The discourse surrounding crime and punishment in India is undergoing a profound transformation. For decades, Indian criminal jurisprudence formally oscillated between deterrence, constitutional morality, and the reformative theory of punishment. Today, however, public sentiment increasingly gravitates toward a far more primal instinct i.e. retribution. The resurgence of punitive populism has revived the ancient doctrine of Lex Talionis, the law of retaliation, most famously associated with the Code of Hammurabi. The philosophy is deceptively simple yet emotionally powerful which says justice is achieved when suffering is reciprocated with suffering. In contemporary India, this sentiment no longer survives merely as a theoretical framework within criminology, it has evolved into a political and cultural instrument.
The recent incidents of Baruipur in West Bengal bear close resemblance to the Code of Hammurabi’s Lex Talionis. On July 4, 2026, a 12-year-old girl went missing. The following day, her body was recovered from a sack in a local pond. Police subsequently filed charges of rape, gang-rape, and murder under the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS) and the POCSO Act. The discovery of the body triggered violent public protests. An angry mob blocked roads, uprooted railway tracks, and beat a 40-year-old man, Indrajit Mondal, to death on suspicion of being involved with the prime suspect. Thereafter the main accused, identified as Prabhas Mondal, was later killed in a police encounter. The incident led to major political clashes. West Bengal Chief Minister Suvendu Adhikari visited the area to meet the victim’s family, assuring them of capital punishment for the perpetrators.
Just to put this incident into a context, remember RG Kar rape victim’s mother Ratna Debnath who is now a ruling party MLA in the state. She has been quoted as saying: “This rape case is different from my daughter RG Kar case… my girl was in safe place however this girl was outside home, I don’t know where she was. But it is all due to the TMC government.” This statement reminds me of the celebration surrounding the electoral victory of Debnath a couple of months back. It had astonished me. Not because she won, but because society appeared to celebrate the symbolism of victimhood entering politics rather than confronting the deeper structural failure that made such a tragedy possible in the first place. Her victory reflected public empathy, democratic recognition, and perhaps even collective anger against violence, yet the central question remains, “Can one individual, however courageous, meaningfully confront the entrenched ecosystem that enables crimes against women?”
The Retributive Impulse
Criminology teaches us that crime is rarely the product of a single immoral individual alone. It emerges from failures of policing, delayed justice, political patronage, social normalization of violence, weak deterrence, and institutional apathy. Electing a victim’s family member may provide moral representation, but representation alone cannot substitute systemic reform. The Mahabharata offers a relevant lesson here. Even Arjuna, despite his skill and righteousness, could not restore order alone. Dharma required an entire institutional and moral realignment. A civilization cannot outsource justice to symbolic figures while leaving the underlying structures of impunity untouched.
Even the Mahabharata primarily reflects a synthesis of retributive and deterrent criminology grounded in the concept of dharma. Its central philosophy is that wrongdoing creates a moral and social imbalance that must be corrected through punishment. Justice is therefore not merely administrative; it is restorative of cosmic order. This is the retributive dimension of the epic. The humiliation of Draupadi, the deceitful conduct of Duryodhana, and the repeated violations of ethical duty ultimately culminate in catastrophic war, symbolizing the inevitability of consequences. Punishment in the Mahabharata is presented as a moral necessity rather than simple revenge. Simultaneously, the epic strongly endorses deterrence through the doctrine of Danda (state punishment). In the Shanti Parva, Bhishma argues that fear of punishment is essential for preserving civilization itself. Without the coercive authority of law, society descends into disorder, exploitation, and violence. The ruler therefore has a duty not only to govern, but to punish, because failure to enforce justice encourages further wrongdoing.
Together, these two ideas create the Mahabharata’s broader criminological philosophy that punishment is necessary both to morally repay wrongdoing and to deter future disorder. Unlike modern legal systems that often separate morality from legality, the Mahabharata merges ethics, law, kingship, and cosmic order into a single framework. Crime is viewed not merely as a violation of rules, but as an assault upon the stability of society and dharma itself. In modern criminological language, the Mahabharata may therefore be described as a dharma-based fusion of retributive justice and deterrence theory.
Yet the modern application of this retributive impulse is deeply asymmetrical. The contemporary politics of punishment increasingly reflects a form of moral gerrymandering in which public outrage is selectively intensified, muted, or redirected depending upon ideological alignment and narrative utility. This emerging pattern reflects what may be called the New Criminology of Majoritarianism, a punitive culture in which punishment is increasingly mediated through political identity rather than constitutional universality. The issue, therefore, is not merely criminological. It is constitutional, sociological, and democratic. The central question confronting India today is no longer simply how crime should be punished, but whether punishment itself is becoming selectively political.
Retributive theory is among the oldest philosophies of punishment. Unlike reformative or rehabilitative models, retribution is rooted in moral vengeance in which the offender deserves pain proportionate to the harm inflicted. Modern criminology has long debated the legitimacy of such punishment. Cesare Beccaria warned against arbitrary and emotionally driven punishment, arguing that justice must remain proportionate, rational, and institutionally restrained. The constitutional state, in his formulation, exists precisely to prevent vengeance from masquerading as law. In India’s contemporary political climate, however, retributive instincts have acquired renewed populist legitimacy through several visible developments viz. the celebration of bulldozer justice, where demolition itself becomes symbolic punishment, public endorsement of encounter killings as instant justice, digital vigilantism demanding torture, public execution, or irreversible punishment, media spectacles transforming criminal proceedings into ideological morality plays.
