RIGHT ANGLE – When the Gavel Sparks the Street

A few days ago, Bangladesh’s unfairly ousted Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina addressed a virtual press conference at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club of South Asia, of which I happen to be the Secretary, announcing that she would return to Bangladesh in December.

But this piece is not about the geopolitical implications of Hasina’s decision – she has been living in India since August 5, 2024, when the coup (in the form of street protests), with the help of the Bangladesh Army Chief, forced her to flee to our country.

It is about what led to the street protests that were orchestrated and exploited by the American Deep State and its collaboration with the Bangladesh military.

The 2024 crisis in Bangladesh is a textbook example of how an unprompted judicial directive can ignite explosive geopolitical and social instability. Here, the Court issued orders on a highly sensitive social engineering topic, which Hasina’s government had either deliberately set aside or chosen not to pursue, that acted as the ultimate catalyst for national-level unrest.

This incident, which was highlighted by Hasina, made me realise that the same thing – the judicial intervention and the resultant national crisis – happened in our Manipur, too.

Before explaining the point, let me make it clear that in a democracy, the three pillars — legislature, executive, and judiciary — are meant to check and balance each other. The government makes policy, the legislature makes law, and the judiciary interprets both. In theory, this division keeps the system stable.

But in practice, some of the most disruptive national protests and political crises in recent years have not begun with a new government law or an executive order. They began with a court judgment.

A court verdict carries a unique moral and legal weight. Unlike a government notification that can be amended, debated, or rolled back in parliament, a judgment is seen as final, constitutional, and above politics. That very authority is why a single pronouncement can ignite streets faster than any cabinet decision. When people feel a judgment directly threatens their identity, livelihood, or sense of fairness, and when they see no immediate political avenue to reverse it, protest becomes the only available language.

This is exactly what happened in Bangladesh. A judicial order completely reversed a stable policy equilibrium that Hasina’s government had established six years prior. Important points in this regard to remember are :

• The Government’s Position: In 2018, following widespread student protests, Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s government issued a circular that completely abolished the controversial 30% job quota (the “muktijodha quota”) reserved for the descendants of 1971 liberation war veterans in first- and second-class public service posts. The government considered the matter settled to maintain political stability and appease a youth population facing severe unemployment.

• The Judicial “Suggestion”: In June 2024, the Bangladesh High Court stepped in and declared the government’s 2018 abolition illegal, effectively reinstating the archaic 30% quota.

• The Fallout: By forcing an unpopular, highly sensitive policy back onto the state structure, the court’s ruling lit a spark. Masses of students took to the streets, viewing the decision as a politically rigged mechanism. Protesters were angry that a legal door, once closed, had been reopened by the bench. The government became collateral damage because it was the institution constitutionally bound to execute the judgment.

• The ensuing government crackdown escalated the protests into a full-scale anti-regime rebellion. This culminated in August 2024 with the resignation and flight of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina to India, bringing an abrupt end to her 15-year rule.

Now, let us see what happened in Manipur. Here, a single-judge bench disrupted a delicate ethnic balance by imposing an administrative timeline that the state government had been intentionally avoiding.

The following points are relevant:

• The Government’s Position: The demand by the dominant Meitei community for Scheduled Tribe (ST) status — which provides access to affirmative action, government jobs, and land rights — had been a deeply polarizing, slow-burning issue for decades. Successive state and central governments purposefully sat on the issue to avoid triggering catastrophic conflict with minority tribal groups (like the Kuki and Naga communities) who feared losing their protected status.

• The Judicial “Suggestion”: On March 27, 2023, a single judge of the Manipur High Court issued an unexpected directive ordering the state government to expeditiously consider including the Meitei community in the ST list, specifying a strict four-week deadline. The court’s direction, based on a 2013 petition, was intended as a procedural nudge.

