In 2023, India reported 5,272 “Offences against the State”, a decrease from 6,062 in the previous year. During this period, independent monitors, journalists, and lawyers also reported an increase in arrests, summonses, and investigations under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) and the National Security Act (NSA). This contradiction suggests a pattern, suggesting the state is becoming better at not reducing conflict, but reclassifying dissent. What is not present in the data is often present in imprisonment, in FIRs filed under vague provisions, and in the long silences in the periods between bail hearings.

Counting the Uncounted

The category “Offences Against the State” used by the NCRB is conceptually neutral. It combines old offences of sedition, UAPA, breaches of official secrets, and offences against public order categories into one statistical grouping — thereby obscuring the legal distinction between offences, which have divergent political meanings. By reporting a decline without disaggregation, the NCRB holds out a possibility of “national calm”.

Field reporting tells a different story. In UP, over 260 people were booked under UAPA between 2020-2023 for affiliations with alleged banned organizations or protests. In Assam, about 240 UAPA cases were filed, most against ordinary villagers for alleged “extremist sympathies.” In Jammu & Kashmir, local officials confirmed over 400 preventive detentions under the Public Safety Act (PSA) in 2023, but the NCRB reported zero sedition or communal violence cases (and the only cases of communal violence reported under “Offences Against the State” came from UP).

The absence of sedition or communal offences amongst J&K’s tables is not statistical levelling; it is political theatre. When it ceased to report on communal violence after 2017 and discontinued hate crime data due to “unreliability”, the NCRB removed its capacity to log dissent and identity-based repression. The state achieves its calm through bureaucratic design: what is not coded does not exist.

The Geography of Dissent

In India, oppression has been increasingly localised. The national claim of 13% (decrease) in “Offences against the State” obscures serious variations at the state level. Uttar Pradesh, Assam, Manipur, and Jammu & Kashmir — states under direct or close control of the centre — accounted for over half of UAPA registrations.

For example, in Manipur, where ethnic violence resulted in over 200 deaths and displaced 60,000 residents, the NCRB classifies the killings under “riots” and “arson,” not “communal or ethnic violence.” By using lost naming conventions, the NCRB ignores assessing the political roots of the conflict, by framing a breakdown of civil war-like norms as a disturbance of law and order. The ongoing case in Assam, where the government has expanded the use of the UAPA to include dissent and protect values of citizenship after protests against the Citizenship (Amendment) Act, includes student leaders and journalists arrested for lengthy periods that vanish into their generic form of “public disorder.”

The city creates a paradoxical calm by reframing the law. Its NCRB numbers are a model of stability because the repression is distributed across other sections of law. Delhi is an example of national law enforcement priorities: bureaucratic calm, obscuring political repression.

Delhi: The Capital of Control

According to the NCRB’s 2023 data in Delhi, there were just six cases under UAPA, and a few others under sedition- numbers which starkly contrast with all that we know about cases in relation to the 2020 anti-CAA protests, the farmers’ protests, and the arrests of students in Delhi University and their teachers. The Delhi police, which is a part of the Ministry of Home Affairs, has become a model of a censorship state for centralization of dissent: students arrested for conspiracy, comedians questioned for satire, protest organizers charged for “rioting” rather than “offences against the state”.

Journalists like Meer Faisal and Qazi Shibli have been called for questioning on multiple occasions; students such as Devangana Kalita and Asif Iqbal Tanha, who were held in remand in the Delhi riots conspiracy case, remain on trial under UAPA even though the evidence against them is tenuous, and judgments have pushed back against what appears to be prosecutorial overreach.

This way of representing counts permits the data from Delhi to paint a picture of a city governed well, which permits dissent, free expression, and fun within the law. The lived experience tells a different story, of a city policed not through clampdown but through the ever-present threat of surveillance, summons, and social media judicial action.

Hence, Delhi’s repression is expressed through bureaucratic restraint rather than overt cruelty. It is the capital of restraint—a city where peace is created through paper.

The Architecture of Silence

This illusion created by the NCRB falls into a fourfold architecture of reclassification, omission, preventive detention, and digital suppression, all meant to turn repression into bureaucratic routine.

Maharashtra exemplifies reclassification. The NCRB mentions one UAPA and one sedition case in its comparable figures for 2023, while the Bhima Koregaon prosecution is ongoing in the court system. The difference isn’t that there were fewer arrests, but rather changed categorization—political matters labelled as public disorder. At the same time, the Bureau has refrained from noting lynchings or hate crimes since 2017, removing entire categories of violence from the national bookkeeping. What cannot be counted cannot be questioned.

Preventive detention exacerbates this silence. In Jammu & Kashmir, over 400 individuals were placed in preventive detention under the PSA in 2023, without any of them being charged under UAPA nor sedition. This too can be said for temporary curfews or travel restrictions that never lead to even a formal FIR. Digital control fulfils the architecture of silence. India had more than 80 internet shutdowns in 2023, with the highest in the world (https://www.accessnow.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/05/2023-KIO-Report.pdf). Each of these shutdowns limits the state’s violence from being documented and, therefore, the NCRB can write its next report everyone is in peace. Thus, the Bureau’s data, is, then, not a neutral mirror of crime and thus, a curated reflection of governance—a record that transforms coercion into an order.

Freedom on Paper

The judiciary occasionally intervenes to disrupt this silence, rarely dismantling it. In Patricia Mukhim v. State of Meghalaya, the Supreme Court quashed a criminal process pursued against journalist Patricia Mukhim, alleging that she incited enmity against the government by posting on Facebook about government inaction after communal violence erupted in Shillong. The police charged her under Sections 153A and 505 of the IPC for reportedly promoting enmity, but the Court concluded that the post was calling out for equality and accountability, and importantly, this call for accountability was an act protected by Article 19(1) (a) of the Constitution. The Court held, in line with its previous jurisprudence, that the rights to critique failures of government action is part of democratic discourse, and criminal law should not be employed to silence legitimate expressions of concern.

The disjunction is enhanced by the NCRB’s silence. The NCRB does not treat any of these prosecutions as “Offences Against the State, even though they indicate how dissent is managed in reality. By treating repression as unquantifiable, the Bureau sustains the illusion of order. In the national ledger, India appears peaceful because the noise has been intentionally erased. The fewer number of offences reported, the more successful it is reported to be in maintaining peace—not by freedom, but by silence.

Reading the Decline

A 13% decrease in “Offences against the State,” reported by the NCRB, is not evidence of tranquillity; it is evidence of repression managed through a suppression of data. The numbers convey a political culture in which repression is managed through administrative, legal, and digital means. The selective reporting of cases in Delhi, the statistical black hole of J&K, and the removal of entries under ‘hate-crime’ all combine to form a national tableau of calm, entirely upon paper.

India’s democratic crisis is now one of a repressive silence. The state can operate without overt censorship; it can operate with hollowed out categories. Once dissent disappears from official stats, accountability collapses into nothingness. The NCRB’s spreadsheets do not report a reality; they curate one.

To truly understand Crime in India 2023 is to recognize that the state has mastered the art of anticivilization reflecting in the official statistics. Every absent number is an absent story; every decline is evidence of a faltering democracy. The fewer the number of offences reported, the less physical space for dissent there is. Being silenced, in India’s democracy today, is not evidence of peace—it is policy.

Related

Counting Crimes, Discounting Justice: The NCRB’s statistical blind spots

The Myth of Neutral Data: The Disappearance of Communal Violence in NCRB Data

Inexplicable delay in release of NCRB figures

Hate Surges in India, Reveal Disturbing Shifts in Patterns

The post Silence in the Statistics: What NCRB data won’t tell you about dissent appeared first on SabrangIndia.

A Division Bench comprising Chief Justice G. Narendar and Justice Subhash Upadhyay, while hearing Noor Jahan v. State of Uttarakhand, on October 29, 2025, instructed the Investigating Officer (IO) to file an action taken report by November 6, and to remove any inflammatory social media posts related to the incident.

The court’s direction came in response to a protection petition filed by Noor Jahan, the wife of Nasir, a local driver who was brutally assaulted on October 23 after rumours spread that he was transporting beef in his vehicle. The petition alleges that Madan Joshi, a local BJP leader and former president of the party’s Ramnagar City Unit, went live on Facebook, falsely claiming that cow meat was being transported — an act that allegedly incited a mob to attack Nasir.

“Lawlessness in Full Display”: Petitioner seeks CBI probe and police protection

According to the petition, reported by LiveLaw, Nasir’s vehicle was stopped by a crowd incited through Joshi’s Facebook Live. The mob allegedly dragged Nasir out, beat him with stones and kicks, and livestreamed the assault. Instead of rushing him to a hospital, the police are accused of taking the severely injured man to the police station first.

Noor Jahan described the episode as “a glaring example of complete lawlessness,” adding that it represented “cow vigilantism in utter disregard of the Supreme Court’s directions in Tehseen S. Poonawalla v. Union of India (2018).” She also claimed that since the incident, her family had been receiving threats of dire consequences from unidentified persons.

The plea sought a CBI investigation, police protection, and strict enforcement of the Supreme Court’s mob-lynching guidelines, along with compensation for her husband, who continues to receive treatment for severe injuries.

High Court’s order

The High Court’s order, though brief, is a sharp indictment of selective law enforcement and impunity in cases involving political actors. While the Deputy Advocate General informed the Bench that two of the assailants had been arrested, the Court pressed for a full update on the investigation and warned that compliance on removal of inflammatory posts must be shown at the next hearing.

The case will now be taken up on November 6, 2025, when the police are required to submit their action taken report. The Bench’s insistence on immediate removal of hate content marks an important judicial intervention in the digital dimension of communal violence — where misinformation and Facebook Live broadcasts often act as catalysts for mob action.

Selective accountability

The Ramnagar attack adds to a growing pattern of cow-vigilante violence in Uttarakhand’s Kumaon region, where rumours and Facebook Live videos frequently precede communal flare-ups. As Citizens for Justice and Peace has documented, local vigilante groups often operate under tacit political patronage, with little deterrence from police.

The petition cites the Supreme Court’s landmark judgment in Tehseen S. Poonawalla v. Union of India (2018), which mandated states to curb mob lynching, appoint nodal officers, and ensure prompt FIRs and victim protection. Yet, as Noor Jahan’s case reveals, implementation remains largely on paper.

The High Court’s intervention also reignites a broader question — why politicians accused of hate or incitement rarely face swift prosecution, even when evidence is public. While citizens, journalists, and activists are often booked for online speech, leaders accused of fanning communal hatred enjoy impunity. As legal commentators note, this “selective policing of speech” corrodes faith in the rule of law.

The complete order may be read here.

