In recent weeks, a familiar pattern has repeated itself. Citizens have filed police complaints. Lawyers have written open letters. Activists have risked retaliation. Communities have absorbed fear, uncertainty, and public vilification.
What has been noticeably absent is early institutional action.
India’s constitutional framework does not require institutions to wait for harm to fully materialise before responding. Powers such as suo motu cognizance allow institutions to formally take notice of issues on their own, without waiting for someone to approach them. These powers exist precisely for situations where harm is foreseeable, ongoing, or structurally difficult for individuals to challenge. This is especially so when complainants may face intimidation, social pressure, or reprisals.
Yet, time and again, the first move has come from below, while institutions empowered to act without invitation appear content to wait.
This raises a deeper constitutional question—one that goes beyond any single incident or personality. What does it mean for a democracy when citizens must take the first risk, while institutions with the authority to intervene hesitate, sometimes until the damage is already done?
This is not merely a question of law. It is a question of constitutional responsibility.
When Waiting Becomes a Pattern
The Indian Constitution equips several institutions with independent authority. Courts, police leadership, and constitutional bodies are not designed to function only in response to complaint. They are expected to act when constitutional values—dignity, equality, and public order—are visibly under strain.
From police complaints to court petitions, citizens are forced to take the first risk when hate speech goes unchecked. This article interrogates institutional inertia and the constitutional purpose of suo motu judicial power.
Yet, in matters involving public hate speech, mass vilification, or calls for exclusion, the institutional response often follows a predictable trajectory. Complaints are first made by individuals. When those fail to elicit action, civil society groups intervene. Lawyers escalate concerns. Petitions are eventually filed. Only then does institutional engagement sometimes begin.
This pattern matters, because the burden of initiation is not neutral.
For individuals or communities targeted by public vilification—particularly when the speech emanates from positions of authority—approaching the police is not a low-risk act. Filing complaints can invite backlash, social boycott, or retaliatory legal action. Constitutional design recognises this asymmetry. That recognition is precisely why suo motu powers exist: not as acts of judicial heroism, but as structural safeguards against predictable barriers to access and accountability.
When institutions consistently wait for citizens to trigger action, risk is quietly privatised, while authority remains insulated.
What Suo Motu Power Was Meant to Do
The Supreme Court’s exercise of suo motu jurisdiction in writ and review matters is neither new nor unregulated. Over the past three decades, the Court has repeatedly taken up matters on its own motion—sometimes on the basis of letters, sometimes media reports, and sometimes issues it considered matters of grave public importance.
Empirical studies and court-maintained data show that such interventions are relatively rare, carefully tracked, and unevenly distributed across subject areas. Between 1990 and 2021, the Court initiated 46 suo motu cases in its writ or review jurisdiction. More than half of these were taken up in the last few years, with a sharp rise after 2015. In 2024 alone, the Court exercised suo motu jurisdiction twelve times—the highest number in any single year on record.
These cases are instructive not only for their frequency, but for their focus. A substantial number concern institutional functioning, judicial administration, court infrastructure, or internal discipline. Some involve systemic crises, such as the COVID-19 pandemic.
Comparatively fewer have addressed ongoing public harms involving political or social vulnerability—where affected communities face fear or heightened risk in initiating proceedings themselves.
This is not a critique of the Court’s authority to choose its priorities. But it does illuminate an important constitutional tension: suo motu power is available, recognised, and normalised—yet selectively deployed.
Historically, the doctrine evolved to enable courts to act where ordinary procedural pathways were inadequate. That logic becomes especially salient in contexts where harm is diffuse, repetitive, and publicly documented, but costly for individuals to contest alone.
The Law Already Anticipates Fear and Inaction
Indian criminal procedure does not assume that all harms will be reported freely or without fear. The Supreme Court has repeatedly clarified that where information discloses a cognizable offence—a serious offence where the police are permitted to act on their own—the registration of a First Information Report (FIR), the document that formally sets the criminal law in motion, is mandatory, not discretionary.