These developments reveal growing societal impatience with procedural justice. Constitutional safeguards, evidentiary standards, and due process are increasingly portrayed not as protections, but as obstacles to emotional closure. The criminal trial itself is slowly losing symbolic importance. Public morality increasingly seeks immediacy over institutional deliberation. This transformation resembles what Michel Foucault described in Discipline and Punish that punishment functioning not merely as legal correction, but as political theatre designed to reinforce authority and public conformity. In such systems, spectacle becomes inseparable from justice itself. A defining feature of this emerging punitive culture is the role played by identity politics.
In incidents like that of Baruipur, crimes committed by members of minority communities against members of the majority are framed not as isolated criminal acts, but as collective civilizational assaults. The rhetoric rapidly transcends individual culpability and enters the realm of demographic anxiety, historical grievance, and cultural nationalism. The language of a “majority under threat” transforms ordinary criminality into symbolic conflict between communities. Once this transformation occurs, demands for proportionate justice are replaced by demands for demonstrative punishment. The emphasis is no longer merely on conviction; it is on spectacle. Punitive state action frequently receives broad approval precisely because it is perceived as defending collective identity rather than enforcing neutral law. Retribution becomes emotionally therapeutic for the majoritarian imagination.
This phenomenon also reflects aspects of Émile Durkheim’s theory of punishment. Durkheim argued that punishment frequently serves a social purpose beyond deterrence, it reaffirms collective morality and strengthens communal solidarity. In contemporary India, however, that solidarity increasingly appears politically polarized rather than constitutionally universal. The contradiction becomes most visible when comparing reactions to similar crimes across different political regimes. When a heinous crime, particularly rape and murder, occurs in a state governed by an opposition party, public discourse rapidly escalates into a national moral crisis.
Television debates intensify. Social media outrage multiplies. The incident is framed as evidence of administrative collapse and moral bankruptcy. Political commentary frequently extends beyond the criminal act itself and questions the ideological legitimacy of the ruling government. In such moments, retributive rhetoric dominates public discourse, demands for capital punishment, calls for encounter killings, public humiliation of the accused and assertions that only “fear” can restore order. The legitimacy of the state becomes directly tied to its willingness to punish aggressively and visibly.
Conversely, when similarly gruesome crimes occur in states governed by the Bharatiya Janata Party, the public discourse frequently changes in tone and intensity. The same media ecosystems and political voices that previously demanded relentless accountability often adopt a more cautious vocabulary. The incident is described as an “isolated event”, an unfortunate exception, or a tragedy that should not be “politicized.” Supporters frequently deploy layered defensive reasoning: 1. Every state experiences crime; 2. No government can prevent every incident; 3. Criticism damages the national image; 4. Opponents are selectively amplifying the issue. The contrast is striking. Punitive absolutism in one context gives way to procedural patience in another. This asymmetry reveals an uncomfortable sociological truth, outrage is often calibrated less by the nature of the crime and more by the political convenience of condemnation.
A crucial driver of this transformation is the contemporary media ecosystem. Television sensationalism, hashtag mobilization, and algorithm driven outrage increasingly determine which crimes become symbols of national collapse and which disappear into informational fatigue. Punishment discourse is no longer shaped solely by courts or legislatures rather it is produced within attention economies that reward emotional polarization. Digital platforms amplify anger because anger sustains engagement. As a result, criminal incidents are converted into ideological commodities. Certain cases receive relentless amplification while others are minimized, contextualized, or rationalized depending upon political utility. Public morality therefore becomes vulnerable to narrative engineering.
The Criminology of Emotion
This produces what may be described as emotional criminology, a framework in which justice is mediated not through constitutional consistency, but through emotional identification based upon political belonging. Then the public no longer asks, “What is constitutionally just?” Instead, the dominant question increasingly becomes, “Whose side does the accused belong to?” Within such a framework, criminology ceases to function as a neutral study of deviance and punishment. It becomes an extension of partisan identity formation. The purpose of punishment shifts from maintaining legal order to reinforcing ideological solidarity.
The Supreme Court of India has repeatedly cautioned against the transformation of criminal justice into a spectacle of executive vengeance. In recent observations concerning so-called “bulldozer justice,” the Court unequivocally reaffirmed that India is governed by the rule of law, not by the “rule of the bulldozer.” The judiciary held that demolishing homes merely because an individual is accused of a crime is “totally unconstitutional” and violative of foundational guarantees including due process, equality before law, and the separation of powers.