Related:

Madhya Pradesh Muslim man lynched in Rajasthan’s Bhilwara: Family alleges religious targeting masked as cow vigilantism

Rising Cow Vigilante Violence: Muslim truck drivers targeted across states amid police inaction

2024: July and August see surge in cow vigilantism with brutal assaults, raids based on rumours and targeting of Muslims while legal consequences for perpetrators missing

November 2024 Surge in Cow Vigilantism: Rising Violence and Legal Apathy in North India

The post Uttarakhand HC pulls up police over mob attack in Ramnagar, seeks action against BJP leader for inciting communal violence appeared first on SabrangIndia.

Delivered by a Division Bench of Chief Justice Ramesh Sinha and Justice Bibhu Datta Guru on October 28, the ruling attempts to establish a fierce boundary between religious propagation (protected under Article 25) and “conversion by inducement” (termed a “social menace”), but critically fails to protect the constitutional rights of a targeted minority group. The judgment’s most scathing indictment lies not in its rhetoric against exploitation, but in its procedural abdication that validated the exclusion of citizens based on their faith, thereby establishing a worrying precedent for the fragmentation of India’s secular citizenship.

“When it becomes a calculated act of exploitation disguised as charity, it undermines both faith and freedom. The so-called “conversion by inducement” by certain missionary groups is not merely a religious concern, it is a social menace that threatens the unity and cultural continuity of India’s indigenous communities. The remedy lies not in intolerance, but in ensuring that faith remains a matter of conviction, not compulsion.” (Para 26)

Context and background

The petitions arose from a series of Gram Sabha resolutions and hoardings erected at the entry points of several villages in Kanker district, proclaiming a ban on the entry of Christian pastors and those who had converted. These villages, falling under the Fifth Schedule of the Constitution and governed by the Panchayat (Extension to Scheduled Areas) Act, 1996 (PESA), justified the move as a safeguard against “forced” or “induced” religious conversions allegedly targeting impoverished tribal populations.

Practising Christians challenged the resolutions, arguing that they infringed upon their fundamental rights under Article 25 (freedom of religion) and Article 19(1)(d) (freedom of movement) of the Constitution. They contended that while Gram Sabhas are empowered to preserve cultural heritage, their authority remains subject to the overarching supremacy of constitutional rights. The petitioners also cited a 2025 government circular encouraging protection of “Jal, Jangal, Jameen” (water, forest, and land), alleging that this had been misused to legitimise discriminatory hoardings.

The State, however, defended the Gram Sabhas, invoking the PESA Act and the Madhya Pradesh Dharma Swatantrya Adhiniyam, 1968, whose validity had been upheld by the Supreme Court in Rev. Stanislaus v. State of Madhya Pradesh (1977). It argued that the Gram Sabhas were merely exercising their statutory duty to protect tribal traditions and prevent conversion through “allurement, coercion, or fraudulent means.”

Court’s Findings: Faith as conviction, not compulsion

In its detailed judgment, the Bench observed that “conversion by inducement, manipulation, or exploitation of vulnerability” among illiterate and impoverished tribal populations had emerged as a “social menace.” The Court noted that while missionary activity in India had historically contributed to social welfare through education and healthcare, certain groups had, over time, allegedly used these as “platforms for proselytization.”

“Religious conversion has long been a sensitive issue in India’s socio-political landscape. Among the various forms of conversion, those allegedly carried out by Christian missionaries among poor and illiterate tribal and rural populations have generated particular controversy. While the Constitution guarantees every citizen the freedom to profess, practice, and propagate religion, the misuse of this liberty through coercion, inducement, or deception has become a matter of grave concern. The phenomenon of mass or motivated conversions not only disturbs social harmony but also challenges the cultural identity of indigenous communities. Missionary activity in India dates back to the colonial period, when Christian organizations established schools, hospitals, and welfare institutions. Initially, these eLorts were directed at social upliftment, literacy, and health care. However, over time, some missionary groups began using these platforms as avenues for proselytization. Among economically and socially deprived sections, especially Scheduled Tribes and Scheduled Castes, this led to gradual religious conversion under the promise of better livelihoods, education, or equality. What was once seen as service became, in many cases, a subtle instrument of religious expansion. The menace arises when conversion ceases to be a matter of personal faith and becomes a result of inducement, manipulation, or exploitation of vulnerability. In remote tribal belts, missionaries are often accused of targeting illiterate and impoverished families, oLering them monetary aid, free education, medical care, or employment in exchange for conversion. Such practices distort the spirit of voluntary faith and amount to cultural coercion. This process has also led to deep social divisions within tribal communities. Tribals converted to Christianity often adopt new cultural practices, distancing themselves from traditional rituals and communal festivals. As a result, villages become polarized, leading to tension, social boycotts, and sometimes even violent clashes.” (Para 24)

The Bench went on to say that induced conversions among Scheduled Tribes and Scheduled Castes under the promise of material betterment amounted to “cultural coercion” and disrupted traditional systems of belief, leading to polarization, social boycotts, and even violent clashes. The Court adopted a highly charged, prescriptive stance on conversion:

• The “social menace” finding: The Bench forcefully argued that conversion ceases to be a spiritual matter when it becomes a result of “inducement, manipulation, or exploitation of vulnerability,” particularly targeting “illiterate and impoverished families” of Scheduled Tribes (STs) and Scheduled Castes (SCs). This practice, according to the Court, is a subtle instrument of religious expansion that amounts to “cultural coercion” and directly causes social polarization, tension, and violence within tribal communities.
• Reaffirmation of Rev. Stanislaus: The Court heavily relied on the Supreme Court’s landmark 1977 decision in Rev. Stanislaus v. State of Madhya Pradesh, which established that the right to “propagate” religion does not include the right to convert another person by force, fraud, or allurement. This precedent was used to justify the State’s power to prohibit conversion activities.

Quoting Article 25’s guarantee of religious freedom, the Court nonetheless emphasized that this right is “not absolute” and must be balanced against the State’s duty to preserve social order and cultural integrity. The judgment reaffirmed that the right to “propagate” religion does not include the right to convert another person, as laid down by the Supreme Court in Rev. Stanislaus.

“The Gram Sabha is a constitutionally recognized body under the PESA Act and has been conferred specific powers to manage community resources and safeguard tribal traditions. These powers, however, must operate within the limits of the Constitution of India. The expression “right to propagate religion” under Article 25 of the Constitution, as interpreted in Rev. Stainislaus (supra), does not extend to converting another person through inducement, force, or fraudulent means. The Act of 1968 prohibits such activities. Therefore, a general cautionary hoarding intended to prevent illegal conversion activities cannot, per se, be termed unconstitutional.” (Para 25)

Consequently, the Court upheld the hoardings as “general cautionary measures” intended to prevent illegal conversions. It found no violation of constitutional rights in such preventive action, terming them “precautionary” and “not discriminatory.” The Court concluded that the Gram Sabhas’ action was constitutionally permissible:

• PESA empowerment: Since the Gram Sabha is empowered under PESA to safeguard tribal tradition, a “general cautionary hoarding” intended to prevent illegal conversion activities (which are already prohibited by law) “cannot, per se, be termed unconstitutional.” The Court thus accepted the ban as a necessary precautionary measure.
• Procedural non-interference: Crucially, the Court declined to exercise its Article 226 writ jurisdiction to investigate the facts, compelling the petitioners to first avail the alternative statutory remedy under Rule 14 of the Chhattisgarh PESA Rules, 2022. This process requires them to approach the very Gram Sabha that imposed the ban, followed by an appeal to the Sub-Divisional Officer (Revenue).

However, it allowed petitioners the liberty to approach the Gram Sabha or higher administrative authorities under PESA if they felt aggrieved or threatened, and directed the police to provide protection if any threat to life or liberty arose.

Critical Analysis: The peril of judicial expediency

The judgment, while purporting to protect cultural integrity, is fundamentally flawed in its application of constitutional principles, making it a dangerous legal precedent.

1. The Unproven Premise: Judicial assumption over fact

The most severe legal weakness is the Court’s tacit acceptance of the presumption of guilt without conducting a rigorous judicial fact-finding inquiry.

• Restriction based on suspicion: The Court validated the restriction of fundamental rights against an entire religious community based on generalized historical allegations and the potential for future wrongdoing, rather than proven evidence of coercion in the villages concerned. A constitutional court’s duty is to scrutinize restrictions, not sanction them on mere political or social apprehension.
• The shift from act to person: The judgment critically fails to distinguish between the prohibition of an illegal act (coercive conversion) and the prohibition of a person (the Christian visitor/pastor). The Stanislauws ruling limits the act of propagation; the Digbal Tandi ruling limits the entry of the propounder. This constitutes a substantial, disproportionate restriction on Freedom of Movement, treating an entire class of Indian citizens as prima facie offenders.

1. The abdication of writ jurisdiction

The refusal to interfere under the doctrine of alternative remedy represents a judicial evasion of responsibility in a matter involving the core rights of a vulnerable minority:

• Inadequate remedy: Directing petitioners to seek redressal from the Gram Sabha (the body that passed the exclusionary resolution) is a travesty of natural justice. The remedy is not just administrative but inherently political and majoritarian, guaranteeing a biased and ineffective outcome for the minority.
• The obligation of constitutional scrutiny: When an infringement of fundamental rights is alleged, particularly one arising from the action of a state or quasi-state body (the PESA Gram Sabha), the High Court’s writ jurisdiction is intended to be immediate and effective, not relegated to a lower, potentially partisan, forum. The Court’s decision elevates procedural expediency over constitutional protection.

1. Fragmentation of citizenship and secularism

The ruling delivers a severe blow to the principles of secularism and unified citizenship:

• Sanctioning exclusion: By validating the ban on entry based on religious identity, the judgment grants quasi-judicial sanction to social boycott and exclusion, risking the normalization of internal “no-go zones” where the rights of minorities are subject to local majoritarian veto.
• Impact on cultural choice: The judgment restricts the right to receive information and the democratic space for individuals to make informed choices about faith. While opposing coercion, the Court’s action paradoxically limits the free exercise of conscience by denying access to legitimate religious discourse and pastoral care for local Christians.

Democracy, pluralism, and the burden of proof

The Court’s invocation of cultural identity resonates deeply with the sensitivities of tribal communities, but it also raises the spectre of State-sanctioned gatekeeping of belief. India’s secular fabric, as envisioned by the framers of the Constitution, hinges on the idea that faith is a matter of individual conscience, not collective control.

By upholding village-level restrictions on the movement and presence of a particular religious group, the judgment potentially sets a precedent for decentralized discrimination — where Gram Sabhas, endowed with limited judicial oversight, can unilaterally police religious identity.

The ruling’s repeated emphasis on “conversion by inducement” as a “menace” stands on rhetorical rather than constitutional footing. It conflates missionary service work with coercion and imputes motive without inquiry. This approach, while couched in the language of cultural preservation, risks normalizing suspicion-based governance in regions already vulnerable to communal polarization.

