until the Constitution came into force, this monopoly could not be challenged. In 1950, the Supreme Court struck down the reservation policy, citing Articles 15 and 29—provisions intended to combat caste discrimination. The heavy Brahmin presence on the Bench ensured the verdict served their own community. Judges from the same group used the Constitution to preserve their privileges—an early example of how an oligarchy can weaponise constitutional interpretation.

Both Bar and Bench remain dominated by a few powerful groups, often from the same background. Ironically, the Constituent Assembly had greater representation from backward and marginalised communities than do today’s Parliament, government, or judiciary. It was the presence of Ambedkar, Dakshayani Velayudhan, and R. Shankar that made the Constitution so democratic. But its implementation fell into the hands of the very oligarchy it sought to restrain. They have since moulded it to protect their own interests.

A classic example is the Champakam Dorairajan case. The Supreme Court invalidated the Madras government’s reservation policy, ruling it a violation of fundamental rights. Thus, the principle of equality was turned against the marginalised. The ruling castes continued to believe they alone were born to rule.

A former judge once argued that his community alone possessed the temperament for the judiciary—a belief that betrays the rot at the system’s core. The Constitution is poorly interpreted and weakly applied because power remains concentrated in one section of society. Ambedkar’s prescription still stands: only proportional representation for all communities, at every level, can bring real democracy.

India’s judiciary is infamous for delay—yet capable of astonishing speed when interests of the powerful are at stake. When advocate Prashant Bhushan tweeted a photo of the Chief Justice of India astride a motorcycle, the case reached the Supreme Court and concluded within two weeks—perhaps the fastest in the world. But when a High Court judge makes a hate speech, no action follows. The contrast is telling. In an unequal society, selective justice is the norm. Implemented sincerely, our Constitution itself would be a social revolution—but those in power see it as a threat to be contained.

Administrative systems mirror this malaise. The revenue department too is paralysed by delay, yet citizens must ultimately approach the judiciary for relief. The root cause across institutions is the same: entrenched oligarchic control that exists to perpetuate itself.

When Ambedkar was asked which Article of the Constitution he considered most vital, he named Article 32—the right of citizens to move the Supreme Court directly to enforce fundamental rights. Yet even this right has been curtailed. When several petitions (including mine) challenged the Wakf Amendment Act, the Court chose to hear only five as writs, treating others merely as interventions—contradicting the plain language of Article 32. Our Constitution empowers every citizen; in practice, power is withheld. Judicial delay has become a shield against constitutional enforcement, a way to block fundamental rights and stall change. Unless oligarchy gives way to true democracy, these obstructions will endure.

Totalitarian systems cannot coexist with decentralisation. Their motto is: one election, one nation, one government, one language—but always four varnas. M. S. Golwalkar, the RSS ideologue, argued that states should not be formed on linguistic lines but as administrative units—promoting the trinity of Hindi, Hindu, Hindustan. That vision aims to build a caste-structured Hindu nation. Instead of resisting, India’s institutions are being used to suppress the Constitution and advance that agenda—leaving no room for federalism.

The Constitution defines India as a Union of States, not a centralised empire. The Governor was meant to link the Union and the States, not act as the Centre’s agent. But oligarchic rule has turned the post into a political instrument. Ambedkar warned that the Constitution cannot function without social reform. Governors today serve the ruling party, not the people—interfering only in opposition-ruled states.

Most Supreme Court judges come from similar social milieus. They may differ individually, but they share a worldview—that India is safest when ruled by their own kind. Hence their preference for a strong Centre and suspicion of state autonomy.

Ambedkar reminded us that “constitutional morality” must come from society. But here, “society” means the elite few who wield power. Their culture and the Constitution are at odds. North and South India’s Bahujan communities share no conflict; they celebrate each other’s victories. The real issue remains: who holds power?

If oligarchy retains control, it will divide us further. Ambedkar’s solution was clear: only when Members of Parliament come from Bahujan backgrounds will democracy take root. In a truly representative Supreme Court of 34 judges, at least eight should come from Bahujan groups, five from backward classes, and perhaps one from the savarna elite. Only then would judgments on social justice, reservation, and federalism reflect the spirit of equality.