• The Fallout: The High Court essentially forced the executive’s hand on a highly volatile demographic policy. Tribal communities immediately viewed the court’s mandate as an existential threat to their constitutional safeguards, prompting massive protest rallies on May 3, 2023. These demonstrations instantly triggered an ongoing ethnic civil war that has claimed over 200 lives, displaced tens of thousands, and led to a total breakdown of constitutional machinery in the state.

Here again, as was the case in Bangladesh, the executive did not announce a new policy. It was responding to a court timeline. Yet because the judiciary’s words were read as legitimizing a major change in the state’s social contract, the streets responded before the legislature or government could debate, consult, or build consensus. The judgment compressed a decades-long political issue into a 4-week deadline, and the pressure cooker burst.

In fact, I would like to add that the emergence of the Cockroach Party, which the Modi government’s critics are terming the giant-killer, given the way Modi literally surrendered to it last fortnight, is an illustration of the same phenomenon.

In fact, here, the crisis did not require a full judgment to emerge. An oral observation from the Chief Justice of India, Justice Surya Kant, was enough to have national ripple effects. The subsequent clarification by him that his observation that there are many unemployable cockroaches was meant for the fake lawyers roaming in the courts did not change the course.

The phrase was widely quoted, clipped, and circulated. It sparked anger among sections of civil society and the bar, who felt the court was abdicating its role as a protector of citizens’ rights. The term “cockroach party” later emerged online as a sarcastic reaction by critics who felt the judiciary was being too deferential.

No order was passed. No law was struck down. But the remark itself became a symbol and a rallying point. This shows that in an era of instant media, the judiciary’s pronouncements are not read only as legal texts. They are read as moral signals. When the signal appears to be out of sync with public suffering, it can itself become a provocation.

Why Judicial Pronouncements Hit Harder Than Government Actions

Government actions are expected to be political. Parties negotiate, oppose, amend, and reverse them. But a judgment is different for three reasons:

1. Finality: A court verdict feels like the end of the road. There is no “next debate” unless you go for review or appeal, which takes years. That finality leaves protest as the only immediate outlet.

2. Moral Authority: Courts speak in the name of the Constitution. When people disagree with a judgment, they experience it not just as bad policy but as a constitutional betrayal. That raises the emotional temperature.

3. Implementation Compulsion: The executive must implement a judgment. So even if the government disagrees, it is forced to act. Citizens then direct their anger at both the court and the government that carries it out.

Should the Judiciary Be More Careful?

The question is not whether courts should stop deciding sensitive cases. An independent judiciary must do its job, even when decisions are unpopular. Judicial timidity in the face of possible protests would itself damage the rule of law.

But “careful” can mean three things:

First is processual care. Courts can use their power to seek broader consultation before issuing directions on socially explosive issues. In the Manipur case, for example, the High Court could have asked the state to consult tribal bodies before setting a deadline. In Bangladesh, the High Court could have considered the political settlement of 2018.

Second is contextual awareness. Judges are not politicians, but they operate in a social context. A legal principle applied without acknowledging ground realities — of ethnicity, jobs, or historical grievance — can have unintended combustion.

Third is communication. Judgments are not just for lawyers. In an age of WhatsApp and TV debates, how a verdict is reasoned and explained matters. A well-reasoned judgment that anticipates concerns and explains safeguards can reduce misinterpretation.

None of this means the judiciary should avoid controversy. It means it should recognise that its authority is so high that its words carry the power to both resolve and to inflame.

Conclusion

Democracies do not just die by executive overreach. They can also convulse when institutions meant to calm instead spark. The Bangladesh quota verdict, the Manipur High Court direction, and even heated reactions to judicial observations show a pattern: in societies with deep social fault lines, a court pronouncement can act as the detonator.

Government actions are part of everyday politics. Judicial pronouncements feel like constitutional fate. That is why they can lead directly to national protests and crises.

The answer is not a weaker judiciary. The answer is a judiciary that is both bold in upholding law and wise in understanding consequence. Because in the 21st century, the gavel does not just echo in the courtroom. It echoes on the street.