Former Chief Justice D.Y. Chandrachud's comments on the Babri Masjid-Ram Janmabhoomi issue, reported in an interview with Sreenivasan Jain, have reignited national debate. One of the statements that gained notice was his description of the mosque's construction as a “fundamental act of desecration,” along with his view that archaeological evidence supported this conclusion (Staff, 2025).
These statements, coming from someone who once occupied the highest seat in the judiciary, carry more weight than usual. They are more than just commentary; they have an impact on the public imagination, determining how the law is understood, history is argued, and those aspiring to the bench picture the delicate balance of faith, history, and law.
Separate sources indicate that Justice Chandrachud reflected on the role of personal faith and divine direction in his life during a more private family meeting in Pune last year(“I Sat before the Deity and...”: CJI Chandrachud Says He Prayed to God for a Solution to Ayodhya Dispute - BusinessToday, 2024). While these reflections were not included in the public interview, they provide insight into the personal dimensions that all humans, including judges, carry alongside their official obligations.
As a law student, this episode raises questions beyond the individual - how should society interpret post-retirement statements of judges? How do we safeguard public trust without overly scrutinising private belief? How do we encourage a judiciary that is fearless in office but reflective as citizens? In a country where history, religion, and law are entwined, the way these questions are answered will shape the next generation.
The Dual Role: Judge vs Citizen
In the rich tapestry of public service, judges occupy a unique position. Their professional life is dedicated to interpreting the law objectively, yet they are also citizens with personal values and opinions. This dichotomy raises important considerations about the distinction between personal convictions and professional responsibilities.
Consider the case of Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw, India's most famous military leader. In one of his interviews in 1974, he was asked about his choice for staying in the UK after retirement. He added that he had never made a public declaration indicating that he preferred the UK over India. Instead, he stated that, while he intended to settle in India, notably in the Nilgiris, where his wife had constructed a home, he found the UK appealing due to his knowledge with the language and culture.
This honest revelation prompted outrage, with others questioning his commitment to India. Manekshaw was accused of making anti-national comments and being 'more British than the British'(Singh, 2022). But it is critical to understand that expressing a preference for where to live does not imply a lack of patriotism. Manekshaw's remarkable career and vital influence in Indian military history are undisputed. His statement was a personal perspective rather than a professional command.
Drawing parallels to the judiciary, judges frequently voice personal opinions on many issues after retirement. Although these expressions are personal, they have the potential to impact public perception. So, it becomes critical to distinguish between a judge's personal convictions and professional decisions. A judge's personal beliefs should not eclipse their dedication to upholding the law impartially.
The tension between judicial office and private personality is not limited to India. Around the world, judges who retire from the bench face the dilemma of whether to speak frankly about what they have witnessed or to remain silent in order to retain the court's mystique. Former Constitutional Court Justice Albie Sachs, scarred by exile and a bombing, later wrote of the moral dilemmas of judging under apartheid. His candour was read as enriching the court's legacy, a reminder that post-retirement reflection can humanise justice rather than diminish it.
Of course, Justice D.Y. Chandrachud's context is considerably different – India's constitutional and political landscape is not like South Africa's. However, the parallel demonstrates that judge's candour after retirement does not have to be interpreted as a betrayal of their judicial authority. It can alternatively be regarded as part of a larger democratic discourse, in which a judge, free of the constraints of the bench, responds to the moral and historical intricacies that the law alone cannot fully convey.
At the same time, there is one major distinction. Justice Albie Sachs's post-retirement publications were consistent with the spirit of the judgements he delivered, whereas Justice Chandrachud's recent views appear to clash with the Ayodhya verdict, which he co-authored. This conflict cannot be ignored, for when a judge revisits controversial history outside the courtroom, the remark cannot be dismissed as mere clarification; it becomes a personal reflection, an interpretive stance on history, expressing an understanding of the past, even where the law itself could not, and did not, establish it. It is too far-fetched to view his remarks as a repudiation of the judgment; they are better understood as an effort to articulate the historical and moral backdrop that inevitably frames judicial reasoning, though it cannot alone determine it. If Sachs represents the humanisation of judicial memory, Justice Chandrachud illustrates the risks of judicial candour in a severely divided society. Both remind us that judges do not become quiet automatons after retirement, and perhaps our democratic culture must learn to accept such voices without immediately labelling them as betrayals.
Similarly, in the United States, Justice David Souter, who was long known for his quiet reserve on the bench, surprised many when he gave a celebrated commencement address at Harvard after retiring(Lithwick, 2010). In that address, he softly but firmly encouraged America to evolve in its constitutional imagination, to recognise that law is a discipline of humility that requires citizens to live with ambiguity and principled disagreement, rather than a domain of flawless certainty. His reflections did not unsettle his judgments; rather, they clarified the philosophy that had silently motivated them. When compared to Justice Albie Sachs's memoirs in South Africa, these cases demonstrate a common thread; when judges transition into the role of citizens after their term, they frequently talk with candour that the judicial office rarely allows.
