The Sabarimala Temple Entry Case has once again become a subject of national discussion, not because a new judgement has been delivered, but because the issues arising from it remain unresolved before a larger bench of the Supreme Court of India. The “reference” in the context is crucial – it signifies that the court itself is reconsidering broader constitutional questions linked to religious practices and gender equality.

Religion has always been one of the most powerful forces shaping human civilization. It provides identity, moral guidance, and a sense of belonging. However, history also shows that religion, when misused, can become a source of conflict, discrimination, and even violence. Religious Crimes refer to acts that either target religious beliefs, symbols, or communities, or misuse religion to justify unlawful behaviour.

Is it truly kind to keep someone alive? In certain scenarios, does this act lead to extended suffering—not just for the patient but also for their family and caretakers? In an era where technology can sustain bodily functions long after all hope has vanished, the pressing question shifts from whether we can save a life to whether we should prolong suffering.

Few questions press upon the conscience of law as insistently as euthanasia — the deliberate termination of a human life to relieve intractable suffering. As medicine grows ever more adept at prolonging biological existence beyond any prospect of meaningful recovery, the law confronts an acute paradox: whether the right to live must also encompass a right to die.

On March 11, 2026, the Supreme Court of India permitted the withdrawal of life-support from Harish Rana — a man who had remained in a persistent vegetative state for over a decade. The order is being widely described as the first judicially-authorised instance under the modern living-will / passive-euthanasia framework and has reignited national conversations on dignity, medical ethics, and law.

The Supreme Court of India upheld the right of a Scheduled Tribe woman and her legal heirs to inherit ancestral property even in the absence of a legal enactment or custom governing the same. The issue arose as the appellant-plaintiffs, being the legal heirs of a tribal woman belonging to the Gond community, were denied succession rights of the property belonging to their maternal grandfather when the defendants refused the partition of the property.

For decades, the law saw gender through a narrow lens — male or female, him or her, sir or madam. In this binary world, millions lived invisible lives, unnamed and unacknowledged. Their existence lingered in the margins of paperwork and public spaces alike. Then came NALSA v. Union of India (2014) — a judgment that did not just recognize a community but redefined what it means to be human in the eyes of the Constitution.

When we speak of justice in India, we often picture the courtroom — the arguments, the verdict, the gavel. Rarely do we imagine what follows: the slow decay of humanity behind the iron bars of a prison. Yet, justice does not end at conviction; it continues in the conditions of confinement. The idea of punishment in a constitutional democracy must harmonize with dignity, not diminish it.