The Supreme Court’s ‘Selective Morality’ in Hindu Temples

Let us begin where the Constitution itself claims to stand. If discrimination is ‘unconstitutional,’ how does ‘geography’ suddenly ‘sanitize’ it? If ‘equality before God’ is ‘non-negotiable,’ why does money receive a ‘divine fast-track’? If the judiciary is the ‘final moral arbiter,’ why does its conscience ‘fluctuate by temple name’? And most disturbingly, who, exactly, decides when “discrimination” is an ‘outrage’ and when it is merely “administrative convenience”?

The recent dismissal by the Supreme Court of India of a plea challenging VIP darshan at the Mahakaleshwar Temple exposes a jurisprudential inconsistency that can no longer be brushed aside as coincidence. It reveals something deeper, more uncomfortable: a court that applies moral reasoning not by principle, but by preference.

Let us state the contradiction plainly.

At Sabarimala Temple, the Court intervened forcefully, declaring that exclusion of women constituted discrimination, overriding centuries-old religious practice in the name of constitutional morality. The judiciary assumed the role of theological corrector, social reformer, and moral sentinel — asserting that faith must yield before equality.

Yet at Mahakaleshwar, where devotees are explicitly segregated into “VIP” and “common,” where wealth and political proximity determine proximity to the deity, the same Court retreats. Suddenly, discrimination is no longer discrimination. Suddenly, equality before God becomes administratively inconvenient. Suddenly, the Constitution is asked to wait its turn — perhaps behind a donor queue.

This is not judicial restraint. This is selective outrage.

What exactly is the Court’s working definition of “discrimination”? Is discrimination unacceptable only when it ‘disrupts tradition,’ but acceptable when it ‘monetizes devotion’? Is exclusion ‘immoral’ when it is ‘ritualistic,’ but ‘tolerable’ when it is ‘transactional’? Does ‘constitutional equality’ expire the moment a ‘receipt book’ appears at the sanctum door?

A temple is not a cinema hall with premium seating. It is not an airport lounge where privilege buys silence and speed. A temple, at least in Sanatana Dharma, is the one space where kings and paupers, scholars and sweepers, stand equally small before the divine. The deity does not recognize net worth. The sanctum does not scan bank balances. God does not ask for a VIP pass. Humans do. And that is precisely the problem.

By allowing VIP darshan to continue unquestioned, the Court has implicitly legitimized a hierarchy that Sanatana philosophy itself rejects. Worse, it has done so without articulating any coherent doctrinal standard. No test. No principle. No threshold. Just silence—disguised as deference.

If VIP darshan is constitutional, then the Court owes the nation answers.

• Who qualifies as a VIP?
• Is political power a religious credential?
• Is money now a form of spiritual merit?
• Can devotion be fast-tracked through influence?

And if tomorrow another community challenges Hindu rituals citing “discrimination,” on what legal foundation will the Court stand when its own precedents ‘contradict’ each other? This ambiguity is not harmless. It is ‘dangerous.’

A judiciary that fails to define discrimination clearly in religious contexts invites endless litigation, ideological mischief, and civilizational erosion. When standards shift arbitrarily, faith becomes vulnerable not to ‘reform’ but to ‘fragmentation.’

Judicial morality cannot be à la carte.

Either discrimination in religious institutions violates constitutional values everywhere, or the Court must admit that its interventions are driven not by ‘principle,’ but by ‘optics.’ Either equality before God matters consistently, or it is merely a rhetorical device deployed selectively.

You cannot preach ‘equality’ at Sabarimala and permit ‘privilege’ at Mahakaleshwar. You cannot ‘dismantle’ one tradition in the name of ‘justice’ while ‘defending’ another in the name of ‘management.’ You cannot claim ‘neutrality’ while practicing ‘preference.’

A constitutional court is not a mood ring. It cannot change color based on context, convenience, or cultural pressure.

Until the Supreme Court clearly defines what constitutes discrimination in religious institutions — uniformly, coherently, and courageously — it will remain exposed to the charge it most dreads: ‘hypocrisy cloaked in robes.’ And so, the questions must return, sharper than before.

Is discrimination ‘unjust’ only when it is ‘ancient’ but ‘acceptable’ when it is ‘profitable’? Is equality ‘sacred’ only when it is ‘fashionable’? And if God sees no VIPs, why does the Court?