This principle has particular relevance for hate speech. The relevant provisions of criminal law are neither novel nor legally uncertain. In fact, the Court has gone further in recent years, observing that police authorities are not required to wait for private complaints before acting in cases involving public hate speech and similar offences affecting collective order and dignity.
This matters, because it weakens the most commonly offered explanation for institutional inaction: the absence of a formal complaint.
If the legal framework already accounts for fear, reluctance, and power imbalance, then prolonged institutional waiting cannot be explained as legal necessity alone. At that point, waiting becomes an institutional choice.
Why This Matters Now
Recent developments in Assam bring this constitutional question into sharp focus.
When a citizen moved first against alleged hate speech by a Chief Minister, the immediate response was not institutional action but retaliation. This episode illustrates the unequal risks citizens bear—and why delayed intervention deepens democratic harm.
After public remarks by the state’s Chief Minister that drew widespread criticism for targeting a minority community, it was not an institution that moved first—it was a citizen. Among those who did was Harsh Mander, who filed a police complaint invoking existing criminal law provisions.
What followed illustrates the cost of being first. Instead of visible early institutional intervention on the speech itself, the most immediate response was a public threat by the Chief Minister to file “at least 100 cases” against the complainant.
Separately, the gravity of the original remarks was underscored by a retired Chief Justice of a High Court, who warned that rhetoric promoting fear, exclusion, or hatred by a constitutional office-holder undermines equality, dignity, and constitutional morality.
The point here is not the personality involved, nor the merits of any individual complaint. It is the structural message this sequence sends. If a well-known public figure, acting openly and within the law, is met with the threat of overwhelming legal retaliation, the cost of being the first complainant becomes unmistakable.
If this is the price faced by those with public standing, what does the system implicitly ask of ordinary citizens—those without visibility, legal support, or insulation from reprisal?
This is precisely the constitutional terrain suo motu power was meant to occupy: moments where harm is public, fear is real, and the risk of speaking first is unevenly distributed. When institutions wait in such circumstances, waiting itself begins to shape behaviour—discouraging complaint, normalising silence, and quietly shifting constitutional risk downward.
When Waiting Becomes Constitutional Reluctance
Institutional restraint is often defended as neutrality. But neutrality does not mean passivity. In constitutional terms, it demands even-handed engagement, not delayed responsibility.
When public hate speech is repetitive, widely reported, and visible—particularly when delivered at rallies, official events, or mass platforms—continued non-intervention acquires meaning. Over time, it reshapes behaviour. Those targeted learn that protection is uncertain. Those speaking learn that consequences are unlikely.
Delayed responses to public hate speech do more than postpone justice—they reallocate risk. This section unpacks how institutional inertia burdens citizens while authority remains formally intact but substantively absent.
The deeper constitutional concern, therefore, is not merely delayed action. It is the quiet redistribution of burden that delay produces. The risks of accountability shift to citizens and civil society. The costs of inertia are borne by those least equipped to absorb them. Meanwhile, institutional authority remains procedurally intact but substantively distant.
A Question the Constitution Forces Us to Ask
None of this denies the complexity of institutional decision-making, or the competing demands courts and authorities must balance. But constitutional responsibility is tested precisely in moments where restraint and urgency must be calibrated—not indefinitely deferred.
India’s constitutional democracy was not designed to function on individual courage alone. It was designed to protect people precisely when courage becomes costly.
Suo motu power is not meant as spectacle or exception. It exists as a structural response to foreseeable failures in ordinary process. When it is invoked readily for institutional maintenance but sparingly for visible public harms unfolding in real time, the question is not whether the power exists, but what constitutional work it is being asked to perform.
If citizens must repeatedly take the first risk—file the first complaint, face the first threat, absorb the first consequence—then something fundamental has shifted. Not in doctrine, but in practice.
The Constitution does not ask citizens to test the system with their safety.
It asks institutions to justify their authority through timely responsibility.
That is the constitutional unease this moment compels us to confront.
(The author is Sahil Hussain Choudhury, a lawyer and Constitutional Law Researcher based in New Delhi. The views expressed above are the authors' own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for the same.)