When I was invited to an international conference of the Indo-American Press Club (IAPC) in Atlanta, Texas, I was genuinely thrilled for two reasons, both entirely legitimate and not mutually exclusive. One, I could combine it with a long-planned trip to Houston. Two, the invitation came with free registration, free food and free stay at a star hotel for the duration of the conference.

I was also listed as a speaker at a seminar with a suitably grand title—something like India in the 21st Century. Such phrases are elastic enough to accommodate everything from civilisational wisdom to PowerPoint patriotism. One of the organisers was a lady from Delhi who had settled in the US. She was fashionable, spoke impeccable English, and had long, flowing hair dyed in multiple colours. To be frank, I did not know hair could be dyed in several colours at once. In my world, hair had always been a black-and-white affair.

During a casual conversation, she told me she had studied in a Saraswati Vidya Mandir, affiliated with the Sangh Parivar. I instinctively complimented her on her English. After all, SVMs are known more for promoting Sanskrit and "shuddh" Hindi than a "foreign" language like Angrezi. She smiled graciously.

The real shock came during the seminar. With great confidence, she declared that India's greatest misfortune was adopting a Constitution that was part British, part American, part Communist and part "whatnot." India, she said, had committed a civilisational blunder by choosing such a hotchpotch document when it should have been guided by the Manusmriti. She described it as a magnificent treatise on statecraft that ought to have shaped modern India.

By sheer coincidence—or perhaps destiny—I had bought an English translation of the Manusmriti a few days earlier and had read it from cover to cover. So when she waxed eloquent about Manu, a particular portion of the text flashed before my eyes.

When my turn to speak came, I did not sermonise. I merely quoted the Manusmriti itself and suggested—politely—that had she lived in an India governed by Manu, she might not have enjoyed the freedoms she now exercised so confidently on an American stage. I then read out what Manusmriti prescribes in Chapter 3 on marriage.

It warns men against marrying women with reddish hair, extra body parts like six fingers, frequent illness, too little or too much hair, or red eyes. It goes on to forbid marriage with women whose names resemble constellations, trees, rivers, mountains, birds, snakes, slaves, or anything that inspires fear. Wise men, it says, should not marry women without brothers or those whose parents are not socially well known. The ideal wife must be physically flawless, bear a "beautiful" name, walk with the gait of an elephant, possess moderate hair, soft limbs and small teeth.

There was stunned silence. The lady was livid. She had no response. I added—perhaps unnecessarily—that the text contained prescriptions far worse than the ones I had quoted. After that, she stopped interacting with my wife and me altogether. It occurred to me that she had probably never read the Manusmriti she praised so passionately.

For the record, the Manusmriti—traditionally attributed to Manu—is one of the earliest Dharmashastra texts, compiled roughly between 200 BCE and 200 CE. Written in verse, it lays down laws governing caste, gender, marriage, inheritance and punishment, presenting a rigid social hierarchy as divinely ordained.

To illustrate how deeply casteist and inhuman the treatise is, one need only turn to a couple of verses. Manusmriti 4.99 states that the Vedas must never be read in the presence of a Shudra. Manusmriti 10.1 declares that only the three "twice-born" varnas may study the Vedas, and among them, only Brahmins are permitted to teach. This was not merely social advice; it was an exclusionary legal code sanctified by religion.

When India decided to frame its own Constitution, there were indeed voices that wanted the Manusmriti as its foundation. They were decisively overruled by the Constituent Assembly, which included 15 remarkable women, including Sarojini Naidu, Ammu Swaminathan, Annie Mascarene, Dakshayani Velayudhan, Begum Aizaz Rasul, and Durgabai Deshmukh. They understood—far better than today's armchair revivalists—that liberty, equality and dignity could never coexist with Manu.

Manu, the mythical lawgiver, occupies a central place in Brahmanical tradition as the progenitor of mankind and author of divine law. Over centuries, his name became shorthand for an unchanging social order that sanctified hierarchy, patriarchy and exclusion, leaving little room for dissent or reform.

The right wing, represented earlier by the Hindu Mahasabha and later by the Sangh Parivar, never abandoned its fascination with Manu. Yet it lacked the courage to openly demand replacing the Indian Penal Code or the Criminal Procedure Code with the Manusmriti. Such a move would have provoked a fierce backlash from Dalits, backward classes and religious minorities.

So when Amit Shah introduced the Bharatiya Nyay Samhita, many saw it for what it was: largely a rebranding of Macaulay-drafted laws that had survived for 150 years with minimal changes—unlike the Constitution, which has been amended over a hundred times.

In recent years, Justice S. Abdul Nazeer revived the debate by calling for the "Indianisation" of the legal system. In December 2021, he praised ancient legal texts, including Manusmriti, arguing that colonial laws were unsuitable for India and that the laws of Manu, Kautilya and Brihaspati were "correct for India."

Justice Nazeer was part of the five-judge Supreme Court bench that delivered the Ayodhya verdict. After retirement, he was appointed Governor of Andhra Pradesh. Soon after, he reiterated that the Manusmriti and the Yajnavalkya Smriti were relevant even in the 21st century.

When I read this, I was reminded of the phrase "more loyal than the King"—a description for those who go beyond their brief, displaying excessive zeal to please power, often at the cost of reason, restraint and constitutional values.

A retired judge is no different from a retired governor. The latter does not need any qualification whatsoever to occupy Raj Bhavans across the country, except unquestioned loyalty to the ruling dispensation. Whatever such a governor says can safely be ignored. After all, he has to wag his tail to survive.

