The Supreme Court on Monday paused implementation of three controversial provisions of the amended Waqf Act, terming them potentially arbitrary and unconstitutional. A bench led by Chief Justice BR Gavai and Justice AG Masih stayed rules that required donors to prove they had been “practicing Muslims” for five years, mandated inclusion of non-Muslims on waqf boards, and empowered District Collectors to decide whether a property qualifies as waqf. The court observed that allowing Collectors to adjudicate such disputes would violate separation of powers and could lead to misuse.

However, the judges refused to suspend the requirement of registering waqf properties, noting that this obligation had existed earlier but was never enforced. To protect “waqf by user” properties—established by long usage rather than documentary evidence—the court ordered that their status cannot be altered without recourse to a waqf tribunal, whose rulings would remain subject to High Court appeal.

The amendments, passed in April after heated parliamentary debate, sparked nationwide protests and multiple legal challenges. Petitioners, including religious groups and individuals, argued the provisions trampled constitutional rights, particularly Articles 14 and 26, by curtailing Muslims’ ability to manage their own charitable endowments. Critics also warned the “practicing Muslim” clause undermines secularism by compelling proof of religiosity, while permitting non-Muslims on waqf boards erodes their representative character.

The government defended the changes as necessary to curb fraud and ensure oversight. Solicitor General Tushar Mehta argued that waqf boards perform secular functions, making non-Muslim participation reasonable. Yet the court limited such appointments to a minority—three of 11 in state boards and four of 22 in the Central Waqf Council.

By halting key provisions but leaving others intact, the interim order sets the stage for a deeper constitutional test of the Waqf amendments in coming hearings.

On the night of July 6, 2025, five members of a family were burned alive in Bihar’s Purnia district after being accused of practicing witchcraft. The sole survivor, a 16-year-old boy of that family, has told the authorities that a mob of around 50 people broke into their home carrying bamboo sticks. The mob first attacked his mother, calling her a “witch,” and when other members of his family tried to save her, they too were ‘punished’.  

The National Human Rights Commission on July 16th has taken suo motu cognizance of the incident and issued notices to the Chief Secretary and the Director General of Bihar Police asking for a detailed report within two weeks. The Commission has also told the State Government to ensure the safety of the 16-year-old boy and provide him with counselling. 

What is Witch-Hunting and Witch-Branding?

People in India have long been friends with the concept of superstition. A perfect answer to the most difficult questions of life. However, over time, a scientific temperament developed a rational mindset among many, leading some of us to believe that superstition was something the modern world had left behind. But once you step into the villages and rural areas of India, a different reality unfolds. Not just one village, a vast stretch of villages across most states has irrational belief systems. One such destructive belief is the fear of “witches” and “witchcraft”. 

Witchcraft means the possession of evil spirits and using them to harm others. The sad part is it doesn’t end with belief alone. This belief takes the form of violence: abuse, neglect, alienation, relocation, harassment, rape, murder and sometimes even burning alive. These are far from being harmless traditions; they are heinous crimes, the gravest form of human rights violation ever heard of. Witch branding and witch-hunting led to two distinct groups of victims. The primary sufferers are, who endure the unimaginable physical torture and humiliation. Then there are collateral victims, i.e. their close ones or their family members, who are forced to live a life of trauma and social exclusion. Like the 16-year-old boy in Purnia District of Bihar, who witnessed his entire family burn alive. His situation is more than just a “tragedy”.

This is a wake-up call demanding our urgent attention to the deep-rooted crisis of superstition-driven violence that continues to threaten the lives of many vulnerable people across India. While both male and female fall prey to this evil, the number of women victims in particular is disproportionately high, as they are more easily accused or targeted. 
superstition is not the Sole Motive

The picture, however, seems to have changed a bit with time. The persecution is no longer only due to superstition; it is about power. Witch-hunting has become a tool for gender-based violence. Deep-rooted patriarchal mindset and caste differences are the major underlying reasons. Women who are targeted are vulnerable. Mostly widows, childless women, and women belonging to marginalized communities bear the brunt of unexplained misfortunes. Women who are divorced, unmarried, separated, who assert themselves and often just simply the ones who are easy to target helplessly, become the reasons behind a failed harvest, unknown illness and sudden deaths,  like in the recent case of Bihar.  
Incidents across India

This gross human rights violation faced by women is far from an isolated horror. One would think that with advancement of science and technology, this diabolical belief would have become outdated but cases of women being subjected to torture on account of practicing witchcraft, continue to be reported from rural areas of several states, including Jharkhand, Bihar, West Bengal, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Gujarat, Odisha, Chhattisgarh, Assam, Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh. 