The constitutional paradox

At its core, the judgment highlights the enduring paradox of India’s constitutional secularism: the simultaneous protection of freedom of religion and the power of the State to regulate conversion. While the Supreme Court’s precedent in Rev. Stanislaus does allow such regulation, it did not endorse blanket prohibitions or collective exclusionary acts against any community.

The Chhattisgarh High Court, by treating village hoardings as benign “precautionary measures,” overlooks the symbolic violence inherent in signage that bars a specific faith group from entering. The very idea of a “Christian-free” village space contradicts the constitutional guarantee of equality and fraternity.

A truly democratic reading of Article 25 would demand proof of coercion before restriction, not the other way around. In the absence of such proof, preventive exclusion transforms into punitive discrimination, cloaked in cultural rhetoric.

Conclusion: A troubling precedent

While the Court has refused to invalidate the Gram Sabha’s resolutions, its judgment carries implications far beyond Chhattisgarh. It redefines the limits of religious freedom by allowing collective fear to override individual liberty, and elevates cultural protection over constitutional protection.

The ruling’s caution against “conversion by inducement” echoes legitimate anxieties about exploitation, but its failure to distinguish between faith and fear, prevention and prohibition, leaves India’s constitutional secularism on uncertain ground.

In a democracy that aspires to pluralism, the line between protection and persecution must be drawn with evidence — not presumption. The Chhattisgarh High Court’s decision, though couched in legal restraint, risks reinforcing precisely the kind of intolerance it cautions against.

The complete judgment may be read below.

Related:

From ‘Tauba Tauba’ to ‘Expel the Ghuspaithiya’: The language of exclusion in Bihar’s election season

From slogan to sanction: how a Chief Minister’s words hardened into punitive policing after the “I Love Muhammad” row

Vested Rights under Threat: Tharu tribe petitions High Court against administrative harassment

Policing Autonomy: Women become the first casualty of religious extremism

The post Guarding culture or policing faith? Chhattisgarh High Court’s ‘social menace’ observation and the future of Article 25 appeared first on SabrangIndia.

In 2025, the country is still engaged in political debate regarding bail reform, while jails and prisons swell with people who have not been found guilty of a crime. The NCRB declared it “overcrowding.” However, rights defenders saw something much broader, which was the institutionalization of inequality. For the world’s largest democracy, wealth as a means of obtaining freedom is possible, but liberty is now a luxury.

While the NCRB 2023 report did provide numbers/data, it did not diagnose the primary reason for so many Indians who were jailed prior to a trial taking place. It did not address or ask why the poor and the marginal are consistently at the top of these tables, or why, year after year, freedom is deferrable by caste, class, and faith.

The Undertrial Nation

According to data from the 2023 NCRB, Muslims make up 16.5% of the overall prison population, an overrepresentation that continues despite numerous demands that this be revisited. Two years later, there remain 16.5% of Muslim prisoners, but the politics surrounding that number has hardened.

Faith-based profiling is no longer the subject of accusations; it is a quiet cynically accepted, administrative process. Detentions under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) and the National Security Act (NSA) continue to be unevenly applied to Muslim men, particularly in Maharashtra, Uttar Pradesh and Delhi. However, the NCRB report for 2023 claims there is only one UAPA case in Maharashtra—even if the claim is absurd, there still continue to be ongoing prosecutions on UAPA grounds from Bhima Koregaon to the anti-CAA protests in Delhi.

The reasoning behind this invisibility was brutally exposed in Javed Ahmad Hajam v. State of Maharashtra. Hajam, a college professor from Kolhapur, posted two WhatsApp status updates in August 2022, one that said August 5 was “Jammu and Kashmir Black Day” and another that said “Happy Independence Day Pakistan” for August 14, which led to an FIR under Section 153A IPC (promoting enmity).

Ultimately, the Supreme Court quashed the prosecution, holding, in context, that the posts were political dissent, and that the malignity needed to bring Section 153A to bear was absent. In framing its position, the Court used a “reasonable person” test, held that dissent cannot become criminal, and that Section 153A cannot arbitrarily hush criticism.

The judgment even expressed concern of an institutional dimension to the whole inquiry – the way vague statutory language and untrained policing convert speech into a pathway to detainment. The case matters here because it illustrates this immediacy of the carceral leap: a single FIR, typically framed as ‘communal’ is potential for arrest, then detained (which can last indefinitely), and an undertrial is then captured as a unique entry status backed into an undeterred victimized group in yearly NCRB tables – but without record of the chilling context the data point entries rely on.

Caste, Community, and Architecture of Incarceration

If the data of 2023 offered a snapshot of social disparity, 2025 is telling us how deeply rooted that disparity is. Dalits still comprise more than one-fifth of India’s prisoners, Adivasis make up close to one-eighth and Muslims about one in six – these numbers have barely budged, nor has official concern.

The NCRB’s lack of willingness to make claims about any overrepresentations is simply political silence repackaged as bureaucratic neutrality. To them, these disparities are naturally occurring, which they are not. From police profiling to the refusal of bail, the criminal justice pipeline re-generates, with unsettling accuracy, India’s social order. Sociologist Harsh Mander once called Indian prisons “the moral underside of democracy”. By 2025, that description feels literal. The undertrial prisoner, mostly poor and caste-characterized, remains India’s longest-term prisoner.

Walled in, the caste labour persists. Dalit and Adivasi prisoners still carry out daily cleaning, cooking, and sanitation duties – caste work that replicates caste labour outside of prison. Freedom, as this data shows, is not evenly distributed, and neither is labour.

Faith Behind Bars

Faith-based profiling is no longer an accusation; it is well-established as an open secret. As with the speculative basis for immediate detention and discredited action, Muslim men are disproportionately subjected to both the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) and preventive provisions of the National Security Act (NSA), particularly in Maharashtra, Uttar Pradesh, and Delhi.

India’s jails have become a reflection of its hierarchies rather than a place of justice. In Prison Statistics India 2023, India has 5.8 lakh prisoners, of which 77.9% (≈ 4.5 lakh prisoners) are un-convicted, which is the highest proportion in over a decade. Overcrowding was reported at 133% of capacity on a national level, mostly in jails of Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, and Madhya Pradesh. Behind the numbers is a familiar trend: Dalits at 22% of all prisoners, Adivasis at 13%, and Muslims at 16% of all prisoners, which is all considerably higher than their percentage of the population in India. The tables in the NCRB’s report list out these categories without any comment, presenting social injustices as administrative facts. By refusing to analyse factors surrounding why certain groups have disproportionately higher rates of representation in the prison system, the state legitimizes exclusion by normalising systemic inequality into statistical fact, reported The NEWS Minute.

Discrimination is not only seen in prison numbers, but also in parole and the speediness of trials. Baba Ram Rahim, who is a convicted murderer and rapist, was granted parole a staggering 14 times, from October 2020 to August 2025, with three terms being in 2025 itself. In contrast, Umar Khalid, who is an activist, has been in jail for five years without trial, and his bail has been denied multiple times under the pretext of “threat to national security.”

In flattening faith into numbers, the NCRB reduces prejudice to neutrality. The state of the prison, like the data, either becomes a place of discrimination in plain sight.

Women, Gender, and the Data of Absence

Women made up 4.3% of prisoners in the NCRB’s 2023 data – enough of a smidgeon that it could begin to be ignored. But, as reports from Sabrang India and the NHRC (2024) point out, their invisibility is not statistical; it is structural.

Most women’s incarceration is tied to a survival offense: theft, domestic disputes, or moral policing. Very few get access to a lawyer, healthcare, or childcare. By 2025, only 22 prisons in the country had crèches available to inmates.

Gender minorities are truly invisible. NCRB continues to count “male/female” – which leaves out transgender and non-binary prisoners. Activists are quick to inform us about the fact that data does not equal policy – no transgender cells, no hormone therapy, no protections against abuse.

The prison manual has not been updated to adjust to constitutional morality; its silences are administrative, but the reality is lived experience.

The Data of Denial

One of the more evident lessons of 2023, then, was the degree to which data can make inequality appear normative. Two years later, the lesson has only gained in strength.

The NCRB’s refusal to disaggregate incarceration data according to religion, caste or class across the bail stage and the conviction stage continues to obscure systemic bias. By counting only what fits within bureaucratic constructs, all of it can work to conceal acts of discrimination as neutrality.

The same governmental decision to stop collecting data on lynchings and hate crimes after 2017 appears again in the prison context — a continuation of silence on the part of the state. What the state does not collect, it cannot be held accountable for reporting.

In Jammu & Kashmir, where hundreds have been pre-emptively detained under the Public Safety Act (PSA) after the abrogation of Article 370 in August 2019, the NCRB’s Crime in India 2023 – with its stunningly low figures – reported zero cases of sedition or communal violence. However, reports on the ground indicate otherwise, as do court files. Fahad Shah, the editor of Kashmir Walla, and journalist Sajjad Gul were jailed under UAPA and PSA in March 2023, despite numerous bail orders, for their articles deemed “anti-national.” In the same year, the Jammu & Kashmir Police reported under RTI, accessed by Article 14, that they had invoked PSA against 412 persons on a preventive basis. The contradiction here is not criminality versus adherence to justice but rather the moral experience of being measured: if one is not on the record, proof of adherence is sworn. The fewer crimes, the more the state can claim it has successfully imposed “peace.” What one measures is not justice but rather compliance.

The Republic Behind Bars

Looking back from 2025, India’s prisons do not seem an exception to justice, but its crucible. The state’s preoccupation with order has turned imprisonment into governance. The 77% undertrial rate isn’t about the administration of justice; it is about the exercise of power.

As Dr. B.R. Ambedkar warned, democracy in India does not rest on what we write on paper, but on how the state treats the utterly powerless; two years on from the NCRB 2023 report, the statistics continue to accuse us.

They illustrate a Republic where faith dictates remand, caste controls bail, and poverty dictates punishment. If freedom is going to mean anything, it will have to mean spilling the data. Prison reform, bail parity, and accurate evidence-based transparency reporting are not just procedural niceties; they are unfinished business from the Constitution itself.

Until then, the incarceration ledger will remain the most honest reflection of modern India — meaning a nation where justice, for far too many, begins only after imprisonment ends.

(The legal research team of CJP consists of lawyers and interns; this resource has been worked on by Preksha Bothara)

Related:

Almost 2 Lakh Undertrials Languishing Behind Bars: Outbreak of COVID-19 Exposed Inequality in Indian Prisons

Data Without Justice: What NCRB’s Prison Statistics Reveal About Caste, Faith and Inequality

Who Gets Bail, Who Stays Behind Bars: A Tale of Unequal Liberty in India’s Criminal Justice System

NCRB’s Prison Statistics Report 2019 paints a bleak picture

The post Counting the Caged: What India’s prison data refuses to see appeared first on SabrangIndia.