Recent appointments to the CBI, Election Commission, and Cabinet Secretariat reveal how transparency has eroded. When government nominees dominate selection committees, neutrality becomes impossible. Changing faces will not fix a system built on oligarchy. Yet transparency remains essential. Today’s crisis is not merely judicial capture—it is the attempt to reshape India into a Hindu Rashtra. To achieve that, RSS ideologues must dismantle the present Constitution and replace it with one aligned to their vision. Allowing them to influence judicial appointments would be suicidal.

Most Supreme Court judges, though from elite backgrounds, still wish to preserve the Constitution. Of the current 32, only two—Justices Narasimha and Vishwanathan—were appointed on the Modi government’s recommendation; the rest were advanced under previous regimes. Judges like Gavai and Oka were first proposed by Indira Gandhi’s counsel V. N. Khare and later appointed under Vajpayee. They are all jurists of integrity, committed to constitutional values. But if such figures are replaced by loyalists, the last institutional defence may collapse.

Transparency within the collegium offers hope. When Justice Sanjiv Khanna publicly disclosed his assets, he set a standard few others follow. Yet access to justice grows ever more expensive; fairness itself becomes rare.

It is disturbing that some judges now invoke the Vedas in their rulings—an unconstitutional practice. Verdicts must rest on the Constitution, not scripture. While many judges remain upright, we must oppose all theocratic judgments and deviations from constitutional reasoning.

Another reform long overdue is the abolition of contempt of court laws. Most democracies no longer criminalise criticism of judges. In India, both civil and criminal contempt persist. Criticising a judgment should not be equated with insulting a judge. Judges too have biases and human frailties that influence rulings. Exposing corruption should not invite contempt charges. The feudal belief that ridicule weakens authority has no place in democracy. Courts must remain open to responsible scrutiny.

The judiciary is the citizen’s last refuge. To claim it is wholly corrupt is reckless—but accountability is vital. When a corruption case recently arose against an Allahabad High Court judge, the judiciary acted unusually fast and removed him—though the inquiry report was never released. Political power clearly drives such outcomes. Under the Judges Enquiry Act, only Parliament can remove judges, after a three-member committee (a Supreme Court judge, a High Court Chief Justice, and a legal expert) conducts the inquiry. I have served on such a committee—it is a robust and fair process. Yet in this instance, no committee was even formed; still, action was taken overnight. The message is clear: political authority now decides judicial fate.

Meanwhile, BJP MPs and a Governor accused the Supreme Court of “overreach.” This attack must be read in context. Legislation and governance are already controlled by the ruling party; only the judiciary remains independent. Hence the attempt to discredit it—so that unchecked power can operate without opposition.

The Constitution assigns the President as head of the executive, not the judiciary or legislature. Each branch has its own head and equal authority. The Supreme Court, however, has the right to review the legality of all actions. In one Delhi High Court case, the Supreme Court itself was a respondent when a petition sought to bring the judiciary under the Right to Information Act. The High Court ruled that the RTI Act does apply, and the Supreme Court had to appeal—proof that even it is accountable under the law. No one stands above it. The notion that a President cannot be questioned is a feudal relic—the “king can do no wrong” principle has no place here. In a republic, even the President must say, If I err, I am answerable before the Supreme Court. That is the spirit of democracy.

The Supreme Court remains the people’s final hope. Recently, Justice Sanjiv Khanna released striking data: under Chief Justice Chandrachud, 170 High Court judges were appointed; in Khanna’s six months, 51 more. Compared proportionally, a larger share of Khanna’s appointees came from OBC and Scheduled Caste backgrounds. Women’s representation was similar under both, though the women appointed belonged to dominant castes. Increasing the number of women from under-represented communities is as vital as gender balance itself—it would bring both social and gender transformation.

Ongoing debates on strengthening the Supreme Court are therefore encouraging. Greater diversity—of caste, class, and gender—is essential. The day an ordinary citizen, not a savarna elite, becomes Chief Justice of India, public faith in the judiciary will be restored. A robust and inclusive judiciary is the true foundation of democracy.