The National Crime Records Bureau's reports between 2015 and 2021 mention 663 killings attributed to witchcraft or witch hunts, averaging 95 fatalities per year. The latest report by NCRB in 2022 enumerates various motives behind murders, out of which 85 were based on this superstition of witchcraft. The number might seem small to look at, but it shows a bigger picture for India, a mirror to reflect at. It is the distance our country still needs to bridge in order to eradicate this horrific violence. 

The Need for Central Legislation

Witch-hunting is a clear violation of various rights guaranteed by the Indian Constitution. It infringes upon the right to non-discrimination, right to life, right to safety and most importantly, the right to live a dignified life free from cruel and inhumane treatment. Apart from guaranteeing these fundamental rights, the Constitution also imposes a fundamental duty on every citizen under Article 51A(h) to develop scientific temper, humanism and spirit of inquiry and reform. The law expects rationality and superstition-based violence is not only against criminal laws but also against the constitutional ethos. 

Bihar was the first state to enact a special law in 1999 to eliminate torture, humiliation and killing of women branded as witches. This act i.e. Bihar Prevention of Witch (Daain) Practices Act, 1999, made all offences cognizable and non-bailable. Several other states like Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh, Odisha, Maharashtra, Rajasthan, and Assam also followed and enacted similar legislations to combat these practices, with Karnataka being the most recent to enact a legislation in 2020. 

Yet, the recent case in Bihar is a stark reminder that there still remains something to be done. Is it a nationwide awareness program, addressing gaps in education, dismantling the patriarchal mindset or a national-level legislation?

At present, India does not have a law at the national level to penalize the menace of witch-hunting or mob violence against families. The only recourse that remains is through Bhartiya Nyaya Sanhita, 2023 i.e. BNS under sections of murder, grievous hurt, or sexual offences. However, the enactment of a central legislation could play a transformative role. Like in the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act (POCSO), Juvenile Justice Act, Sexual Harassment of Women in Workplace (Prevention, Prohibition and Redressal) Act (POSH) or the Senior Citizens Act, a special or targeted law would not only criminalize the offence but also impose a positive obligation on the state authorities to spread awareness to combat this deep-rooted social evil. It would provide counselling and rehabilitation for survivors. 

It is not like efforts have not been made. A bill to address witch-hunting was introduced twice in the Parliament. In 2016, it was introduced in the Lok Sabha by Raghav Lakhanpal, but it was not passed. Later in 2022, the bill “The Prevention and Prohibition of Witch-Branding and Witch-Hunting and Other Harmful Practices Bill, 2022” was introduced in Rajya Sabha by Surjeet Kumar and yet a central legislation is still awaited. 

Conclusion 

Witch-branding, while being a tool for social control, strips the vulnerable people of dignity, safety and identity. It is not a relic of the past; it is a living gendered violence that continues to claim the lives of innocent people even in the 21st century. Despite a general criminal law, the lacuna of a specific central legislation with clear provisions of victim support and state obligation continues to leave gaping holes in delivering complete justice. The problem does not end with those killed; the concern also extends to those falsely branded as witches, who may have escaped death but now live in constant anxiety of being targeted again. What more do we as a ‘democratic society' need for our conscience to wake up? How many lives need to be ‘sacrificed’, for us to realize the need to address this gross human rights violation?

Apoorva is a Delhi-based lawyer having expertise in Criminal cases. She strongly advocates for women and vulnerable communities. Through her legal practice and writing, she aims to bring attention to issues of legal justice and equality. 
 

In a nation where the judiciary is hailed as the guardian of democracy and the Constitution its sacred text, one would expect legal education and judicial recruitment to embody the same reverence. Yet, tens of thousands of law aspirants across India find themselves trapped in a web of institutional apathy, policy paralysis and systemic dysfunction. From the CLAT 2025 debacle to indefinitely postponed judicial service exams and a worsening judicial vacancy crisis, the picture is grim. At the heart of this turmoil lies a generation of young legal minds - demoralized, underemployed, and dangerously disillusioned.

The Common Law Admission Test (CLAT), conceived as the national gateway to India’s prestigious National Law Universities (NLUs), is supposed to usher in the country’s future legal leadership. Instead, it has become a glaring example of administrative failure. CLAT 2025, held in December 2024, saw results declared too swiftly, only to reveal errors in answer keys, ambiguous questions, and procedural lapses. Legal petitions followed. In April 2025, the Delhi High Court ordered the Consortium of NLUs to revise the results. The Consortium appealed, and the Supreme Court stayed the High Court’s directive, freezing the revised scores and halting admission counselling to NLUs indefinitely. Thousands of deserving students who spent years preparing are now left in limbo, their academic futures paused and mental health strained. This is no isolated incident. CLAT has faltered repeatedly - pandemic delays and flawed online formats in 2020, confusing reschedules in 2021, answer key errors in 2022 and 2023. For an exam meant to select the nation’s future legal thinkers, such recurring mismanagement is not just unfortunate - it is a disgrace.