There is a story of unbroken violence behind the language of percentages. The NCRB might record a few percentage points of change year to year, but the factual curve of cruelty, fear, and impunity is steep and continuous. In projecting a neutral and comprehensive approach, the Bureau displays a sort of bureaucratic amnesia: it renders visible structural violence and the inaction of the State as statistical.

The Myth of ‘Marginal’ Improvement

According to NCRB 2023, India recorded 471,000 reports of crimes against women, a nominal increase of three percent from the previous year. The largest single category remains “cruelty by husband or relatives” under section 498-A of IPC, at over 31 percent of all crimes against women. Reported rapes amounted to 32,032, roughly the same as the reports in 2022; assault with intent to outrage modesty was recorded at about 20 percent. However, the situation is worse for children: POCSO (Prevention of Children from Sexual Offences) and associated crimes increased by 9.2% this year, exceeding 170,000 cases.

In June 2023, the Dewas district in Madhya Pradesh experienced a tragedy resulting from coercive harassment. A married woman, Reena Joshi, 26 years old, died after allegedly ingesting acid as the culmination of months of harassing behaviour by a local man, Zakir Hussain. The FIR her husband filed stated that Hussain had been harassing Reena, threatening her to end her marriage, to convert to Islam, and to marry him. The FIR also noted that despite the couple’s multiple complaints to the local police, no preventive measures were taken. On 10 June 2023, Reena died from her injuries, and at the time of her death, she directly named Zakir in her statements to those trying to save her life. Zakir was charged with and arrested under Sections 306 (abetment of suicide), 354D (stalking), and the Madhya Pradesh Freedom of Religion Act, 2021. The incident led to protests by women’s and community groups, calling for accountability from police for their inaction in the face of reported harassment. In aggregate, this was an episode that illustrated structural neglect, collapsing everyday harassment into fatal violence: the law can then only respond after someone dies, while the accused would not be charged with murder but instead abetment of suicide as recorded by the NCRB —both minimizing and removing the gendered and communal motivation behind the behaviour.

At first glance, these small percentage increases may seem to indicate stability or a sense that things haven’t really changed. Yet the small percentage increase masks the inability of gendered justice to make progressive change, improvement. Further, an increase of three percent represents over 14,000 more women reporting violence against women. In India, however, we know that one in ten assault cases will be reported at the very least – on an already underreported crime according gf to the NFHS-5. Thus, NCRB appearances of reported cases are a fragment of a much larger, certainly unreported crisis and violation, and depend upon those individuals to sacrifice their dignity in an institutional and systemic sense. Statistically, the NCRB is relying on reported FIRs (first information reports), so that the illusion appears real.

The rationale suggests that if we don’t file a complaint, there is no problem. Mainstream coverage also advances the invisibility: by attributing the word “marginal” to the increase, the newsroom and media outlets unconsciously (or otherwise) participate in the state’s rhetoric of containment, as if gendered violence is merely a data problem, not a social emergency. What masquerades as stability is, in fact, indifference, which has both institutional and systemic impact.

Data without Identity: How Categories erase Vulnerability

If NCRB’s percentages flatten time, its categories flatten people. Crimes committed against women are presented as one large, lumped category that does not disaggregate for caste, religion, class, or disability, all of which structure vulnerability and allow access to justice, anywhere in the 2023 report. The only modest exception is “Crimes against Scheduled Caste and Scheduled Tribe women,” and that is put into its own category, marking the pattern of intersectional violence as totally separate from the gendered whole.

This structural erasure substantiates what feminist scholars have termed the violence of difference itself: that a Dalit woman’s rape, an Adivasi girl’s trafficking, or a disabled woman’s assault do not happen on their own but at the intersection of several hierarchies. The Hathras case (2020) stands as an emblematic instance of this: a Dalit woman was raped, her story ignored and erased, her body burnt to the ground. However, NCRB’s data design ensures that no such trend can be evidenced statistically again.

Furthermore, the Bureau’s gender binary means that LGBT survivors are entirely erased from the data. Trans women, gender non-conforming people, and male survivors of sexual violence disappear from the Bureau’s reporting, making counts impossible. To only count individuals that conformed to gender is to reproduce the very harm again through “neutrality.” In the NCRB’s data-driven justice, invisibility signifies that count.

The West Bengal Case Study: Acid Violence and Everyday Cruelty

Few forms of gendered violence are as literal or as haunting as acid attacks. West Bengal is, not surprisingly, the epicentre of the violence. It accounted for nearly one-fifth of all reported acid attacks in India in 2023. The vast majority of victims are young women, punished for rejecting advances, defying control, or asserting self-determination.

Behind every NCRB statistic lies the face of a survivor, disfigured by both acid and inaction. Survivors describe experiences of being transported between hospitals without burn units, climbing a three-to-five-year waiting list for a hearing at court, or working with police officers who treat the investigation as a waste of time. A field report from 2023 conducted by the Hindu from North 24 Parganas documented that survivors have yet to receive the Rs 3 lakh mandated compensation prescribed under the Supreme Court, an entire decade after the attack. For more than half of the survivors, the only consistent part of their experience after the attack is falling into poverty.

Where acid attacks appear in NCRB 2023, they appear under a neutral, bureaucratic category entitled “grievous hurt.” The neutralised language, substituted in place of targeted misogynist violence, reduces it to bodily harm and ignores its symbolic and social identity. There is also no data about rehabilitation, conviction rates, or disbursal of compensation. Defining acid violence in an unqualified way allows the State to distance itself from characterizing this as a moral failure, under the medical lexicon.

In West Bengal, civil society organisations such as Acid Survivors Foundation India (ASFI) have consistently pointed out how police evade filing complaints under the relevant sections of the Indian Penal Code (326A, 326B) to suppress “rising crime rates,” and the National Crime Records Bureau then records this reduction in cases, rounding out this circle of denial. Each entry is then not progress toward justice, but rather a record of silence, reported the Indian Express.

On August 16, 2023, Jayanta Roy, a 35-year-old resident of Zamindar Para, a locality in Jalpaiguri town, threw acid on his neighbour, a 22-year-old woman, after she consistently turned down his romantic gestures. The woman, whose name family asked to be concealed, suffered deep burns to her face, chest, and shoulders. She was rushed to North Bengal Medical College, where doctors found she had incurred third-degree chemical injuries. Roy’s attack followed her, attracting weeks of trailing and loud harassment. The woman’s family reported that both times reported her was rebuffed by police, who told them to leave as it amounted to a “personal dispute.” Local outrage finally prompted local police to arrest Roy, superficially charging Roy under IPC Sections 326A (acid attack), 341 (wrongful restraint), and 354 (assault on a woman). The event was treated as a fast-track case, and the Jalpaiguri District and Sessions Court ultimately sentenced Roy in February 2024 to 15 years’ rigorous imprisonment with a fine of ₹3 lakh.

The case is noteworthy not only for the infrequent conviction but also for revealing the important procedural bias that ASFI has been publicly advocating for as long as two years — that is, most acid attacks are never afforded the appropriate legal formality and thus simply disappear from the NCRB records altogether. As The Hindu reported, West Bengal had 16 acid attacks in 2023, the highest in India, but local NGOs report the actual number is likely double that when misclassifications of burns and withdrawn FIRs are considered. 

Structural Underreporting and the Politics of Marginality

The structure of India’s justice system guarantees that the majority of gendered violence never reaches official visibility. FIRs rely on police discretion; prosecution relies on political will; data on conviction relies on judicial efficiency; and all this relies on survivors’ emotional stamina. For poor and marginalized women, it is deadly.

Data from the 2023 NCRB indicates there are a little over 1.3 lakh rape cases and over 2 lakh domestic cruelty cases that are pending. The time taken to complete a trial averages at over 5 years. One-Stop Centres (OSCs) that are supposed to provide integrated support to survivors are woefully underfunded and are not well-served. In many states, there are fewer than a dozen functioning centres. The NCRB does not provide cross-references for these service inadequacies; all it does is count cases, not conditions.

In digital spaces, gendered violence is finding new forms. Offences of online stalking, non-consensual sharing of images, and blackmail comprise a substantial proportion of the complaints now received under the IT Act. But, as indicated by the data from RTI from Mumbai, only a fraction of these offences turn into FIRs. Cyber harassment, in particular of journalists and women activists, has simply become a normalized way of life, but these acts are often framed as ‘defamation’ or ‘obscenity’ and thus escape the NCRB’s gendered lens entirely.

This type of structural undercount is not by mistake; it is a performance of stability. By keeping official numbers deceptively low, the State can suggest that its policies from Beti Bachao Beti Padhao to dispersing Nirbhaya Fund are “working.” Meanwhile, the continuum of harm remains intact, only concealed under an administrative façade of calm.

The Absences of Intersectionality and Enumeration

The omissions by the NCRB in categories like mob lynching, honour killing, or hate crimes further impoverish our understanding of how gender inter-relates with other forms of violence. Most forms of violence against women in interfaith or inter-caste relationships, for example, then get recategorised under “murder” or “kidnapping.” The political decision to stop monitoring 2017 these forms of violence reflects a larger trend of erasure.

The same erasure occurs in more publicly visible anti-feminist violence against women, whether they are journalists, protestors, or organizers. The 2023 IFEI Press Freedom Report recorded 226 accounts of harassment, hindrance, and threats, including for women journalists covering communal or gender issues. When we looked at the NCRB categories of “Offences Against the State” and “Offences Affecting Public Tranquility,” there are essentially no entries.

It’s the same when thinking of women online. The cyber restrictions and internet shutdowns during the farmers’ protests, or in Manipur, severed women from online safety resources – an erasure that does not fall under any NCRB recognisability.

What cannot be charged is not counted, and what is not counted does not exist in the eyes of the State.

The Cost of the Systemic Erasure of Crime

The NCRB’s 2023 report, similar to its precedents, is not just a record of data — it is a story about denial. By calling violence “marginal,” it converts the devastating meaningfulness of persistent crises to that of a simple statistical aberration. By disregarding intersectional detail, it obliterates how caste, poverty, and gender are complicit. And, by ignoring certain crimes, the NCRB builds a semblance of peace.

To think of a 3% increase as being “marginal” does not grapple with the implications of suffering from systemic violence or marginalization. Each number signifies a life subjected to fear, shame, and bureaucratic indifference. The NCRB’s visibility is selective. It only displays what the State is open to confronting.

When data conceals more than it presents, counting becomes collusion. To genuinely see the reality of gendered violence in India today, you need to see beyond the numbers, in survivors, in silence, in omissions, etc. Because in the measures of oppression, what the State frames as marginal is often collected in massive quantities. 

(The legal research team of CJP consists of lawyers and interns; this resource has been worked on by Preksha Bothara)

Related:

Mapping Gender-Based Violence in India: Trends, determinants, and institutional frameworks

The ‘Missing Women’ in Crime Data: Caste, Gender, and Institutional Blindness

Acid Survivors Speak: The Long Road to Justice and Rehabilitation

Digital Violence, Silence, and State Failure: Women’s Safety Online in India

The post Invisible Assaults: How India’s crime data erases violence against women and children appeared first on SabrangIndia.

