The Thrown Shoe and the Fractured Bench: How an Attack on CJI Gavai Targets the Constitutional Soul of India 

The recent physical attack on Chief Justice of India R.V. Gavai by a lawyer, and the subsequent casteist vitriol from right-wing groups, represents far more than an isolated act of protest; it is a profound ideological assault on the constitutional vision of the Supreme Court. As the second Dalit and first Dalit Buddhist to hold the office, Justice Gavai embodies the Constitution’s transformative promise of equality imposed upon a society still grappling with caste hierarchies.

The attack was fueled not just by a specific petition but by deep-seated opposition to his landmark “bulldozer ruling,” which upheld the rule of law over the state’s use of demolitions as collective punishment—a symbol of majoritarian impunity.

This incident highlights the intense struggle over the Court’s soul: between an Ambedkarite vision of the judiciary as a shield for the marginalized and a Hindutva vision that seeks to mould the institution into a reflector of dominant caste sentiment, thereby threatening the very constitutional morality that holds India’s democratic contradictions together.

The Thrown Shoe and the Fractured Bench: How an Attack on CJI Gavai Targets the Constitutional Soul of India 

In the hallowed halls of the Supreme Court of India, a symbol of the republic’s highest judicial authority, a shoe was thrown. The target was the Chief Justice of India, Justice R.V. Gavai. The assailant, a 71-year-old lawyer named Rakesh Kishore, was heard shouting, “India won’t tolerate insults to Sanatana Dharma,” as he was escorted away. On the surface, this was a shocking act of disrespect. But to view it as merely an isolated incident of protest is to miss the profound ideological fault line it exposes.

This was not just an attack on a man, but an assault on a vision of the Supreme Court itself—a vision embodied by its first Dalit Buddhist Chief Justice and his unwavering commitment to constitutional morality over majoritarian will. 

The incident, and its unsettling aftermath, reveals the fragile equilibrium upon which India’s constitutional democracy sits: a modern legal framework painstakingly grafted onto a social structure still deeply governed by the ancient, hierarchical norms of caste. 

Beyond the Petitions: The Real Grievance is a Constitutional Worldview 

The immediate trigger for the attack was a Public Interest Litigation (PIL) concerning a Vishnu idol at the Khajuraho temple complex. However, a deeper look at the assailant’s subsequent media appearances and the rallying of right-wing commentators reveals a more profound grievance. Kishore balked at addressing Justice Gavai as “My Lord,” a telling detail that hints at a refusal to accept the authority vested in a Dalit man. More significantly, his rage was directed less at the Khajuraho petition and more at the Supreme Court’s landmark ruling from November 2024, which restrained municipalities from using bulldozers as instruments of collective punishment. 

This “bulldozer ruling,” authored by a bench led by Justice Gavai, was a powerful reassertion of the Rule of Law. It declared that the state could not bypass due process and use demolition of property as extra-judicial punishment. When Justice Gavai, in a speech in Mauritius, cited this judgment as evidence that India is governed by the “rule of law, not the rule of the bulldozer,” it struck a nerve. For the Hindutva ecosystem, the bulldozer has been meticulously curated as a symbol of strong, decisive majoritarian power—a tool to swiftly “discipline” minorities and dissenters without the tedious formalities of evidence and trial. 

The attack on Justice Gavai, therefore, operates on two insidious levels. The first is blatantly personal and casteist, evident in the vile social media campaigns that preceded the physical act. The second, more dangerous, is ideological. It targets Justice Gavai’s Ambedkarite and constitutional vision of the Court as a bulwark protecting the marginalized from the tyranny of the majority. His jurisprudence, as seen in the bulldozer ruling, poses a direct challenge to a majoritarian vision of the Court as an institution that should, in matters of social and religious significance, reflect the “will of the Hindu majority.” 

The Great Contradiction: A Constitutional Superstructure on a Caste-Based Subsoil 

To understand the gravity of this moment, one must revisit the revolutionary nature of the Indian Constitution. As Dr. B.R. Ambedkar presciently warned the Constituent Assembly, India was embarking on a “life of contradictions” on January 26, 1950. It was installing a framework of political equality—one person, one vote—upon a socio-economic landscape riddled with profound inequality. 