Equally alarming is the state of judicial service exams across states like Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Rajasthan and Gujarat. India faces a shortage of over 5,000 lower judiciary judges, yet exams to fill these posts are routinely deferred. While state commissions issue notifications igniting hope, the exams themselves are postponed indefinitely due to pending court cases, procedural clarifications or bureaucratic inertia. Uttar Pradesh’s UPPCSJ exam has not been held for over two years. The Chhattisgarh High Court stayed its judicial exam in April 2025, awaiting the Supreme Court’s verdict on the controversial three-year practice rule. Other states have followed, resulting in a nationwide recruitment freeze. With nearly five crore pending cases burdening the judiciary, this inertia is indefensible. Law graduates spend years preparing, often balancing courtroom internships or junior associate roles, all while navigating a recruitment process with no guarantees and few timelines.

At the core of this delay is the Supreme Court’s reconsideration of whether judicial aspirants must have three years of prior legal practice. While some argue that experience fosters judicial maturity, others view this as elitist gatekeeping that excludes first-generation lawyers and those unable to subsist on meager stipends for years. The judgment remains reserved. Meanwhile, high courts across the country have paused recruitment, turning legal education into a waiting game. Ironically, in attempting to decide who is worthy to judge, the system sidelines those most eager to serve.

But beyond exams and court rulings lies a deeper crisis: employability. India produces over 80,000 law graduates annually, yet only three percent attend NLUs. The rest graduate from a growing number of private law schools, many lacking credible placements, practical training, or professional mentorship. A 2023 Bar Council report found that over half of India’s law graduates remain unemployed or underemployed a year after graduation. In smaller cities and towns, this situation is even bleaker. Judicial services and government roles, once reliable career paths, are now stuck. When even these channels are frozen, a law degree becomes a mere paper promise. Public institutions have begun offering only short-term contractual roles - legal translators, clerks, research assistants and law officers. The Chhattisgarh High Court’s latest recruitment drive is for judgment translators. This trend is not just fiscal frugality - it reflects institutional shortsightedness.

This endless delay is more than an administrative backlog - it has become a mechanism to circumvent direct recruitment by engaging young aspirants in peripheral or contractual roles that neither fulfill their ambitions nor provide meaningful career growth. Such short-term, non-permanent positions help sustain entrenched bureaucracies - those who struggle to adapt to evolving demands - effectively outsourcing responsibilities. The inertia preserves an outdated demand-supply equilibrium, benefiting established insiders while the vibrant potential of young lawyers is sidelined. Where then do these aspirants go? Many drift into stagnant jobs or leave the profession altogether - a massive loss to India’s justice delivery and democratic promise.

The rot begins early. CBSE’s promising introduction of Legal Studies as an elective, aimed at promoting constitutional awareness, is offered in fewer than five percent of schools. Most state boards ignore it entirely. Despite abundant rhetoric about constitutional and legal values, the education system offers no real roadmap into the legal profession.

Let me offer two snapshots from my own experience that illustrate just how deep this crisis runs.

First, I recently reconnected with a batch of CLAT aspirants in Bhilai - a city that was once synonymous with legal ambition in central India, known for consistently producing top rankers. The coaching centres there used to be packed to the brim, with students often standing for lack of space. Today, they are quiet, almost abandoned. In one classroom built for fifty, I found a couple of students - silent, weary, and uncertain. Their eyes reflected a mix of fatigue and fading hope. It was a stark and sobering image of a dream slowly dissolving. If Bhilai - the beating heart of small-town legal aspiration - is losing faith, what does that say about the rest of the country?

Second, I asked a close friend from law school what he made of the CLAT, both at the undergraduate and postgraduate levels, and the Judicial Service exam delays. He smirked and said, “It’s great training. A crash course in patience and perseverance. The system is just preparing us for the real world of litigation and judicial work, where nothing happens on time and everything runs late.”

Perhaps he had a point. Maybe this is the system’s twisted idea of orientation - a soft initiation into a profession where delay isn’t an exception but the default. A masterclass in endurance, taught not through mentorship or rigor, but through inertia. Where institutions that preach the rule of law operate under the rule of red tape. If you can survive the chaos of CLAT and the purgatory of judicial recruitment, you’ve already been conditioned for a career of adjournments without cause, vanishing case files, and endless procedural limbo.