This came after the Calcutta High Court had quashed the deportation orders against six persons — including eight-month pregnant Sunali (Sonali) Khatun, her husband Danish Sheikh, and their eight-year-old son Sabir — and directed that all six be brought back to India within four weeks. The deadline expired on October 24, 2025, but the Union government moved the Supreme Court on October 22, just two days before the compliance period ended. Reports indicate that the families of the deported persons were preparing to seek contempt proceedings in the High Court to ensure the order’s enforcement.

Detailed report of the Calcutta High Court order may be read here.

In its plea before the apex court, the Union government has reportedly questioned the jurisdiction of the Calcutta High Court to hear the case, arguing that similar matters were already pending before the Delhi High Court. As per TOI, appearing for the Union, Additional Solicitor General Asok Kumar Chakrabarti contended that the petitioner, Bhodu Sheikh — Sunali’s father and resident of Birbhum — had suppressed this fact when filing the habeas corpus petition.

In brief: Calcultta HC order of repatriation

Earlier, in response to the Calcutta High Court’s direction to disclose the details of the deportation process, the Union had maintained that the six detainees were Bangladeshi nationals. However, the affidavit failed to clarify from which location or under whose authority the pushback occurred.

The High Court had taken a stern view of this omission. In its September 26 judgment in Bhodu Sheikh v. Union of India & Ors., a Division Bench comprising Justice Tapabrata Chakraborty and Justice Reetobroto Kumar Mitra observed that the deportation had been carried out in “hot haste,” in complete disregard of the Ministry of Home Affairs memo dated May 2, 2025, which mandates that no deportation can occur without a 30-day verification process through the home State.

Rejecting the Union’s claim that the deportees had “confessed” to being Bangladeshi nationals, the Court held that such statements made before police officers “without any procedural safeguards” violated Articles 14, 20(3), and 21 of the Constitution. The Bench noted that Sunali’s Aadhaar and PAN cards proved she was born in 2000 — making it factually impossible for her to have “entered India illegally in 1998,” as claimed by authorities.

Emphasising that “suspicion, however grave, cannot replace proof,” the judges declared the deportation and detention orders of June 24 and 26, 2025, unconstitutional. They ruled that the executive’s conduct had “crippled the constitutional grant of fairness and reasonableness” and ordered the Union government, FRRO Delhi, and Delhi Police to repatriate the six persons within four weeks via the Indian High Commission in Dhaka. A plea by the Union government to stay the order was rejected outright, with the Bench observing that “liberty once lost must be swiftly restored.”

Bangladesh Court recognition of the six victims as Indian Citizens

In a parallel and extraordinary development, a Bangladeshi court also ruled in favour of the deported families. On September 30, 2025, the Senior Judicial Magistrate of the Sadar Court in Chapainawabganj declared that all six persons — Sunali Khatun, Danish Sheikh, their minor son Sabir, Sweety Bibi (32), and her two sons aged six and sixteen — were Indian citizens, not Bangladeshis.

Citing their Aadhaar numbers and residential proof from Birbhum, the Magistrate concluded that they were “wrongfully pushed across the border” by Indian authorities. The court directed that the order be transmitted to the Indian High Commission in Dhaka for “appropriate diplomatic action,” effectively placing the onus on New Delhi to initiate their repatriation.

Detailed report may be read here.

Political Reactions: Trinamool Congress accuses Union of defiance

As the Union’s deadline to comply with the High Court’s order expired on October 24, the Trinamool Congress (TMC) accused the Union government of “brazenly defying” a judicial directive and “abandoning” its own citizens.

On October 24, according to the report of The Hindu, TMC alleged that the BJP-led Union government had “flouted the Calcutta High Court’s order with arrogance and indifference.” The party questioned: “Does being in power give BJP the licence to flout a High Court order? To ignore the suffering of women and children? To turn ordinary citizens into bargaining chips in a vindictive, performative game of power?”

According to The Hindu, the statement further said: “First these hapless people were branded Bangladeshis and dumped across the border. Then, after a long legal battle, the court found otherwise and ordered their repatriation. But the Centre has shown no urgency, no humanity, and no basic decency to bring them home.”

TMC leaders Sashi Panja (Minister for Women and Child Development) and Samirul Islam (Rajya Sabha MP and Chairman, Migrant Workers Welfare Board) condemned the Union’s inaction. As per The Hindu, Ms. Panja said that “The deportation was wrong. The Trinamool fought this battle. The central government did not take a single step to bring them back. They continued to label them as Bangladeshis so that they remain in Bangladesh.”

Mr. Islam told The Hindu that the government’s failure to act was “unconstitutional and inhuman,” noting that the Bangladesh court had already recognised the deportees as Indian citizens. He added that the West Bengal government was struggling to establish any communication with the six persons stranded across the border and that Sunali Bibi had not yet delivered her child.

Broader Context: Crackdown on Bengali-Speaking Workers

This controversy unfolds amid reports that thousands of Bengali-speaking migrant workers have been detained, interrogated, or expelled from BJP-ruled states since May 2025, under suspicion of being undocumented immigrants. As Citizens for Justice and Peace has noted, several workers were declared “foreigners” within days of their detention and pushed across the Bangladesh border, often without inquiry or notice to their home States. Human rights groups and lawyers have described these deportations as “undocumented, unconstitutional, and xenophobic.”

The Sunali Khatun deportation case — now at the centre of legal and diplomatic tensions between India and Bangladesh — has come to symbolise the dangers of executive overreach and ethnic profiling, raising critical questions about citizenship, due process, and accountability under India’s constitutional framework.

Detailed reports on such illegal deportations may be read here, here and here.

Related:

Calcutta High Court strikes down arbitrary deportations of West Bengal residents, orders return from Bangladesh

Gauhati High Court seeks Centre’s May 2025 deportation notification as legality of re-detention of Abdul Shiekh and Majibur Rehman is scrutinised

Another Pushback Halted: SC stays deportation of woman declared foreigner, issues notice on challenge to Gauhati HC order

CJP Win! Gauhati HC stays deportation of Ajabha Khatun, will address bail demand on April 4

Assam’s New SOP Hands Citizenship Decisions to Bureaucrats: Executive overreach or legal necessity?

The post Union government challenges Calcutta High Court repatriation order, moves Supreme Court instead even as Bangladesh declares six deported Bengalis Indian citizens appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The dissonance between a lived experience and official data is not new. It showcases how the language of state statistics can redefine brutality in state bureaucracy. By detaching violence from motive and identity, the NCRB articulates a false sense of neutrality, one that ultimately offers protection for both state and non-state actors.

The issue lies not in the numbers themselves, but rather in the methodology through which they are presented. The NCRB statistics are based on registered crimes, not the actual incidence of crime. Changes in reporting or policing can significantly influence the figures. The current structure and functioning of India’s police force render it vulnerable to diktats (ideological and other) from the state executive, ensuring that crimes, especially hate crimes against India’s most marginalized, Minorities and Dalits, sometimes women, remain buried. Conversely, higher crime numbers (for such crimes) in some states may reflect citizen-centric, pro-constitutional, police initiatives rather than an actual spiral or increase in crime.

In 2023, the country experienced the longest span of ethnic violence in its contemporary history when Meitei and Kuki–Zo communities mobilized against one another in Manipur. Life lost and displacement suffered by the Kuki-Zo were marked and significant. Kuki women experienced the brunt of gendered targeted violence at the hands of the other community and law enforcement. Yet, for the NCRB, hundreds of pages of the report yield only a handful of cases of “rioting” and “arson.” And what cannot be articulated in a statistic cannot be held accountable in law.

The Language of Neutrality

Over time, the NCRB has—instead of acquiring an autonomous rigour and credibility– grown into a reflection of a majoritarian state’s unease with terms such as communal, ethnic, or targeted violence. You won’t find such terms of classification in the 2023 report. The words used are “riots,” “group clashes,” and “public disorder.” This is not merely playing with words, but rather moral repositioning. By using terms such as “communal” and “ethnic,” motive is acknowledged, and therefore, responsibility. In contrast, “rioting” makes violence seem spontaneous and even-handed!

This kind of linguistic strategy is being increasingly normalised. In 2017, the NCRB surreptitiously removed its specific sections “communal and social violence,” “mob lynchings,” and “honour killings.” Officials defended their actions by stating that states were providing inconsistent data. The outcome of this was an administrative silence, allowing governments to claim hate crimes were falling when, in fact, they are just not being officially documented. Initially, data classification soon became a political shield. Without naming hate, India’s crime data reads now like a bureaucratic novel: correct, procedural, and utterly dissociated from reality.

In this case, neutrality does not refer to having no opinion. It refers to being complicit through action. Omission of the name the state uses for targeted violence does not depoliticize criminality; it simply conceals the injustice of violence and hate crimes being perpetrated.

A Pattern written in History

The NCRB’s refusal to report hate and communal crimes in 2023 is not a new practice. This is simply a reiteration of a policy first established in 2017, when the Union government acknowledged in Parliament that, due to state governments’ “unreliable inputs,” it would stop collecting data on “lynching” and “hate crimes.” This bureaucratic explanation has since served as the basis for the Republic’s statistical loss of memory.

By the year 2023, while the increase in targeted violence in India was expected, the Bureau’s tables did not reflect much of anything. The Centre for Study of Society and Secularism (CSSS) tracked 21 mob-lynchings in 2023, representing a 23% increase from 2022 The CSSS report can be read here  Of these incidents, twelve were related to allegations of cow slaughter, two related to interfaith relationships, and nearly all of the victims were Muslim. For example, in Bharatpur in Rajasthan, 35-year-old Nasir and 25-year-old Junaid were kidnapped and burned alive in February 2022 by people said to be affiliated with the Bajrang Dal. In Bhopal in July, two cattle traders were lynched for being suspected to be transporting beef, an inappropriate standard of evidence. Neither case shows up under any communal category in the NCRB 2023 tables: both fold quietly into “murder” and “rioting.”

The same narrative can be found across the nation. In Kolhapur, for instance, a Dalit youth was beaten to death based on rumours about “religious insult.” In Ramgarh, Jharkhand, a mob killed a tribal man, accused of theft. The CSSS report noted that the violence was accompanied by hate speech and communal harassment. The report adds that this kind of violence is smaller-scale and does not fit within the category of violence documented by the NCRB’s rather narrow definitions. Ultimately, the data architecture favours an emphasis on procedural clarity at the expense of human truth.

In another incident in Maharashtra’s Satara district in August 2023, a single social media post mocking a Hindu god led to two days of violent conflict. Two people were killed, approximately 100 were injured, and businesses owned by Muslims were targeted. But if one looks in the NCRB ledger, a single entry gathers the Satara episode with every other instance of what NCRB has recorded as “rioting.” There is nothing to suggest the motive was religious; no record of what happened next; no note of the fact that the riot occurred on established communal lines.

