Is ‘Tradition’ a Valid Defence for Discrimination?

In late April, as the Supreme Court of India once again convened to hear arguments in the Sabarimala reference before a nine-judge bench, the courtroom was not merely a site of legal reasoning but a mirror held up to the nation’s deepest anxieties about faith, identity, and equality. Outside, the debate has long since spilt into homes, streets, and political rhetoric, often reduced to a binary clash between tradition and modernity. But inside the courtroom, the questions are far more nuanced: What does it mean to protect religious freedom in a constitutional democracy that promises equality? Can practices that exclude women claim immunity under the banner of faith? And perhaps most importantly, who gets to decide what constitutes an “essential” religious practice?

At the heart of the Sabarimala controversy lies a tension that is as old as the Constitution itself. Articles 25 and 26 guarantee freedom of religion, allowing individuals and religious denominations to manage their own affairs. Yet, these freedoms are not absolute. They are subject to other fundamental rights, including Article 14’s guarantee of equality and Article 15’s prohibition of discrimination based on sex. The Sabarimala temple, dedicated to Lord Ayyappa, has historically barred women of menstruating age from entering its premises, a practice defended as integral to the deity’s celibate character. In 2018, a five-judge bench struck down this restriction, holding that it violated constitutional principles of equality and dignity. The backlash was immediate and intense, prompting the Court to refer broader questions to a nine-judge bench—questions that now transcend Sabarimala and touch upon the very architecture of religious freedom in India.

The current hearings have brought into sharp focus the Court’s attempt to recalibrate this delicate balance. By emphasising that India’s diversity is its strength, the bench appears to be signalling a move away from rigid binaries. The observation that Article 26(b) protects inclusive worship is particularly telling. It suggests a shift in perspective—from viewing religious denominations as exclusive enclaves to understanding them as spaces that must, at some level, align with the Constitution’s commitment to inclusivity. This is not a trivial reinterpretation. It challenges the long-standing assumption that religious autonomy is synonymous with the right to exclude.

To understand the stakes, one must look beyond the courtroom and into the lived realities of those affected by such practices. Consider the story of a young woman from Kerala who, inspired by the 2018 judgment, attempted to visit Sabarimala. Her journey was met with hostility, not just from strangers but from members of her own community. The resistance she faced was not merely about preserving a ritual; it was about defending a worldview in which certain roles and spaces are deemed inappropriate for women. Her experience underscores a critical point: legal victories, while significant, do not automatically translate into social acceptance. The law can open doors, but it cannot compel people to walk through them.

This gap between law and society is precisely why the Court’s current deliberations matter so deeply. By examining the broader questions of religious freedom and equality, the nine-judge bench is not just revisiting Sabarimala; it is setting the stage for how similar conflicts will be resolved in the future. The implications extend to other practices—such as the exclusion of women from certain mosques or the entry of non-Hindus into temples—that have long been shielded by claims of religious autonomy. A clear articulation of principles could provide much-needed clarity in an area that has often been marked by inconsistency.

Yet, any attempt to prioritize equality over religious freedom—or vice versa—risks oversimplifying the issue. As philosopher Isaiah Berlin once observed, “Freedom for the wolves has often meant death to the sheep.” The challenge, then, is not to choose one value over the other but to find a way to reconcile them. In the Indian context, this requires a careful reading of the Constitution, which does not treat fundamental rights as isolated silos but as interdependent guarantees that must be harmonised.

One of the key tools the Court has historically used in this balancing act is the “essential religious practices” doctrine. Under this doctrine, only those practices deemed essential to a religion are protected under Articles 25 and 26. While this approach has provided a framework for adjudication, it has also drawn criticism for placing judges in the role of theological arbiters. In the Sabarimala case, for instance, the question of whether the exclusion of women is an essential practice has been fiercely contested. Critics argue that the doctrine is inherently flawed, as it requires courts to make subjective determinations about matters of faith.

The nine-judge bench appears to be aware of these concerns. By broadening the scope of the reference, it explores whether there are alternative ways to address conflicts between religious practices and constitutional values. One possibility is a shift towards a rights-based approach that focuses less on the internal logic of religious practices and more on their external impact. Under such an approach, the key question would not be whether a practice is essential but whether it infringes upon the fundamental rights of individuals.