But is this truly the professional mindset we want to cultivate? Not one grounded in energy, excellence, and urgency - but one dulled by resignation, sustained by endurance, and haunted by deferred dreams.

The silence of the powerful - from courts to commissions to campuses - is what makes this crisis not just frustrating, but unbearable. And yet, the solutions aren’t hidden; they simply demand the courage of conviction and institutional will. This is no longer a mere policy lapse - it is a collective moral failure.

Our institutions must act - and act swiftly. For a nation that does not honour its future, lawyers cannot expect them to uphold its laws. The cost of inaction is not just measured in thousands of broken careers, but in the slow, silent unraveling of the republic itself.

(Shikhar Shrivastava is a graduate of HNLU and a gold medallist in LLM. He ranked 26th in the Chhattisgarh Civil Judge Exam (2021) and currently serves as Managing Counsel – Asia Pacific at a US-headquartered AI-tech company.)

In the age of a rapidly evolving India, where laws and institutions are being reoriented to serve a democratic and inclusive future, the Waqf (Amendment) Bill, 2025 stands as a watershed moment—one that attempts to redistribute power, resources, and accountability in a domain long shrouded in opacity and feudal relics. Now passed by both Houses of Parliament, this amendment signals not just a legal shift, but a societal realignment—away from medieval forms of property endowments towards a more equitable framework grounded in constitutional values.

Understanding ‘Waqf’: Meaning and Origins

Waqf, under Islamic law, refers to the permanent dedication of property—movable or immovable—for religious, charitable, or social purposes. Once designated as waqf, ownership is irrevocably transferred to Allah, and a Mutawalli (manager) is appointed to administer it on behalf of the community.

The Waqf tradition in India began during the Delhi Sultanate, with Sultan Muizuddin Sam Ghaor dedicating villages to maintain the Jama Masjid in Multan. The system expanded under subsequent Islamic dynasties. However, during British rule, the Privy Council derided waqf as a “perpetuity of the worst kind.” India in 1913 enacted the Mussalman Waqf Validating Act, which reaffirmed its legality. Yet, the waqf system carried into the post-colonial era with many of its medieval and colonial flaws intact.

The Scale and Challenges of Waqf in India

Unlike many Islamic-majority countries such as Turkey, Egypt, Tunisia, Iraq, and Syria—which have abolished or curtailed waqf to pursue land reform and modernization—India remains unique in providing full legal protection to waqf, underscoring the need for balanced reform that respects faith while ensuring fairness

India is home to approximately 8.8 lakh waqf properties, as per the Waqf Assets Management System of India (WAMSI), with Uttar Pradesh leading the count at over 2.4 lakh properties. Other states with significant waqf holdings include West Bengal, Punjab, Tamil Nadu, and Karnataka. Of these, more than 6.2 lakh properties comprise mosques, graveyards, agricultural lands, shops, and residential structures. However, the waqf ecosystem faces serious challenges, notably encroachment and protracted litigation. Punjab records the highest encroachment rate at 56.5%, while states like West Bengal, Bihar, and Andhra Pradesh report thousands of waqf-related legal disputes, highlighting widespread governance and administrative issues across the system.

At its core, the Bill seeks to correct long-standing imbalances—disproportionate control of land and assets in the name of religion, often without clear ownership, accountability, or benefit to the broader community it claims to serve. The removal of the contentious provision of waqf by user—which enabled properties to be claimed as waqf simply on account of long-term religious usage without legal title—ends decades of quiet encroachment that, more often than not, sidelined rightful owners and public interests.

Though waqf is rooted in religious endowment, its administration in India is fundamentally secular in nature. The Waqf Act of 1995 institutionalized this framework by establishing State Waqf Boards (SWBs) and the Central Waqf Council (CWC), both functioning as statutory bodies under state regulation. Indian courts have consistently reinforced this distinction between religious sentiment and governance. In Syed Fazal Pookoya Thangal vs Union of India (1993), the court affirmed that Waqf Boards are regulated by the state, not as religious entities. Similarly, in Hafiz Mohammad Zafar Ahmad vs UP Sunni Board (1965), it was clarified that a mutawalli, or manager, is merely an administrator and not the owner of waqf property. The broader principle was underscored in Tilkayat Govindlalji Maharaj vs State of Rajasthan (1964), where the Supreme Court held that managing religious property constitutes a secular act—firmly placing waqf governance within the domain of state oversight rather than religious authority.