This was not an accidental contradiction but a conscious, radical act. The Constitution imposed a vision of liberty, equality, and fraternity onto a society that had never organically practiced these principles on a mass scale. It is no historical secret that organizations like the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) opposed this document, deriding it as “foreign” and advocating for a legal system rooted in ancient Hindu codes like the Manusmriti—texts that sanctify the very caste hierarchies the Constitution seeks to dismantle. 

Yet, as legal historian Rohit De has illustrated, ordinary Indians did something extraordinary: they internalized the Constitution’s promise. They embraced it, fought for it, and saw the constitutional courts, particularly the Supreme Court, as their forum—a wedge to pry open the doors of a caste-ordered society. The deluge of writ petitions and Special Leave Petitions (SLPs) that flood the Court today is not merely a case management problem; it is a testament to a enduring, if beleaguered, faith.

For many marginalized Indians, the local police station or government office may be hostile territory, but the Supreme Court remains a site of potential recourse, a place where the promise of the Constitution might still be honored. 

The Hindutva Playbook: Reshaping, Not Dismantling, Institutions 

Recognizing that an outright assault on the Constitution is electoral suicide—as the BJP’s “400 par” slogan backlash in the 2024 elections demonstrated—the Hindutva project has pivoted to a more nuanced strategy: reshaping constitutional institutions from within. The goal is not to bar access to the courts, as was done during the Emergency, but to mould their character and public perception. 

In this reimagined Supreme Court, the judiciary can, and even should, rule against the executive on “religiously neutral” matters like the electoral bonds scheme or the Aadhaar money bill. Such rulings are celebrated as proof of the Court’s independence, lending it a veneer of legitimacy. However, on matters central to the Hindutva worldview—the Ayodhya dispute, the Gyanvapi case, the citizenship of Rohingya refugees, or the use of state power for “collective punishment”—the expectation is that the Court will align with the perceived sentiments of the dominant community. 

This battle is not fought only in the text of judgments. It is fought in the theater of the courtroom, in the selective reporting of judges’ remarks on social media, and in their public speeches. The public imagination of the Court is the ultimate prize. A statement like Justice Gavai’s in Mauritius, framing the bulldozer judgment as a victory for constitutionalism, is a powerful counter-narrative. It directly contests the idea that state power should be unshackled from due process when dealing with certain communities. 

The Bulldozer: More Than a Machine, A Symbol of Dominance 

The significance of the “bulldozer ruling” cannot be overstated. In a caste-based society, dominant groups have historically used localized violence and social boycotts to enforce hierarchy and deny marginalized groups access to the law. The 2006 Khairlanji massacre is a horrific example of the price Dalits can pay for simply seeking legal redress. 

In the last decade, the bulldozer has become the modern, mechanized embodiment of this dominant power. No longer just a tool for urban development, it has been weaponized by the state, often in BJP-ruled states, to demolish the homes and livelihoods of primarily Muslim and Dalit communities as collective punishment, frequently without due process.

It is the physical manifestation of majoritarian impunity, operating outside the constraints of evidence, trial, and the presumption of innocence. 

By ruling against this practice, the Supreme Court, under Justice Gavai, did not just issue a legal order; it struck at the symbolic heart of a new form of state-sanctioned caste and communal dominance. It reaffirmed the principle that in a constitutional democracy, the law must be a shield for the weak, not just a sword for the powerful. 

The shoe thrown at Chief Justice Gavai was crude and disrespectful, but it was also a political statement. It was an expression of rage from those who find the Court’s reassertion of constitutional morality—especially when articulated by a Dalit justice with an Ambedkarite compass—profoundly unpalatable. The incident is a stark reminder that the soul of the Indian Republic is not fought for only in elections or on battlefields, but daily in the courtrooms and in the ongoing struggle to define what the Supreme Court stands for: a majoritarian rubber stamp, or a pillar of constitutional justice for every citizen, no matter how marginalized.