This shift could have profound implications. It would align the Court’s jurisprudence more closely with the Constitution’s transformative vision—a vision that seeks not merely to preserve existing social arrangements but to reshape them in accordance with principles of justice and equality. Dr B.R. Ambedkar, the chief architect of the Constitution, was acutely aware of the tensions between tradition and reform. He famously argued that “constitutional morality is not a natural sentiment. It has to be cultivated.” The Sabarimala case can be seen as a test of this very idea: Can the Constitution catalyze social change, even when that change challenges deeply held beliefs?

Opponents of the 2018 judgment—and of any further expansion of its principles—often frame their arguments in terms of cultural preservation. They warn that judicial intervention in religious practices could erode the pluralistic fabric of Indian society. This concern is not without merit. India’s strength lies in its diversity, and any attempt to impose a uniform standard risks undermining this richness. However, it is important to distinguish between diversity that enriches and practices that exclude. The Constitution does not celebrate diversity for its own sake; it celebrates diversity that coexists with dignity and equality.

Moreover, the argument that religious practices should be immune from scrutiny overlooks the fact that many traditions have evolved over time. Practices that were once considered integral have been reinterpreted or abandoned in response to changing social norms. The abolition of practices like untouchability and temple entry restrictions for lower castes did not destroy Hinduism; they strengthened it by aligning it more closely with principles of justice. In this sense, the Sabarimala debate is not about dismantling tradition but about reimagining it in a way that is consistent with constitutional values.

The Court’s recent clarification that secular activities cannot be justified as “religious” under Article 25 adds another layer to this discussion. By distinguishing genuinely religious practices and activities that have a secular dimension—such as blocking public roads—the bench is attempting to prevent the misuse of religious freedom as a shield for actions that disrupt public order. This is a crucial point, as it underscores the idea that rights come with responsibilities. Religious freedom, like all fundamental rights, must be exercised in a manner that respects the rights of others.

As the hearings progress, it is becoming increasingly clear that the Court is not merely adjudicating a dispute but engaging in a broader dialogue about the kind of society India aspires to be. The questions before the nine-judge bench go beyond the specifics of Sabarimala to touch upon fundamental issues of identity, autonomy, and justice. In doing so, they invite citizens to reflect on their own beliefs and assumptions.

One of the most compelling aspects of this debate is the way it brings to light the voices of those who have traditionally been marginalised within religious communities. Women, in particular, have often been at the receiving end of practices justified in the name of tradition. The Sabarimala case has given many of them a platform to assert their rights and challenge long-standing norms. Their participation in the debate is a reminder that religion is not a monolithic entity but a dynamic and evolving space shaped by the experiences of its adherents.

At the same time, it is important to acknowledge the genuine concerns of those who feel that their faith is under threat. For many devotees, the rituals and practices associated with Sabarimala are not merely symbolic; they are deeply personal expressions of devotion. Any attempt to alter these practices can be perceived as an intrusion into a sacred domain. Recognising this emotional dimension is essential for a balanced understanding of the issue.

The way forward, therefore, lies not in dismissing these concerns but in addressing them through dialogue and engagement. The Court can provide a framework, but lasting change will require a broader societal conversation. Educational initiatives, community discussions, and inclusive leadership within religious institutions can play a crucial role in bridging the gap between legal principles and social acceptance.

As the nine-judge bench deliberates, the outcome remains uncertain. It could reaffirm the principles laid down in 2018, refine them, or even chart a new course altogether. Whatever the decision, its impact will be far-reaching. It will influence not only the future of the Sabarimala temple but also the broader relationship between religion and the Constitution.

In the end, the Sabarimala case is not just about who gets to enter a temple. It is about the kind of society India chooses to be—a society that upholds tradition at the cost of equality, or one that seeks to harmonise the two in a way that respects both faith and fundamental rights. The Constitution does not demand that citizens abandon their beliefs; it asks only that those beliefs be practised in a manner that does not infringe upon the dignity of others.

As the courtroom debates continue, one is reminded that the strength of a democracy lies not in its ability to avoid conflict but in its capacity to resolve it through reasoned dialogue and principled decision-making. The Sabarimala case, in all its complexity, offers an opportunity to reaffirm this strength. It challenges the nation to move beyond simplistic narratives and engage with the deeper questions at the intersection of faith and equality.

The final word on this matter will come from the bench, but its true significance will be determined by how it is received and implemented by society at large. Laws can change overnight; mindsets take longer. Yet, it is through this gradual process of change that the promise of the Constitution is realised. In navigating the delicate balance between religious freedom and equality, India has an opportunity to demonstrate that diversity and justice are not mutually exclusive but mutually reinforcing.