From Endowment to Empowerment

By mandating that only a practicing Muslim for at least five years who also owns the property can declare a waqf, the Bill restores individual agency and property rights while ensuring that waqf remains a sincere religious endowment—not a mechanism for unregulated land capture. The clause on waqf-alal-aulad ensures that inheritance rights, especially of women, are not denied in the name of piety—a progressive correction to a pattern that disproportionately excluded female heirs under the guise of religious endowments.

This is where the spirit of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar finds resonance. He had once remarked, “I measure the progress of a community by the degree of progress which women have achieved.” The amendment, in its strengthening of women's property rights within the waqf framework, pays homage to that vision—moving beyond symbolic justice to structural reform.

Jurists have long highlighted the tension between religious endowments and individual rights. Justice Indu Malhotra, in a public lecture post-retirement, observed that “religious freedom must be protected, but it cannot be a cloak for immunity from public accountability.” The Amendment echoes this sentiment by institutionalizing safeguards that reaffirm the primacy of transparency in religious trusts.

Often the internal injustices within communities are often ignored under the guise of protecting external rights. The Bill disrupts this norm by addressing intra-community inequities, especially those faced by women and economically weaker Muslims, long denied their rightful share in waqf-managed resources.

A Break from Colonial Continuities

Historically, the waqf system in India carried forward its medieval and colonial legacy into the post-independence period—structured by the British to maintain socio-religious hierarchies and appease vested elites. The Waqf Act of 1995, while a modern effort, still inherited those colonial patterns of unaccountable control. The 2025 amendment breaks decisively from that past. It removes the Waqf Board’s unchecked power to declare property as waqf, instead placing this responsibility with administrative officers accountable to state governments. Critics may call it centralization, but it is actually institutional transparency and rule of law coming into play.

The Supreme Court, in Board of Muslim Wakfs v. Radha Kishan (1979), had already clarified that waqf properties are not immune to judicial review and must adhere to general laws of the land. This amendment advances that precedent by demanding due process before any waqf declaration—an overdue correction to the arbitrariness that once prevailed.

The Sachar Committee Report (2006) identified waqf as a vast but underutilized socio-economic asset, estimating that efficient management could generate an annual revenue of ?12,000 crore. To unlock this potential, the committee recommended a series of reforms: professionalizing the role of mutawallis (waqf managers), ensuring transparent and digitized record-keeping, appointing women and technocrats to Waqf Boards, and mandating regular financial audits. These measures aimed to bring accountability and modern governance practices to waqf administration. However, despite the clarity of vision, implementation across most states remained sporadic and limited—until recent efforts signalled a renewed push toward reform.

The introduction of a digital portal for waqf registration, audits by the Comptroller and Auditor General (CAG), and the inclusion of non-Muslim members and members from diverse Muslim sects on the Waqf Boards further reflects an inclusive and modern approach to religious administration—ensuring that no single group monopolizes a public resource in the name of faith.

Justice at the Margins

Yes, there are constitutional questions. The grey areas—such as curtailing the powers of religious boards or redefining ownership without community consensus—must be debated and, where necessary, legally clarified. But the larger arc of this reform is undeniably aligned with Article 14 (Right to Equality), Article 15 (Prohibition of discrimination), and Article 39(b) of the Directive Principles, which speaks of the distribution of material resources to subserve the common good.

Senior Advocate Harish Salve has argued that “when personal law or religious practices impede the constitutional guarantee of equality, the Constitution must prevail.” The Amendment reflects this constitutional hierarchy—not to antagonize, but to uplift those at the margins of legal and economic access.

This legislation is not a negation of minority rights. It is an affirmation of intra-community justice—where the rights of underrepresented groups within a community, especially women and economically backward classes, are finally being heard. It is an attempt to ensure that the spirit of endowment—charity, service, welfare—returns to the centre of waqf management, rather than its long-standing misuse as a parallel estate system.

A Step Towards Equity, Not Uniformity

The Waqf (Amendment) Bill should not be viewed as an isolated measure, but as part of a broader, national conversation on equity, justice, and reform of religious institutions—be it temples, churches, or waqf. It marks a step not towards uniformity, but towards fairness—where no individual or institution is above scrutiny, and where the rule of law ensures equal protection, regardless of faith.

In this moment, India doesn’t just amend a law—it rewrites a principle: that faith can coexist with fairness, and that historical legacies can be reimagined for a more inclusive future.

The article has been authored by Ms. Hemangi Sinha, Project Head at the World Intellectual Foundation, and Pravin Kumar Singh, Senior Project Associate at the World Intellectual Foundation.