In one of its strongest observations, the Court was of the view that the Executive cannot replace the Judiciary. This statement carries profound constitutional significance. It reaffirms the principle that police and executive machinery cannot simultaneously function as investigator, adjudicator, and punisher. Criminal guilt can only be determined through lawful judicial process and not through executive symbolism designed to satisfy public sentiment. The Court further warned that punitive demolitions risk creating a lawless state of affairs where might was right. Such language reflects judicial concern that unchecked executive authority may normalize governance through fear rather than law. This constitutional anxiety directly intersects with the broader dangers of what political theorists describe as the police state.
A police state does not emerge merely through overt authoritarianism. It emerges gradually when coercive institutions begin operating beyond meaningful constitutional restraint, when spectacle replaces procedure, when suspicion replaces adjudication and when state force derives legitimacy primarily from majoritarian approval rather than legal accountability, as could be sensed from the recent events in West Bengal. The Supreme Court’s jurisprudence repeatedly rejects such a trajectory.
In matters involving custodial violence, arbitrary arrests, encounter killings, and preventive detention, Indian courts have consistently emphasized that constitutional democracy cannot permit the state to exercise unlimited punitive discretion. Even individuals accused of heinous crimes retain constitutional protections. The legitimacy of the state therefore lies not in the severity of punishment it can inflict, but in the procedural fairness through which justice is administered. This constitutional philosophy sharply contrasts with the emotional logic of punitive populism. The rhetoric of “instant justice” frequently treats procedural safeguards as inconveniences. Due process is portrayed as weakness, judicial restraint as delay, constitutional protections as sympathy for criminals. Within such a framework, the public increasingly valorizes visible demonstrations of force, encounters, demolitions, public humiliation, and collective punishment because they create an immediate emotional impression of authority.
The Supreme Court, however, has repeatedly insisted that constitutional morality cannot be subordinated to public rage. The judiciary has also expressed concern regarding forms of collective punishment, particularly where entire families suffer because of allegations against a single accused individual. Such practices undermine the individualized nature of criminal liability, a cornerstone of modern jurisprudence. Punishment under constitutional democracy must remain personal, proportionate, and legally adjudicated. It cannot become hereditary, communal, or symbolic. Importantly, the Court’s intervention is not merely procedural but philosophical. By insisting upon notice, hearing, transparency, and accountability before punitive action, the judiciary attempts to re-anchor Indian criminal jurisprudence within constitutional morality rather than emotional majoritarianism.
This judicial resistance acquires even greater significance in the context of selective outrage. Where public fury itself becomes politically mediated, there exists a danger that executive power may also begin operating selectively harsh against the ideological “other,” restrained toward the ideological “self.” In such circumstances, the criminal justice system risks ceasing to function as a neutral constitutional institution and instead becomes an instrument of partisan affirmation. The Supreme Court’s position fundamentally challenges this possibility. It rejects the proposition that public anger, however intense, can substitute institutional justice. The Constitution does not permit the state to function simultaneously as police, prosecutor, judge, and executioner.
Ultimately, the Court’s warning against arbitrary punitive governance is also a warning against the normalization of the ‘police state’ itself. A constitutional state punishes through law. A police state punishes through power. That distinction may ultimately determine whether democratic institutions remain governed by constitutional morality or drift toward emotionally sanctioned authoritarianism. The long-term consequences of selective punitive culture extend beyond criminal law.
Once citizens begin perceiving justice through ideological lenses, trust in institutions deteriorates. Legal neutrality weakens. Courts, police, and investigative agencies are increasingly viewed not as constitutional actors, but as extensions of political power. This erosion of institutional credibility produces deep democratic instability.
Erosion of Justice
Nils Christie warned that societies often “steal conflicts” from individuals and transform them into political instruments. In India’s increasingly polarized environment, crime itself risks becoming a vehicle for ideological mobilization rather than legal resolution. The consequences are profound: minority insecurity deepens, majoritarian anxieties become politically profitable, punishment becomes performative, constitutional morality loses emotional legitimacy, institutional legitimacy erodes, rule of law becomes secondary to the rule of sentiment, justice is no longer measured by fairness, but by emotional satisfaction.
The danger is not merely legal rather it is civilizational. A democracy that normalizes asymmetrical outrage gradually conditions citizens to view constitutional morality as negotiable. The same public that demands medieval retribution in one case may justify silence in another. Over time, this inconsistency produces a culture where justice itself becomes tribal. A democracy gradually conditioned to celebrate differential outrage begins normalizing unequal citizenship itself.
Today, reformative ideals are increasingly dismissed as elitist abstractions disconnected from public anger. The spectacle of punishment commands greater emotional appeal than the ethics of due process. The emerging criminological climate in India reflects more than anger against crime. It reflects the politicization of punishment itself. The revival of Hammurabi-style retribution in public discourse reveals a society increasingly attracted to visible vengeance over institutional restraint. Yet the deeper concern lies in the uneven deployment of this moral fury. The real crisis, therefore, is not the public demand for harsh punishment alone.
Democracies have always struggled with punitive impulses. The crisis emerges when the same society simultaneously demands ruthless vengeance against one category of offenders while manufacturing endless rationalizations for another. That contradiction defines the new criminology of contemporary India- not merely retribution, but selective retribution! And history has repeatedly demonstrated that selective justice is often the first step toward the erosion of justice itself.
(The writer is an investment banker. Views are personal.)
