If the Scars are Permanent, Why is the Punishment Still Negotiable?

When a vial of acid is uncorked with intent, the liquid that emerges is more than a chemical compound; it is a weapon of erasure. In the few seconds it takes for the substance to make contact with skin, a life is irrevocably bifurcated into a "before" and an "after." For years, the legal system has treated these "afters" with a mix of procedural coldness and sluggish reform, categorizing the horror under standard headers of "grievous hurt." But on January 28, 2026, the silence of the status quo was shattered by the highest court in the land.

The Supreme Court of India, responding to a petition by survivor and activist Shaheen Malik, signalled a seismic shift in the judicial philosophy surrounding acid violence. By likening acid attacks to dowry deaths and calling for "extraordinary" punitive measures—including the reversal of the burden of proof and the seizure of an assailant’s assets—the Court has moved beyond the mere punishment of a crime; it has begun a crusade for the restoration of human dignity. This is not merely a call for tougher sentencing; it is a demand for a legal evolution that recognizes acid violence as a unique brand of social terrorism, one that requires a departure from traditional criminal jurisprudence if justice is ever to be truly served.

The urgency of this reform cannot be overstated because the current legal framework, while improved over the last decade, remains a sieve through which justice frequently leaks. Currently, Sections 326A and 326B of the Indian Penal Code—provisions introduced following the landmark 2013 Laxmi v. Union of India case—provide the primary basis for prosecution. On paper, they offer mandatory minimum sentences and fines to cover medical expenses. However, the reality in trial courts is often a gruelling marathon of technicalities. The "difficulty of proof" becomes a secondary trauma for the survivor. In many cases, the attack happens in the shadows, in a split second, leaving the victim blinded or in shock, unable to immediately identify an assailant who has already fled.

By the time the case reaches the evidentiary stage, the lack of "direct eye-witnesses" or the "benefit of the doubt" often shields the perpetrator. This is why the Supreme Court’s suggestion to reverse the burden of proof is so revolutionary. In standard criminal law, the prosecution must prove guilt "beyond a reasonable doubt." But in "extraordinary" crimes—like dowry deaths under Section 113B of the Evidence Act—the law presumes the accused is guilty if certain conditions are met, forcing the accused to prove their innocence. To apply this to acid attacks is to acknowledge that the nature of the crime itself is so heinous, and the impact so definitive, that the shield of "presumed innocence" must be lowered to protect the survivor’s right to a fair resolution.

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To understand the weight of this shift, one must look at the scars that never fade. Consider the stories that haunt our headlines: a young woman attacked for rejecting a marriage proposal, a student targeted out of professional jealousy, or a wife punished for not bringing enough "wealth" to a household. These are not random acts of violence; they are calculated attempts to strip a person of their identity and their place in society. As the philosopher and author Elie Wiesel once said, "Whenever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must—at that moment—become the centre of the universe."

In the context of acid violence, the survivor’s body becomes the centre, a living map of a society’s failure to protect its most vulnerable. The Supreme Court’s recent intervention recognizes that when the state fails to prevent the sale of acid and fails to deter the attacker, it owes the victim more than just a prison sentence for the perpetrator. It owes them the means to rebuild. This brings us to the Court’s most pragmatic and perhaps most controversial suggestion: the seizure of the assailant’s assets to fund the victim’s rehabilitation.

The logic here is both retributive and restorative. Currently, compensation for acid attack survivors is often a pittance, delayed by bureaucratic red tape and the "Victim Compensation Schemes" that vary wildly from state to state. Medical bills for reconstructive surgeries, which often number in the dozens, can run into millions of rupees. Why should the state, or the survivor’s family, bear the financial burden of a criminal’s malice? By proposing that the assets of the attacker be confiscated, the Court is proposing a form of "civil death" for the perpetrator that mirrors the "social death" they attempted to inflict on the victim. It is a powerful deterrent.

In a society where property and inheritance are often held in higher regard than human life, the threat of losing one’s home, land, or bank balance may succeed where the threat of a jail cell has failed. This aligns with a global trend in remedial law where the focus is shifting from state-funded welfare to perpetrator-funded restoration. It turns the crime into an "unaffordable" venture, hitting the assailant where it hurts most in a patriarchal and materialist society: their economic standing.

However, such radical suggestions are bound to meet with resistance from legal purists. The primary counter-argument is that reversing the burden of proof undermines the bedrock of the criminal justice system and could lead to the harassment of innocent individuals. Critics argue that "hard cases make bad law," suggesting that the emotional weight of acid attacks shouldn't lead us to abandon the constitutional protections afforded to all accused persons. They worry about the potential for false accusations or the "over-criminalization" of society. But this perspective overlooks the inherent imbalance of power in these cases.