The NCRB’s avoidance of the caption of motive is not unlike the state’s avoidance of calling out hate. Where communal violence once barely allowed for reckoning about the moral heart of the atrocity, instead it is now public disorder. This linguistic flattening eliminates not only the prejudice underlying the violence, but also the impunity enabling it.

Manipur: A Case Study

In 2023, Manipur became the clearest example of how violence can happen in public view and disappear from the official records. On May 3, 2023, a protest was launched by the All Tribal Students’ Union of Manipur (ATSUM) against a court directive to recommend Scheduled Tribe status for the Meiteis, and it quickly transformed into a spiral of armed ethnic conflict between the Meitei majority of the Imphal Valley and the Kuki–Zo tribal communities of the hills.

The violence swept the villages and towns with historic severity. Mobs burned homes, churches, and community centres. Independent estimates from the Hindu, Scroll, and Sabrangindia indicated that over 200 people were killed, over 60,000 displaced, and approximately 5,000 houses burned down. Entire communities disappeared; satellite images confirmed the damage. Over 350 churches and several temples were daubed and destroyed, highlighting the sectarian edge of the violence.

For months, the state was essentially divided into two: Imphal with its Meitei surplus on one hand and the hill districts on the other. There was a complete internet shutdown for over 200 days, severing survivors from aid networks and reporters from the outside world. Civil society and reporters who attempted to document the torture perpetrated by armed forces faced threats and FIRs for their expressions. Still, the reports of rape, sexual violence, women stripped and paraded through the streets to cheers from the crowds, filming as soldiers carried out any forms of violence, remained concealed. Only when a viral video found its way into social media in July 2023, a good three months after the first outbreak, did India’s national conscience briefly awaken to the abuses, and forced the SC to intervene to provide the state some accountability.

In the NCRB 2023 report, however, all of this collapses into a few rows of data. Manipur shows just a few dozen “rioting” cases and scattered cases of “arson”, nothing that would even suggest that a state had descended into a type of civil war. No mention of mass displacement, custodial abuses, or gendered violence. This silence is not incidental; it is institutional. The NCRB is merely flattening ethnic cleansing cited through “law and order disturbances” and provides a bureaucratic alibi for one of the worst governance failures in recent memory.

The Geography of Denial

If the NCRB’s omissions were haphazard, they might be brushed off as misprints. However, the odious erosion is visible across a vast geographical area. In 2023, the India Hate Lab noted 378 incidents of hate speech and hate crime ( CJP Report based on Hate Lab 2023 – Study reveals 668 hate speech cases in 2023, BJP major player), with Uttar Pradesh (62), Maharashtra (42), Bihar (34), and Madhya Pradesh (28) highest on the list. Each of these states also noted “declines” in the NCRB data for “Offences Promoting Enmity”.

Examine Haryana, where riots erupted in Nuh during a religious procession on 31 July 2023. Six died, 200 were arrested, and bulldozers crushed a number of Muslim homes in “retaliation”. The NCRB, by contrast, categorises the outrage as “rioting” without even insinuating it was communal or that the demolitions were punitive. The numbers create an illusion of symmetry — as if both sides were violent, both guilty, and both punished.

In Delhi, more than twenty public rallies were documented during the months of February and August 2023, with hate slogans. Nevertheless, the NCRB notes a decline in “Offences Promoting Enmity Between Groups” – a decline from 231 in 2022 to 194 in 2023. If the absence of numbers is not demonstrated evidence of peace, it is an established case of selective factual erasure.

Even the desecration of religious sites – like an attack on St. Michael’s cemetery in Mahim, Mumbai, in January 2023, when 18 crosses were defaced – does not even make “religious offences”, which are non-existent in the NCRB figures. These types of harassment, which obviously relate to religious identity, are absorbed into the property crime statistics.

The data from Jammu & Kashmir is close to surreal. NCRB 2023 records zero cases of sedition or communal violence, despite the Union Home Ministry stating in Parliament that over 230 people were detained under the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) in the same calendar year. This tranquillity reflects not peace, but policy in action – the imposition of normalcy through erasure.

When Counting Conceals

The exclusions in the 2023 report, when evaluated in conjunction with each other, prioritized overt intent over deficiencies in capacity. By outright removing categories such as “hate crime” and “mob lynching,” the state is able to absorb violent acts based on religion, caste, or ideology into broadly neutral categories. While the crime may still be recorded, its cause is erased. The foundation of hate crime — the identity of the victim — is swept away from the record.

This administrative erasure dramatically exceeds the parameters of the chart. It alters public discourse, limits accountability, and relieves the state of its obligation to protect. When violence is relabelled rioting, the victims are stripped of recognition; when hate speech is recoded as “public mischief,” performers possess plausible deniability.

In the NCRB’s framework for 2023, there are the demolitions in Haryana, the ethnic murders in Manipur, the lynching deaths in Bharatpur, and the “riots” in Satara all clubbed into the same “neutral labelling.” The motive behind the violence is absent; all we are left with is a ledger of something resembling lawlessness, which tells us nothing about the injustices inflicted.

The statistics of the NCRB are not indicators of safety but of silence. Every statistic contains a choice — what to include, how to rename, and what to omit. This much is clear: the Bureau’s neutrality is not objectivity but ideology — a way of regulating how we think, and bringing about tranquillity through the absence of visible conflict.

A Nation without Witnesses

When the NCRB came out with its 2023 report, it was apparent that India’s data regime had transitioned from being an instrument of transparency to an apparatus for denial. The numbers corroborate what human rights organizations, journalists, and survivors have reported: that violence in India is not simply physical but epistemic — a battle over who gets to be viewed, tagged, and remembered.

Not having lynching, hate crime, or communal violence as categories is more than an oversight; it is political. In a democracy founded on data as a bedrock of policy, invisibility serves as a way to maintain control. As crimes are recorded, the government looks safer with fewer recorded instances.

This is the irony of modern India: a country in which the spreadsheet of data silencing has replaced the FIR; the number of riots has decreased as the number of victims increases; and the act of counting is now indicative of support for the machinery of impunity.

Here, the NCRB’s neutrality is not the neutrality of law, but of silence — a silence that indicates the price of counting, and the larger price of erasure.

(The legal research team of CJP consists of lawyers and interns; this resource has been worked on by Preksha Bothara)

Related

Manipur 2023: Violence unaddressed eight months after conflicts erupt

Hate crimes on the rise from 2024-2025

India Hate Lab Report 2024: Unveiling the rise of hate speech and communal rhetoric

Communal violence and a woman’s body

The post Statistical Amnesia: How Communal Violence Vanishes in NCRB 2023 appeared first on SabrangIndia.

This article discusses the recent Supreme Court’s interim order in the petitions challenging the Waqf (Amendment) Act, 2025 and examines the quantum of interim relief granted against relief prayed for and comments on whether such interim relief was indeed adequate to protect the petitioners or not.

I. The Waqf Amendment Act, 2025 in brief

Before further discussion over the interim order passed by the Supreme Court in the petitions challenging the validity of the Waqf Amendment Act, 2025, it is important to understand what the amendment did. An in depth analysis of the provisions and the consequent impact of such provisions can be read here.

First, it attempted to redefine who could create a Waqf by requiring the dedicator (donor of the property) to demonstrate they had been practicing Islam for at least five years, while asserting lawful ownership over the property. Second, the Act prospectively abolished “Waqf by User” (property becoming Waqf merely through consistent religious use as it was the case of many Islamic religious institutions that have been existing since the 1800s or even before). Third, the post-amendment Section 3C introduced a mechanism allowing a designated government officer to unilaterally declare properties identified as Waqf to be “Government property,” thereby removing them from Waqf oversight. Crucially, the law also mandated compulsory registration and applied the Limitation Act, 1963, curtailing traditional protections against adverse possession claims over Waqf land.

The Disquieting Juxtaposition: Waqf vs. Others

The critical issue of discriminatory application looms large, implicating Articles 14 (Equality) and 15 (Non-Discrimination). Petitioners argued that the rigorous state control proposed by the amendments—particularly concerning land management and the mandatory inclusion of non-Muslims in governance—was unfairly imposed upon the Muslim community compared to other religious institutions.

In the landmark Shirur Mutt case (1954), which defined much of the state’s power over religious endowments, the Supreme Court indeed recognized that the right of a religious denomination to administer its property, while regulated by law (Article 26(d)), must fundamentally leave the right of administration to the denomination itself.[1] A law that entirely removes this right and vests it in an outside authority is deemed a violation. Furthermore, the imposition of a compulsory annual contribution under the Madras Act was struck down, not as a fee for services rendered, but as a “tax,” placing it beyond the legislative competence of the state. The rationale was clear: while the state could regulate the secular administration of religious trusts to ensure they are properly managed, it could not levy a tax for the promotion or maintenance of a particular religion.

There exists a stark disparity in the manner charitable institutions of different religions are treated under law, particularly when one examines the proposed Waqf Amendment provisions that impose disproportionately stringent control over the Islamic institution of Waqf. The issue is straightforward. For decades, major Hindu temples have been administered by boards composed entirely of Hindus, and at no point has the government proposed that, since temple administration is a secular activity, persons of other faiths may be appointed to those boards. Consider the endowment legislations in Karnataka[2], Andhra Pradesh[3], and Tamil Nadu[4] — each expressly requires that the commissioners and officers appointed under their respective Acts must profess the Hindu religion. This differential treatment in which Non-Muslim participation is being proposed stands in clear violation of Article 14 of the Constitution, which guarantees equality before the law.

II. Erosion of Legal Safeguards: Property, Custom, and the Collector’s Writ

The most urgent grievances raised before the Supreme Court related to the potential for bureaucratic expropriation of historic Waqf properties, facilitated by three key amendments: the demise of ‘Waqf by User’, the mandatory registration mandate, and the introduction of a new mechanism for determining ‘Government property’.

A. The Sudden Takedown of ‘Waqf by User’ and the Time Bar

For centuries, the concept of Waqf by User acknowledged that consistent religious use of a property could establish it as a Waqf, even without a formal written deed or dedication. The petitioners stressed that many old Waqfs, lacking formalized documents, rely solely on this doctrine for their title and survival. The 2025 Amendment, however, abolished the doctrine prospectively.

The court dealt with the state’s concern saying that this doctrine had been systemically misused to encroach upon vast tracts of government land, citing instances where thousands of acres were claimed as Waqf property merely through user.