But that is not the case with the judges of the Supreme Court. Even after retirement, they carry an aura of authority. While on the Bench, they interpret laws and, in the process, often end up creating them. Judicial activism, whether one likes it or not, has reshaped India's legal landscape.

The Protection of Children from Sexual Offences (POCSO) Act is a classic example. POCSO emerged from sustained judicial concern over the inadequacy of existing laws to protect children from sexual abuse. Through progressive interpretations and strong observations, courts nudged Parliament into enacting a comprehensive statute that defined offences, prescribed stringent punishments, and prioritised the child's dignity and safety.

Judicial creativity, therefore, is not new. What is new—and deeply troubling—is the ease with which ancient religious texts are now being pressed into service to resolve contemporary legal disputes.

Recently, the Supreme Court did not merely quote the Manusmriti but substantially relied on it. In Kanchana Rai vs Geeta Sharma, the Court held that a widowed daughter-in-law is entitled to maintenance from her deceased father-in-law's estate. To justify this conclusion, it invoked Chapter 8, Verse 389 of the Manusmriti: "No mother, no father, no wife, and no son deserves to be forsaken. A person who abandons these blameless relatives should be fined six hundred (units) by the king."

On the basis of this ancient injunction, the Court ruled that a widowed daughter-in-law remains a "dependant" under Hindu law, irrespective of whether her husband died before or after the father-in-law. The judgment consciously moved away from technicalities about the timing of death and instead emphasised the moral duty of family support, claiming alignment with constitutional values and the need to prevent destitution.

Now imagine, just for a moment, the reaction of the ruling establishment if the Bench had quoted Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him): "Accept my command and be kind to women." to reach a similar conclusion in favour of a daughter-in-law.

There would have been instant outrage. Television studios would have turned into war rooms. Selective quotations from the Quran and Hadith—often distorted—would have been paraded as proof that Islam is anti-women. Editorials would have thundered about "judicial overreach" and "appeasement." The judges themselves might have been personally targeted.

But nothing of the sort happened here. Not a murmur of dissent. Nobody found anything amiss in the Court finding wisdom in the Manusmriti. One wonders why the judges felt the need to rummage through a 2,000-year-old text when Amit Shah's brand new Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita is available, enacted precisely to replace colonial-era laws.

More importantly, how can judges be so selective? Do they approve of everything contained in the Manusmriti? Does their admiration extend to the barbaric prescription that molten metal should be poured into a Shudra's ears if he dares to listen to the Vedas?

The daughter-in-law in this particular case may well deserve maintenance. Few would dispute the humane outcome. But the intellectual foundation on which the verdict rests is deeply flawed. Manusmriti does not recognise individual rights in the modern sense. Civil life, as envisioned by Manu, is dominated by the family—more specifically, the joint family. The individual exists only as a member of that unit. Rights are not inherent; they are conditional, hierarchical and unequal.

Nowhere in the world is the family so central—and so oppressive—as it is in India. Ironically, it is in the name of "family honour" that some of the worst crimes are committed. So-called honour killings are justified as acts of family pride. Men and women who marry outside caste, religion or community are hunted down, murdered or driven to suicide. The individual's choice is crushed under the collective tyranny of family reputation, often with social approval.

This obsession with family also explains another peculiarly Indian phenomenon: the relentless accumulation of wealth by bureaucrats. Why do IAS officers amass wealth they cannot possibly consume in their lifetimes? It is not personal greed alone. It is a deeply ingrained obligation to provide not just for children, but also for grandchildren and even great-grandchildren. Wealth becomes a family insurance policy, not an individual indulgence.

The Manu verse quoted by the Court, therefore, has little relevance in today's India. A poor man who struggles to feed his wife and children cannot reasonably be expected to support aged parents, grandparents or widowed daughters-in-law. Moral exhortations cannot substitute material capacity.

Some states, such as Himachal Pradesh, have enacted laws making it mandatory for sons to take care of their parents. The intention may be noble, but the assumption is dangerous. Not all sons are capable—financially or emotionally—of fulfilling this obligation. Family structures are breaking down; migration and precarious employment are realities. Ultimately, it is the state that must shoulder responsibility.

In a welfare state, the care of the destitute cannot be outsourced to families alone. Old age pensions, widow support, disability assistance and social security are not acts of charity but constitutional obligations. The dignity of citizens cannot depend on the generosity—or ability—of relatives.

In this case, it was easy for the Court to direct the father-in-law's estate to provide maintenance. But what if there had been no estate? What if the father-in-law himself were destitute? Would the judges then have turned to the state, or would they have hunted for another ancient verse?

The Bible, which I know better than the Manusmriti, contains dozens of verses commanding care for the poor, the widow and the orphan. But no modern court would dream of basing a legal verdict on Leviticus or Deuteronomy. Those teachings inspire moral conduct; they do not replace statutory law.

A poor father-in-law cannot take care of a poor daughter-in-law. At that point, family morality collapses, and only the state can step in. A government that proudly calls itself a welfare state cannot abdicate its responsibility by allowing judges to search ancient scriptures for modern solutions.

The real danger lies ahead. Today, one benign verse from the Manusmriti is quoted to protect a widow. Tomorrow, more and more judges may feel emboldened to invoke the same text to justify discrimination, hierarchy and exclusion. That would not be judicial wisdom. It would be judicial abdication.