THE words of the Chief Justice of India are never ordinary words. They carry constitutional weight, moral authority, and institutional consequence. That is precisely why the recent remarks by Chief Justice Surya Kant are so deeply disturbing.
To compare unemployed young people to “cockroaches” and dismiss RTI activists, media workers, and social media critics as “parasites” is not merely an unfortunate choice of language. It reflects a troubling contempt for dissent, democratic participation, and the social anxieties of a generation struggling under unemployment, inequality, and shrinking institutional trust.
At a time when millions of Indians are battling joblessness, economic precarity, and exclusion, the judiciary ought to embody empathy and constitutional sobriety. Instead, what emerged from the highest court was a language of derision. Worse, it came directed at precisely those sections of society that often keep democracy alive when institutions fail: journalists, activists, whistleblowers, and citizens who use the Right to Information Act to hold power accountable.
The Indian judiciary has historically occupied a sacred constitutional space because it was expected to stand above political arrogance and social prejudice. Courts are not meant to mock the powerless. They are meant to protect them.
The casual dehumanisation embedded in the word “cockroaches” cannot be brushed aside as rhetorical frustration. History repeatedly shows that the language of vermin is often the language of authoritarianism. Across the world, oppressive systems have long used such metaphors to delegitimise human beings and reduce social suffering to objects of contempt. A constitutional democracy should be especially careful about such language, particularly when directed at vulnerable or frustrated youth.
Who are these unemployed youngsters the Chief Justice speaks of with such disdain? They are products of an economy that has failed to generate sufficient dignified employment. They are graduates carrying degrees but no opportunities. They are young citizens navigating inflation, rising educational costs, shrinking public sector jobs, and a deeply unequal economy where wealth accumulates at the top while aspiration collapses below.
To ridicule them for turning toward activism, journalism, or public criticism is to punish them twice — first for economic exclusion and then for democratic participation.
Article 21 of the Indian Constitution has repeatedly been interpreted by the Supreme Court itself to include the right to live with dignity. Public language from constitutional authorities cannot casually strip citizens of that dignity while simultaneously claiming to uphold constitutional morality.
The irony is impossible to ignore. RTI activists have exposed corruption where state agencies remained silent. Independent journalists have documented injustice where institutions hesitated. Social media activism, despite its excesses, has often become the only avenue for ordinary citizens to challenge dominant narratives and demand accountability.
Many of the rights Indians enjoy today were strengthened because activists and public-interest litigants challenged authority. Environmental protections, labour safeguards, civil liberties, anti-corruption mechanisms, and transparency laws did not emerge from silence. They emerged from persistent democratic pressure.
The judiciary itself has often relied upon public-interest litigation and activist interventions to expand constitutional rights. To now caricature activism as parasitic reveals a deeply selective institutional memory.
Equally alarming is the class undertone embedded in these remarks. There is a familiar elitism in mocking unemployed youth while overlooking the structural failures that produce unemployment. India today faces one of its gravest employment crises in decades. Youth unemployment remains disproportionately high. Educated young Indians increasingly confront underemployment, contractual labour, and migration pressures. Yet instead of acknowledging this social distress, the comments appear to reduce the unemployed to objects of ridicule.
A judiciary disconnected from social suffering risks losing moral legitimacy.
The remarks also expose a growing discomfort within sections of the establishment toward criticism itself. Increasingly, institutions appear willing to tolerate praise but not scrutiny. Critics are branded anti-national. Activists are criminalised. Journalists are raided. Dissent itself is increasingly treated as a threat. In such a climate, the judiciary should function as a constitutional counterweight. It should defend the democratic right to question power — not reinforce hostility toward those who do.
One must also ask: what message do such remarks send to ordinary citizens seeking justice? Courts are often the last refuge for the powerless. A labourer denied wages, a student facing discrimination, a journalist targeted for reporting, or an activist exposing corruption approaches the judiciary with hope that they will be heard fairly and respectfully. But when the highest judicial office appears openly contemptuous toward certain categories of citizens, confidence in institutional neutrality begins to erode.
This is not about denying judges their humanity or emotions. Judges, too, experience frustration. Courtrooms are tense spaces. But constitutional office demands restraint precisely because judicial words shape public culture. The higher the office, the greater the responsibility.
The comments regarding fake law degrees and the Bar Council’s alleged political compulsions also reveal something deeper: a judiciary frustrated with institutional decay yet directing its anger downward rather than upward. If there are serious concerns about professional standards, corruption, or systemic weaknesses, these require reform, transparency, and institutional accountability — not public humiliation of struggling citizens.
The crisis facing Indian democracy today is not that there are “too many activists.” The real crisis is that institutions are increasingly intolerant of scrutiny. Democracies survive not because citizens remain silent, but because they remain engaged. RTI activists, investigative journalists, civil society groups, and dissenting voices are not obstacles to democracy; they are among its essential safeguards.
The judiciary’s dignity is not preserved through intimidation or sarcasm. It is preserved through fairness, humility, constitutional morality, and public trust.
In a republic governed by the Constitution, citizens are not parasites for asking questions. Young people are not cockroaches because they are unemployed. Critics are not enemies of the nation because they challenge institutions.
If anything, it is democratic indifference to suffering, unemployment, inequality, and shrinking freedoms that should concern us most.
The Indian Constitution begins with the words “We, the People.” Not “We, the Powerful.” Not “We, the Designated.” And certainly not “We, the unquestioned.”
A constitutional court cannot demand public trust while speaking the language of contempt.
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Ranjan Solomon is a writer, researcher and activist based in Goa. He has worked in social movements since he was 19 years of age. The views expressed here are the author’s own and Clarion India does not necessarily share or subscribe to them. He can be contacted at ranjan.solomon@gmail.com