However, the sting lay in Section 36 (10) of the Amended Act, which imposed a mandatory registration requirement for all Waqfs within six months of the Act’s commencement. Failure to register within this period effectively barred the Waqf from instituting or commencing any suit or legal proceeding for the enforcement of its rights. While a proviso allows the court to entertain an application if sufficient cause for delay is shown, forcing centuries-old institutions, often poor and disorganized, to scramble for registration within a tight six-month window—after decades of varying legislative requirements and historical neglect by official bodies—constitutes a threat to rights enshrined in Articles 25 and 26 of the Constitution

This provision creates precarious conditions for community rights, essentially rendering unregistered Waqfs remediless. The court’s justification was rather technical: that Mutawallis had decades to register since the 1923 Act. Yet, to adopt this technical justification would be to ignore the ground realities—the lack of formal deeds, illiteracy, and systemic administrative failures by Waqf Boards themselves—and imposing an iron-clad registration bar seems an exercise of power ill-suited to securing justice for historical endowments. The resultant inadequacy is that while the title by use remains theoretically protected for existing properties, the inability to legally defend or enforce rights over that property due to an administrative lapse effectively neuters the title. By now, the six months have passed.

B. The Usurpation of Judicial Authority by the Executive (Sec 3C)

Perhaps the most alarming feature of the amendment was the introduction of Section 3C, establishing a mechanism for determining whether property claimed as Waqf was, in fact, “Government property”. This power was granted to a “designated officer” above the rank of Collector, who, after an inquiry “as per law,” would submit a report to the State Government. If the officer determined the property was government property, they were empowered to order corrections in revenue records and direct the Waqf Board to update its records.

The petitioners vehemently challenged the provisos to Section 3C(2) and the entire mechanism of Sections 3C(3) and 3C(4). The core objection was that entrusting a revenue officer—a functionary of the executive—with the power to determine the title of property, and subsequently mandating changes in revenue records, flagrantly violates the separation of powers, an essential principle enshrined in the Constitution. The determination of property title is a function reserved for judicial or quasi-judicial bodies.

The Supreme Court, while prima facie upholding the initial clauses of Section 3C, intervened by staying the critical executive actions: the provision that the property would cease to be Waqf until the officer’s report (Proviso to Section 3C(2)), and the powers given to the designated officer to order corrections in revenue records (Sections 3C(3) and 3C(4)).[5]

The court correctly asserted that the final determination of title must rest with the specialised Waqf Tribunal, established under Section 83, which is a judicial or quasi-judicial body with appeal rights to the High Court. Furthermore, the court directed that until the Tribunal makes a final adjudication, neither the Waqfs can be dispossessed, nor can the revenue records be altered.[6]

While this stay is crucial—it halts the immediate damage of executive unilateralism—the court’s action necessarily remains an interim restraint on procedure. It does not yet nullify the underlying legislative intent, which remains an aggressive mechanism to “de-recognize” property. The final battle over whether the state can legally employ such an executive process for title investigation, even if followed by judicial remedy, awaits the final hearing.

C. The Re-imposition of Limitation

A historical protection for Waqf property, long deemed dedicated perpetually to God, was enshrined in the un-amended Waqf Act, 1995: Section 107 provided that the Limitation Act, 1963, would not apply to suits for recovery of immovable Waqf property. This immunity protected endowments from being lost through adverse possession, recognizing their unique religious and charitable status, where the owner (Allah) cannot lose title.

The 2025 Amendment, via Section 44, abolished this immunity, mandating that the Limitation Act shall apply to all proceedings related to claims or interests in Waqf property from the date of the Act’s commencement. This change was argued to be a necessary reform to align Waqf law with general property law.

For the rights under Article 25 and 26, this provision is deeply injurious, instantly exposing centuries of undocumented or poorly managed property to adverse possession claims and creating an immense burden on Waqf Boards to initiate lawsuits, many of which may now be time-barred. The petitioners did submit that the combined effect of this amendment and the deletion of the special provision for evacuee property (Section 108) means that potential recovery suits concerning historical properties, including those tied to post-Partition dislocation, could be barred by limitation.

The Supreme Court, in its interim analysis, found no prima facie case for staying this provision, arguing that applying the Limitation Act removes discrimination that existed in the un-amended Act, thereby treating Waqf property equally to other property claims.[7] This judicial stance, however, overlooks the foundational religious and jurisprudential difference: Waqf property is distinct from ordinary private property; it is permanently dedicated to a charitable or pious purpose, and management (by the Mutawalli) is merely custodial, not proprietary. To strip this perpetual immunity without offering a robust, workable transitional mechanism is an existential blow to the community’s ability to defend its patrimony.

III. The State as Arbiter

The amendments also sought to heavily influence the composition and criteria for Waqf creation, bringing the state’s regulatory gaze directly upon matters of religious identity and leadership.

A. Non-Muslim Inclusion and Secular Administration

The amendments to the composition of the Central Waqf Council (Section 9) and State Waqf Boards (Section 14) allowed for the inclusion of non-Muslim members, which petitioners argued was a direct interference in the management of religious affairs (Article 26(b)). The religious character of the Board, they argued, is inseparable from its administrative duties. Conversely, the state maintained that the functions of the Board and Council—dealing with finance, property, encroachment, and audit—are predominantly “secular activities,” which the state is empowered to regulate. The Mutawalli deals with administrative matters, while the Sajjadanashin handles the religious activities.

The court adopted a middle path, reflecting a structural compromise often seen in Indian jurisprudence. It placed limits on the executive’s expansive power, directing that the Central Waqf Council (out of 22 members) shall not consist of more than 4 non-Muslim members, and State Boards (out of 11 members) shall not exceed 3 non-Muslim members. Furthermore, though it declined to stay the provision regarding the appointment of the Chief Executive Officer (CEO), it directed that an effort should be made, “as far as possible,” to appoint a CEO from the Muslim community.[8]

This, while acknowledging the need to preserve majority Muslim representation, essentially validates the state’s claim that Waqf governance is a secular activity amenable to external, cross-community administrative supervision. This position maintains that the “scale of expenses” and “administration of property” are secular affairs that can be regulated by authorities. However, this judicial accommodation reinforces the state’s role as the final arbiter of what constitutes ‘religious’ versus ‘secular’ functions—a role that academics and petitioners alike have long found problematic, not only generally but also from the case perspective.

B. The Five-Year Practice of Islam Requirement

Section 3(r) of the Amended Act stipulated that a Waqf could only be created by a person “showing or demonstrating that he is practising Islam for at least five years” and who is the lawful owner of the property. This provision was challenged as arbitrary and violating Articles 14, 15, and 25.

The state defended the rule, recalling historical legislative concerns dating back to 1923, that Waqf endowments were often used as a “clever device” to defraud creditors or evade law. The new requirement, the state argued, aimed to ensure that only genuine practitioners, and not fraudulent converts seeking a legal shield for property, could dedicate a Waqf.

The Supreme Court recognised the legislative intent but stayed the operation of this condition, not on the grounds of constitutional invalidity, but due to procedural vagueness. The court noted that in the absence of a clearly defined statutory mechanism for determining whether a person has “practised Islam for at least five years,” the provision would necessarily lead to an arbitrary exercise of power. Thus, the condition remains stayed until Government frame rules to create a viable mechanism.[9] This offers temporary procedural relief but fails to address the more substantive critique: why the state feels compelled to legislate criteria for demonstrating genuine religious practice, a function traditionally far outside the boundaries of a secular state.

Moreover, the Supreme Court in its order, while dealing with the critique that defaulters are dedicating their property to the Almighty to defraud creditors, stated that a possibility of people changing their religion to Islam to defraud the creditors cannot be ruled out. This written observation is rather peculiar since it is used to close the doors on what could have been an analysis on whether an exceptional case of a provision allowing some misuse mandates that such provision be void or not. However, the Supreme Court neither goes into that direction nor does it leave a chance open for it to be discussed at a later stage. It simply puts the reason of absence of rules over how to show if someone has been practicing Islam or not as a justification for the stay over this provision.

IV. The Shadow of Exclusion: Tribal Lands

In two areas—properties dedicated by non-Muslims and properties in tribal areas—the Court refused to grant any interim stay, upholding the state’s legislative decisions that carved out exclusions, even though these raised questions of religious liberty and non-discrimination.

Prohibition on Land in Scheduled or Tribal Areas (Section 3E)

Section 3E explicitly states that no land belonging to Scheduled Tribes under the Fifth or Sixth Schedules shall be declared or deemed to be Waqf property, regardless of any other law. This restricts the religious freedom (Articles 25 and 26) of Scheduled Tribe members who practice Islam and wish to dedicate property.

The state and the court’s prima facie view supported the amendment, rationalizing it as a measure to protect the existence of “cultural minorities” whose religious practices are distinct from Islamic religion. The legislative intent was to avoid conflicting provisions and protect the constitutional autonomy granted to tribal lands.

The inadequacy of the interim order here stems from the blanket nature of the prohibition. While protecting tribal culture is a constitutional priority, preventing an individual Muslim member of a Scheduled Tribe from exercising their right to dedicate their own property as Waqf appears to be an overly broad measure. By failing to stay this provision, the court permits a form of religious restriction justified by cultural protection, without fully weighing the individual rights of practicing Muslims within those tribal groups.

V. The Opportunity Cost: Alternatives to Sweeping Invalidation

The state’s underlying intentions, prima facie, for the 2025 amendments was the misuse, waste, and systematic misappropriation of Waqf properties by some incompetent or unscrupulous mutawallis, sometimes even in collusion with government agencies.

However, the question remains whether the state, faced with misuse, chose the most appropriate and constitutionally sensitive remedy.

As early as 1923, the legislature acknowledged the “menace of mismanagement” and responded by proposing compulsory registration, penalties, audits, and official superintendence.

The pre-amendment Waqf Act specifies duties and disqualifications of mutawallis (such as failure to maintain accounts, misuse of funds, or being convicted of encroachment). Removal provisions were extensive. Furthermore, penalizing unauthorized alienation of property was addressed by Section 52A, which prescribed imprisonment and recovery of the property.

The argument that a more appropriate, less constitutionally aggressive path existed rings true: instead of fundamentally challenging the integrity of historical titles through the abolition of Waqf by User and the imposition of executive title determination (Section 3C), the state could have rigorously enforced the existing accountability, anti-encroachment, and penalty provisions against corrupt mutawallis.

By enacting sweeping structural amendments—like applying the Limitation Act to title disputes and delegating title scrutiny to the Executive—the state opted for a sledgehammer approach to solve a problem of governance and corruption, thereby endangering the legitimate, centuries-old endowments that sustain the community. The Supreme Court’s interim relief, while protecting the procedural sanctity of title adjudication (by striking down the executionary steps of Sec 3C), ultimately permits these structural, title-threatening changes (like the prospective abolition of Waqf by User and the application of the Limitation Act) to stand pending final adjudication. This approach risks resulting in a protective regime whose effect is inadequate when weighed against the magnitude of the rights, religious history, and communal identity hanging in the balance.