Such candour may offend or irritate, but it also humanises the judiciary and invites the public to consider the moral and historical contexts of judicial reasoning. Treating any such reflection as treachery ignores the greater democratic benefit of understanding that judges, too, battle with history, politics, and uncertainty long after they take their robes off.
In India, this dual role is particularly fraught because our judges are not just arbiters of the law, but also curators of a developing constitutional culture. The comments of a retired Chief Justice have an impact beyond scholarly discourse; they influence how young attorneys envision the judiciary, how litigants perceive fairness, and how future benches interpret precedent. To that extent, the distinction between the judge and the citizen never truly disappears. This means that Justice Chandrachud's statements, though personal, inevitably resonate within the Constitution's continuing public life, not as binding interventions, but as part of the wider democratic conversation that surrounds it.
Distinguishing Levels of Persuasion
A useful starting point is to disentangle three categories into which public argument frequently collapses - personal conviction, legal reasoning, and faith. A judge, like any other person, may be persuaded by a body of evidence, in this case, archaeological finds indicating a pre-existing structure beneath the Babri Masjid. But the law requires more than just persuasion; it also requires thinking that is guided by evidence and procedural norms. In contrast, faith is based on belief rather than proof. To confuse persuasion by contested evidence with faith-based judgement is to eliminate the precise distinction that the judicial process is intended to preserve.
What matters in this debate is the fundamental difference between personal persuasion and judicial reasoning. A judge may find a body of evidence historically convincing, however unconvincing it may be under the law, but adjudication entails subordinating that conviction to legal requirements. That discipline, separating what may persuade an individual from what can be shown within statutory constraints, is at the heart of judging in any constitutional democracy. Indeed, the difference between what a judge may personally believe and what the law requires her to publicly maintain is not a sign of betrayal, but of commitment to the law itself.
Sceptics may object that personal persuasion inevitably bleeds into judicial reasoning, and that later candour only exposes what was always there. They might say the appearance of neutrality is compromised once a judge admits to being convinced by contested history. Yet this objection proves the point - the essence of judging lies precisely in resisting what may persuade privately and adhering instead to what the law permits. That act of restraint, not the absence of human conviction, is what secures the legitimacy of constitutional adjudication.
India's constitutional structure reinforces this stratification. Article 141 states unequivocally that the Supreme Court's decisions, not subsequent reflections or interviews, define the law. Article 25 preserves freedom of conscience and faith, but faith plays no role in determining title. The judicial oath, outlined in the Third Schedule, compels judges to carry out their duties “without fear or favour,” separating adjudication from personal conviction. This arrangement is intentional - it assures that what endures in the law is not a judge's personal persuasion, but the collective discipline of thinking under the Constitution.
International standards set the frame for this balance. The Bangalore Principles of Judicial Conduct provide that judges have the right to express themselves, as long as they do it in a way that does not jeopardise the dignity of their office(Bangalore Principles of Judicial Conduct of 2002, Reproduced in Report of the Special Rapporteur on the Independence of Judges and Lawyers, 2003). Even if Justice Chandrachud's phrasing strained the bounds of restraint, the greater danger lies in a public culture that treats every reflection as heresy rather than as part of democratic conversation. Across democracies, retiring judges continue to speak, Lord Sumption in the United Kingdom on pandemic restrictions(Coggon, 2021), Justice Albie Sachs in South Africa on apartheid, but their reflections are often considered as personal contributions rather than retroactive changes to their judgements. The challenge for India is to create a similar maturity in public discourse, so that the views of a retiring judge are analysed critically rather than misinterpreted as rewriting judgment and history.
The burden is not on the judges solely. Citizens, media, and institutions must learn to distinguish reflection from ruling, even as judges recognise the weight of their words beyond the bench. Post-retirement speech need not be silenced, but guided by conscience and context so that candour explains the law without eroding it. The aim should be to draw from such voices, for there is much to be gained when candour is allowed to illuminate without being mistaken for law.
The existence of a temple beneath the Babri Masjid has been disputed even by archaeologists. While B.B. Lal later affirmed his involvement as a trainee, others questioned his role and interpretation, while K.K. Muhammad spoke of “enough proof.”(KK Muhammed, ASI Man behind Ayodhya Excavation, Says Verdict Will Build United India, 2019) Archaeological confidence can be brittle, as demonstrated by this argument within the excavation crew. However, the law cannot be based on claims or opinions. As a result, the court based its ruling on evidence that satisfied the requirements for admissibility and sufficiency, treating the ASI report as historically convincing but not legally decisive.