An acid attack is rarely an isolated incident; it is usually the culmination of a pattern of stalking, harassment, or domestic abuse—crimes that the legal system already struggles to document. When the outcome of a crime is the permanent disfigurement and potential blinding of a human being, the "reasonable doubt" threshold often serves as a loophole for the sophisticated criminal rather than a shield for the innocent. By shifting the burden, the law would demand that the accused account for their presence and their access to the chemical, creating a higher standard of accountability that reflects the severity of the injury.

Furthermore, we must look at the "dowry death" precedent that the Supreme Court so pointedly invoked. When Section 113B was added to the Evidence Act, it was a response to the "epidemic" of brides being burned in kitchens across India—a crime that was almost impossible to prove because it happened behind closed doors. The law stepped in to say: "If a woman dies of unnatural causes within seven years of marriage and there is evidence of harassment for dowry, we will presume the husband did it."

This did not end dowry deaths overnight, but it gave the prosecution a fighting chance and sent a clear signal that the domestic sphere was no longer a zone of legal impunity. Acid attacks are the "public square" equivalent of dowry deaths. They are often gendered, motivated by a desire to control or punish a woman's autonomy, and designed to leave a permanent mark of shame. To treat them with any less judicial "extraordinariness" than dowry deaths is to fail to see the thread of misogyny that connects them.

The implementation of these reforms will require more than just a change in the law books; it will require a complete overhaul of the investigative machinery. The Supreme Court’s directive to states to submit data on cases and rehabilitation is a crucial first step. We cannot fix what we do not measure. In many states, the "ban" on the over-the-counter sale of acid is a ban in name only.

You can still walk into a hardware store in many parts of the country and buy a liter of concentrated acid for the price of a soda, with no ID required and no record kept. If the legislature is to follow the Court’s lead, it must start with the source. If the burden of proof is reversed, the state must also provide the police with the forensic tools to link the chemical to the source and the source to the buyer. Without a robust paper trail of chemical sales, the legal shift remains a theoretical victory.

Beyond the courtroom, there is the matter of Art. 21 of the Constitution—the right to life and personal dignity. The Supreme Court has long held that "life" is not merely "animal existence" but the right to live with human dignity. For an acid attack survivor, that dignity is attacked twice: first by the acid, and second by a society that often ostracizes them. The "afterlife" of a survivor involves navigating a world that stares, whispers, and often denies them employment. This is where the "asset seizure" model becomes truly transformative. If the funds seized from the attacker are used to create "rehabilitation hubs"—places where survivors can receive not just medical care, but psychological counseling, vocational training, and legal aid—the law stops being a passive observer and becomes an active participant in the survivor's journey. It moves from "punishment" to "empowerment."

We must also look to international norms to see where India stands. Many countries in Southeast Asia and South America, which have historically struggled with high rates of acid violence, have moved toward specialized "Fast-Track Courts" and mandatory minimums that exceed those of attempted murder. The United Kingdom recently introduced the "Offensive Weapons Act 2019," which makes it illegal to carry corrosive substances in a public place without a good reason, effectively reversing the "intent" requirement. If the global community is moving toward a "prevention and restoration" model, India—as a country with some of the highest recorded instances of this crime—has a moral obligation to lead the way with the "extraordinary" measures suggested by the Supreme Court.

The path forward is clear, yet difficult. It requires the legislature to have the courage to draft laws that might be seen as "draconian" by some, but are "life-saving" for others. It requires a judiciary that remains sensitive to the nuances of gender-based violence. And it requires a society that stops looking away. The Supreme Court has thrown down the gauntlet. By characterizing acid attacks as a social evil on par with dowry deaths, it has stripped away the clinical mask of "simple assault" and revealed the crime for what it is: an attempt to murder a person's future.

As we await the states' responses and the final directives from the Bench, we must remember that law is not a static set of rules; it is a living reflection of a nation’s conscience. If our conscience is genuinely revolted by the sight of a face melted by spite, then our laws must reflect that revulsion with a ferocity that matches the crime. The suggestions of asset forfeiture and the reversal of the burden of proof are not "radical" when viewed through the lens of a survivor’s pain; they are the bare minimum. We are at a crossroads where we can either continue to apply 19th-century legal principles to 21st-century horrors, or we can embrace a new era of "extraordinary" justice.

In the final analysis, the measure of a civilization is how it treats its most wounded members. An acid attack is a message sent by a criminal to a victim, saying, "You do not matter." A law that seizes that criminal’s assets and forces them to prove their innocence sends a message back from the state, saying, "They matter more than you can imagine." It is time for the Indian legal system to stop being a silent witness to the destruction of lives and start being the architect of their reconstruction. The Supreme Court has provided the blueprint; it is now up to the parliament, the police, and the public to build a fortress of safety and a sanctuary of justice. Only then can we hope to turn the tide of this chemical warfare and ensure that the "after" in a survivor's life is not a sentence of suffering, but a testament to resilience and the unwavering protection of the law.