(The author is part of the legal research team of the organisation)

[1] The Commissioner, Hindu Religious Endowments, Madras v Shri Lakshmindar Tirtha Swamiyar of Shri Shirur Mutt 1954 SCR 1005

[2] Section 7, The Hindu Religious Institutions and Charitable Endowments Act, 1997

[3] Section 3, Andhra Pradesh Charitable and Hindu Religious Institutions And Endowments Act, 1987

[4] Section 10, The Tamil Nadu Hindu Religious and Charitable Endowments Act, 1959

[5] Para 209, IN RE: The Waqf Amendment Act, 2025 (1) 2025 INSC 1116 (Waqf Interim Order)

[6] Para 209, Waqf Interim Order.

[7] Para 201, Waqf Interim Order

[8] Para 189, Waqf Interim Order.

[9] Para 140, Waqf Interim Order

Related:

Waqf Act Amendments Partly Stayed: SC blocks government control, backs registration and reforms

Amid Waqf Debate, Should Hindu Endowment Boards be Held Responsible for the Sorry Plight of Dalits?

Waqf Amendment Act 2025: SC grants some time to Centre on condition no non-Muslims appointed to Board, Council & no change in any Waqf status

SC to UoI on Waqf Amendment: ‘Are you willing to allow Muslims on Hindu endowment boards?’

The post Understanding the Supreme Court’s Interim Intervention in the Waqf Amendments, 2025 appeared first on SabrangIndia.

A Division Bench comprising Justice Salil Kumar Rai and Justice Divesh Chandra Samant declared the couple’s detention by police as ‘illegal’ and a violation of their fundamental rights under Article 21 of the Constitution. The Court ordered their immediate release and safe escort to Aligarh, and further directed that they be allowed to proceed to Bareilly under continued police protection.

Court steps in after couple disappears post-hearing

The couple had appeared before the Allahabad High Court on October 15, 2025, in connection with three pending writ petitions—one of them seeking police protection, previously granted by the Court on September 3. During the hearing, Rashmi made a voluntary statement affirming that she was a major, had married Shane Alam, and wished to live with him out of her own free will.

However, soon after the hearing, the couple reportedly went missing. A habeas corpus petition [Tehseem and Another vs. State of U.P. and 5 Others] was immediately filed by Shane’s brother, Tehseem, claiming that the couple had been abducted with the involvement of Rashmi’s father and some unknown individuals, with police assistance.

On October 17, the Bench, terming the case urgent, ordered police and respondents—including Rashmi’s father and top officials of Aligarh and Prayagraj—to produce the couple in court by 12 PM on October 18. The urgency of the matter led the Court to conduct proceedings on a Saturday, a non-working day.

The order of Allahabad HC dated October 18, 2025 may be read here:

‘No justification for illegal detention’: HC

According to Live Law, on October 18, a Sub-Inspector from Aligarh police produced Shane Alam and Rashmi before the Court. The Government Advocate informed the Bench that the girl had been produced before the Judicial Magistrate in Aligarh on October 17, who confirmed her age and recorded her voluntary statement. She had clearly expressed her wish to go with Shane, and was ordered to be released.

The Court recorded her statements made both before the Magistrate and again during an in-camera interaction. Rashmi stated that she was 21 years old, had married Shane, and wished to live with him. She categorically denied any coercion, as reported

Despite her clear consent and legal age, the couple alleged that they had been abducted by Rashmi’s father and others with police support after leaving the court on October 15. Shane was kept at a police station, and Rashmi was sent to a ‘One Stop Centre’ until they were produced before the Magistrate two days later, as the Live Law reported

Reviewing the case diary and the girl’s statement under Section 183 of the Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita (BNSS), the Bench noted that she had voluntarily left with Shane. Yet, the Investigating Officer had continued to probe issues related to the inter-faith nature of their relationship and the alleged failure to inform the District Magistrate about the marriage—investigations which the Court held were unwarranted.

As per Live Law, rejecting the state’s argument that ‘social tension’ justified the couple’s detention, the Court observed:

“The plea that the girl had to be kept at ‘One Stop Centre’ and the petitioner no. 2 was detained at the police station because of the social tension in the area due to the different religions of the parties is not acceptable and cannot justify the detention… A person can be detained by the police or other state authorities only under law.”

The Court further added:

“A detention under social pressure but without authority of law does not make the detention legal but only increases the illegality… In a democratic country governed by Rule of Law, the State Government and its law-enforcement machinery are expected to protect the liberty of a citizen and not to succumb to social pressures” as reported

Police officers may face action

The Bench ruled that the detention of both individuals from October 15 to 18 was illegal. It directed the Investigating Officer to escort the couple safely to their desired location and ordered the Commissioner of Police, Prayagraj, along with SSPs of Aligarh and Bareilly, to ensure continued protection and prevent any interference in their companionship.

The Court also directed the SSP, Aligarh, to conduct an inquiry into the entire episode and submit a detailed report by November 28, 2025. His personal presence has also been ordered on the next date of hearing.

Background of the case

According to the petition, Rashmi and Shane had been in a consensual relationship and began living together on July 30, 2025. Her father filed an abduction FIR two months later, which the petitioner claimed was motivated by mala fide intent.

Despite the High Court’s earlier order granting police protection, local police allegedly failed to act and even harassed Shane’s family. The October 15 hearing was meant to resolve ongoing petitions related to the FIR and protection orders.

However, after their testimony affirming their relationship, the couple vanished from the court premises around 5 PM. It was alleged that Rashmi’s father, accompanied by unknown persons, was seen in the court complex and had intimidated the couple. Despite immediate court directions, no FIR was registered regarding their disappearance, prompting the habeas corpus plea.

Court keeps matter open

While the couple has been set free and declared safe, the High Court has kept the matter open in view of the serious questions raised—about police inaction, misuse of law, and suppression of individual liberty in inter-faith relationships.

Related:

SC: Freedom for man in interfaith union: SC grants bail to Muslim partner

Inter-Community clashes erupt at Dehradun railway station after interfaith couple meets

By quashing the FIR against an interfaith couple accused of “conversion”, the Allahabad High Court restores jurisprudence on a constitutional path, upholds freedom of choice

The post Allahabad High Court directs UP Police to ensure safe return of inter-faith to their desired destination appeared first on SabrangIndia.

The cases — Sanidul Sheikh v. Union of India and Reijya Khatun v. Union of India — were filed after both men, who had been released under Supreme Court-mandated COVID bail in 2021, were suddenly picked up again in May 2025 despite consistent compliance with all bail conditions. They have since been lodged in the Kokrajhar Holding Centre. CJP has been providing legal aid in both these cases.

State’s New Claim: “They were once sent back”

At the hearing, the FT counsel, appearing for the State, told the Bench that “the government is ready to deport them,” but added that “a stay order by this Court” prevented immediate action. The counsel went on to state that “the factual position is that they were once sent back. They came back. Now they are kept in the Kokrajhar Holding Centre.”

This was the first time such a claim had ever been made in the proceedings — no previous affidavit, submission, or oral statement had suggested that the two men had been “sent back” to Bangladesh before.

Appearing for the petitioners, Advocate Mrinmoy Dutta immediately objected: “This is being said for the first time, My Lords. It was never mentioned before.”

Petitioners demand proof of verification

Dutta pressed that before any talk of deportation, the government must first demonstrate factual and documentary verification of nationality, and clarify through which process and destination country deportation is being contemplated:

“Let them show the Court that they have completed the verification. If they have been able to verify, that is different. But they need to show where they will deport and how they will deport. Otherwise, my submission is that the detention is illegal.”

The argument underscored a crucial point — verification of nationality is a precondition to deportation, not a justification for continued detention. Yet, despite repeated demands for such evidence since June, the State has produced no records of nationality confirmation or communication from Bangladesh.

Bench Avoids Two Key Questions: Deportation claim and verification process

Despite the gravity of the new claim, the Bench did not press the State for supporting documentation or clarification on when and how the alleged earlier deportation occurred, or through which process. Nor did it examine the petitioner’s long-standing demand for production of verification records confirming nationality — a prerequisite under both domestic and international law before any lawful deportation can occur.

Instead, the Court recorded that submissions had been heard from both sides and directed that orders will be delivered on October 24, 2025.

By not engaging with either issue — the alleged “previous sending back” or the requirement of verification — the Bench left unresolved the two fundamental questions that have defined this case since its inception:

1. Can persons released on Supreme Court-granted bail be re-detained without bail cancellation, solely on the State’s readiness to deport?
2. Can deportation be initiated without verification or proof of nationality — or, as now alleged, after an unexplained earlier “sending back”?

Legal and factual uncertainty deepens

The State’s assertion that both men had once been “sent back” — without any affidavit or documentary trail — now sits uneasily alongside its claim that they are being held “pending deportation.” The petitioners have maintained throughout that the detention is illegal, since both men were released under valid judicial bail orders, and no court has recalled or varied those directions.

The Bench’s decision to step back from addressing either the alleged prior deportation or the absence of verification records leaves a grey area — a vacuum between State assertion and judicial scrutiny, where neither legality nor process is yet established.

Background: From bail to re-detention

Abdul Sheikh and Majibur Rehman were declared foreigners by Foreigners Tribunals in 2018 and 2019. After over two years in detention, both were released on bail under the Supreme Court’s April 2020 order in Suo Motu WP(C) No. 1 of 2020, which allowed long-term detainees to be freed under conditions of weekly reporting. For nearly two years, both complied — signing attendance registers at Kajolgaon and Goalpara Police Stations every week — until their sudden re-detention in May 2025.

Their families’ petitions have challenged these arrests as unconstitutional, arguing that bail orders remain valid until recalled and that “verification” cannot justify re-incarceration. The State has since argued that deportation efforts, halted during the pandemic, have now resumed — though it has yet to produce any official verification or communication with Bangladesh confirming nationality.

Their petitions, filed by their relatives, argued that detention without recall of bail orders is unconstitutional, and that any “verification” could be undertaken without custody. The State, however, has maintained that it is reinitiating deportations and that detention in holding centres is lawful pending such deportation.

Previous detailed reports may be read here.

Related:

Calcutta High Court strikes down arbitrary deportations of West Bengal residents, orders return from Bangladesh

Bangladeshi Court declares deported Bengal families as Indians, orders their return

Gauhati HC defers final hearing in Majibur Rehman and Abdul Sheikh petitions; Questions state on justification for continued detention

Assam BJP’s AI video a manufactured dystopia, Congress files complaint, myths exposed

CJP scores big win! Citizenship restored to Mazirun Bewa, a widowed daily wage worker from Assam

Victory in Dhubri FT: Jarina Bibi declared Indian after years of ordeal

Assam’s New SOP Hands Citizenship Decisions to Bureaucrats: Executive overreach or legal necessity?

The post “They were once sent back”: Court refrains from probing State’s claim as Assam seeks to justify continued detention appeared first on SabrangIndia.