What is at stake is not one verdict but the ecology of judicial speech. In mature democracies, memoirs like Albie Sachs's or Lord Sumption's lectures are read as personal reflections, not retroactive revisions of judicial authority. If India begins to treat every such remark as proof that a judgment was faith-based rather than law-based, the likely result will be a judiciary intimidated into inhumane restraint rather than increased accountability. A democracy that punishes candour will eventually have to accept judges who speak like machines - precise, correct, and utterly impenetrable.
The larger challenge, therefore, is cultural rather than procedural. Citizens, the media, and institutions must learn to discern between three types of speech - judgement, which binds; personal reflection, which enlightens; and faith or sentiment, which may inspire but cannot decide law. In an age of soundbites and immediate indignation, combining these categories is appealing but harmful. Judges, too, must exercise caution, understanding that their remarks have exceptional weight even after retirement. The route forward is not to crucify or canonise those who speak truthfully, but to engage critically while maintaining the finality of judgements. That balance, loyalty to the law on the one hand, and opportunity for post-retirement candour on the other, is what will keep us from turning the courtroom into a stage and public discourse into litigation by other means.
Therefore, it is important to emphasize the categorical distinction between religious belief and historical inference. Historical inference is based on tangible evidence, such as artifacts, writings, and excavations, which are always debatable but can still be rationally argued. Contrarily, religious belief is based solely on conviction and cannot be used as evidence by the law. A judge may acknowledge competing historical claims, but the courtroom is not a site for adjudicating the truth of faith. Its function is to apply the Evidence Act, the Limitation Act, and constitutional guarantees to determine rights, separating what may belong to cultural memory from what can be established as legal fact.
Philosophers from Aristotle to Rawls have reminded us that justice necessitates not the abolition of personal conviction, but its submission to publicly tested grounds. Aristotle referred to it as the virtue of the phronesis(Vaccarezza, n.d.), or the wise judge who understands the distinction between what he believes privately and what he can justify to others. John Rawls referred to it as “public reason”, the discipline of providing arguments that others, regardless of faith, may accept within a common political framework(Janke, 2006).
Such reflections are not betrayals but reminders of the human tension in judging, between conscience and proof. Law's strength lies in showing that conviction is subordinated to evidence, preserving a practice that is humane yet disciplined.
India faces a unique risk because our constitutional culture does not yet have a stable tradition of treating post-retirement speech as distinct from the bench. In such a setting, the blurring of law, history, and faith is not a theoretical issue but rather a real one, with every comment read as a retroactive justification and every word a judge says swiftly folded back into the judgement. Article 141 guarantees that judgements are not modified, therefore the risk is not that they are, but rather that public confidence is damaged when commentary is accepted as law. The narrow barrier between belief and fact may disappear from public view once faith and personal conviction permeate judgements.
Professor G. Mohan Gopal's remarks that Justice Chandrachud's interview could ground a new cure highlights a troubling trend; the transformation of extrajudicial speech into litigation currency(NETWORK, 2025). Calls for honesty from judges sit uneasily with a system that treats every off-the-bench remark as if it were part of the record. Justice Chandrachud's comments, though unusually strong for a society still raw from Ayodhya verdict, remain reflections, not rulings. The danger lies in blurring the constitutional line between commentary and judgment when candour is mistaken for decree.
In disputes as fraught as Ayodhya, archaeology is interpretive and contested. Treating post-retirement candour as prejudice will not yield better judgments, only thinner speech, judges retreating into safe cliches. A republic must keep its order clear – interviews/address offer insight, judgments bind; confuse the two and introspection is weaponised while openness is lost.
Montesquieu's dictum that judges are “the mouthpiece of the law” stresses the discipline of text-bound adjudication, but it was never meant to erase their humanity. Constitutional theory since Kelsen and Dworkin has shown that judging inevitably involves interpretation, even as it demands restraint. What follows is not the fiction of mechanical neutrality, but the discipline of subordinating personal conviction to public reason. Once retired, judges re-enter civic space as citizens, where their reflections may unsettle but do not bind. To conflate judicial pronouncement with personal candour is to confuse fidelity to law with the impossibility of silence.
What is emerging is less a passing controversy than a structural risk; a pattern in which judicial candour after retirement is weaponised to cast doubt on the neutrality of past decisions. If allowed to harden, this pattern could corrode finality in adjudication and weaken the constitutional faith on which judicial authority ultimately rests.
Justice Chandrachud's interview unsettles because it reveals an unresolved tension, yet it also offers an opening. India must learn to balance thoughtful speech with fidelity to rulings, building a culture where reflections are heard in proportion to their place, as insight, not law. Only such equilibrium can preserve judicial legitimacy in an age of relentless media without stifling voices that still have something significant to say.
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