The marble-floored corridors of the Supreme Court of India (सुप्रीम कोर्ट) may cast an impression of austere neutrality, yet behind the bench lies a compelling story of who gets to wield the gavel—and who does not. As India strides into its 75th year of independence, the composition of its highest courts remains stubbornly unrepresentative of the country’s kaleidoscopic diversity of caste (जाति), gender (लिंग), religion (धर्म), and the lived realities of most citizens.
Take gender first. Roughly half of India’s population is female, but only a tiny fraction of the judges in the higher judiciary are women. According to recent analysis, just around 14 % of sitting judges in the High Courts are female, and at the Supreme Court level, women remain fewer than 4 % of all judges since 1950. While the Lower Courts fare somewhat better—about 38 % of judges are women—progress remains painfully slow and uneven across states. One reason is structural: many women enter as judges only late in their careers, shortening their tenure on the bench and making path to elevation scarce.
Next, caste. The Indian justice system is meant to uphold constitutional equality, and yet its ranks reflect privilege. For instance, only about 3 % of High Court judges are drawn from Scheduled Castes or Scheduled Tribes—communities that together account for roughly one quarter of the population. A study of the Supreme Court found that while religious minorities are somewhat represented, caste-diversity among its judges remains conspicuously absent. The term “upper-caste Hindus” keeps surfacing in analyses of the bench, as the majoritarian default in India’s higher judiciary, despite decades of reservation policies elsewhere.
Religious diversity also raises questions. On paper, India’s judiciary reflects religious plurality better than caste or gender: studies show that judges of various faith backgrounds have been appointed to the Supreme Court. But closer scrutiny suggests that this diversity is superficial: the real power lies in seniority, networking and traditional legal pathways that disadvantage religious minorities and women. The result is a court that “looks” inclusive but does not yet function as a mirror for India’s religious and social plurality.
Culture, in this context, cannot be ignored. Terms like न्यायपालिका (judiciary) and न्यायाधीश (judge) may evoke impartiality, but the reality is irrevocably bound with historical hierarchies. As legal scholar R. Bajoria explains, caste is not merely a ritual segregation but “a system of graded inequality” that structures power, dignity and access across Indian society. Few institutions reveal that more starkly than the courtroom. And when the bench is overwhelmingly male, upper-caste and from the majority religion, the message is loud: justice may be blind—but the judiciary is not.
Why does this matter? Because representation isn’t symbolic. Judges bring not just legal training but lived experience—of gendered power, caste privilege or exclusion, religious identity, regional language, local culture. Senior advocate Jayna Kothari puts it plainly: “Judges from diverse backgrounds apply their lived experiences to cases… it leads to a better set of judicial outcomes.” Without diversity, claims of fairness sit on shaky ground.
Moreover, institutions like the judiciary derive legitimacy from reflecting the society they serve. When too many benches consist of men from upper-caste Hindu backgrounds, large swathes of the population find no one who resembles their identity, values or challenges. This is not just about optics—it is about trust. As Chief Justice D.Y. Chandrachud himself has acknowledged, people will start trusting the judiciary “only when they see a reflection of themselves in the people who dispense justice”.
Some glimmers of change exist: the government recently asked high courts to appoint judges from SC/ST, minority communities and women. Still, the bones of the system remain structurally tilted. The bench elevation process emphasises seniority and bar-lineage—pathways that have long favoured men from dominant castes and regions.
In India’s courts, the promise of equality under the law (कानून के सामने बराबरी) is enshrined in Article 15 of the Constitution—to prohibit discrimination on grounds of religion, race, caste, sex, or place of birth. But when the room where justice is administered is out of sync with the room of lived experience, the promise becomes fragile.
The challenge ahead is profound: not merely to let more women, minority scholars or lower-caste advocates into courtrooms, but to reshape the pathways to the bench, to open the doors of legal education, senior practice, collegium nominations and elevation criteria. Cultural barriers of पुरुष-प्रभुता (male-domination) and जात-उपरीयता (caste-superiority) must be confronted. Only then can India move from a judiciary that looks like an elite club of upper-caste Hindu men to one that truly resembles the mosaic of its people.
In a nation of 1.4 billion where diversity is its strength, the bench should not be the fortress of the privileged; it should be the gateway for all. Until it is, the clang of the gavel will carry far more than the sound of justice—it will echo the silence of those still unheard.
My dear nieces and nephews, gather around Auntie’s courtroom of common sense, because this is a saga far bigger than the Supreme Court of India and its endless parade of upper-caste, upper-class men in black robes. Yes, India’s judiciary looks like the alumni association of old boys’ privilege—but don’t think the neighbours are doing much better. Across Asia, our courts often resemble elite men’s clubs where power, pedigree, and knowing the right uncle matter more than representation, empathy, or actual lived experience.
Let’s start with Indonesia, shall we? A nation of 275 million diverse humans—Javanese, Sundanese, Papuans, Madurese, Balinese, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists—and yet the judiciary? Mostly men in Jakarta or Java, overwhelmingly Muslim, elite-educated, and often deeply conservative. When was the last time you saw a Papuan woman judge sitting on a high bench? Exactly. Auntie will keep waiting. The Indonesian judiciary carries its own baggage: politicised appointments, weak protections for women judges, and a culture that too often elevates seniority over competence. Sound familiar, India?
And hop over to the Philippines. The country loves to boast about democracy and people power, but look at the courts: almost entirely Tagalog- or Luzon-centric, extremely politicised, and—as every Filipino knows—corruption is the ghost haunting every courtroom corridor. Women? Yes, the Philippines does better than some neighbours, but women judges still fight double battles: misogyny inside the judiciary and Catholic conservatism outside it. And let us not pretend that Mindanao’s diverse communities have proportionate representation in the justice system. Spoiler: they do not.
Malaysia? Ha! The courts there shuffle between political influence, ethno-religious balancing acts, and elite networks so tight they make a durian shell look soft. Women judges are rising, yes, but still far from holding true power. And if you think caste doesn’t exist because Malaysia doesn’t call it caste, Auntie has breaking news: hierarchy wears many costumes. Whether it’s bangsa, class, or religious affiliation, the effect is the same—certain people glide into judicial careers while others vanish in the waiting room.
And woven through all of this like a stubborn stain? Corruption. Not just the envelope-under-the-table kind, but the deeper, structural corruption that comes from homogeneity. When judges are drawn from the same class, same schools, same social circles, and—importantly—the same sense of entitlement, accountability becomes optional. Transparency becomes decorative. And justice becomes… negotiable.
Maybe—Auntie says maybe, but with heavy side-eye—the lack of diversity is not an accident but a feature. When the bench is dominated by the privileged, they protect each other. They reproduce each other. And they ensure that the system keeps sounding like justice while operating like a private club.
And you wonder why the people don’t trust the courts?
My children, the truth is simple: until our judiciaries look like our societies—women, Indigenous communities, minorities, lower-caste groups, working-class folks—justice will remain something that must be fought for, not something that simply is. Diversity is not decoration. It is the antidote to arrogance. And without it, the gavel only echoes the voices of the already powerful.