By Satyabrat Borah
The recent controversy over the NCERT Class 8 social science textbook has opened up an uncomfortable but necessary conversation about power, criticism, and the fragile boundaries between institutions in a democracy. At the centre of the debate is the Supreme Court bench that reacted sharply to certain passages referring to judicial pendency and corruption, calling them part of a “deep-seated conspiracy” and asserting that it would not allow “anyone on earth” to tarnish the integrity of the judiciary. What might have been intended as a defence of institutional dignity has instead raised questions about judicial sensitivity, executive obedience, and the shrinking space for critical thought in education.
At one level, the Court’s reaction is understandable. The judiciary, unlike the executive or the legislature, depends almost entirely on public trust for its authority. It has neither the purse nor the sword, only the faith of citizens that its decisions are reasoned, fair, and independent. In an age of relentless social media attacks, misinformation, and political pressure, judges may feel particularly vulnerable to narratives that portray the institution as corrupt or compromised. When such narratives appear in an official school textbook, endorsed by a government body and placed before impressionable young students, alarm bells are bound to ring. Textbooks are not casual publications. They carry the stamp of the State and are often treated as definitive accounts. From this perspective, the Court’s concern that ill-phrased or sweeping statements could undermine confidence in the justice system is not entirely misplaced.
The problem begins with the scale and tone of the response. Declaring that no one on earth will be allowed to tarnish the judiciary’s integrity suggests an absolutism that sits uneasily with democratic values. In a constitutional democracy, no institution is beyond scrutiny, criticism, or even discomfort. The judiciary itself has repeatedly affirmed the importance of free speech and the right to critique public institutions, subject only to reasonable restrictions. When judges appear to place themselves beyond criticism, especially in educational material meant to encourage civic awareness, they risk contradicting the very principles they are meant to uphold.
The government’s reaction has been even more troubling. Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan’s assurance that action will be taken against officials responsible for inserting references to judicial corruption and pendency looks less like a measured administrative response and more like an act of executive submission to judicial displeasure. Expressing regret for poorly worded passages is one thing. Promising punitive action without a transparent review process is quite another. It reinforces the impression that decisions about curriculum are being driven not by pedagogical considerations or scholarly debate, but by fear of institutional backlash. This is executive arbitrariness prompted by judicial overreach, and it sets a worrying precedent for how educational content is shaped.
It is important to acknowledge that the Court itself indicated it might not have taken offence had similar passages appeared in any other book. This admission is revealing. It underscores the
special status of textbooks as official narratives. But it also raises an uncomfortable question. If the problem lies in the authority of textbooks, should the response be censorship and punishment, or should it be better writing, nuance, and context? The passages in question did not invent the idea of judicial corruption out of thin air. Instances of corruption in the judiciary, though not widespread, are real and documented. Judges have been impeached, allegations have surfaced, and internal mechanisms for complaints and redress exist precisely because the system recognises the possibility of wrongdoing. To pretend otherwise is to replace education with sanitised mythmaking.
The line in the textbook that said people experience corruption at various levels of the judiciary may have been broadly phrased and lacking in rigour. It may have echoed the tone of social media more than the discipline of academic writing. But the solution to imprecision is not erasure. It is refined. Students can be taught that while corruption exists in all human institutions, it is not systemic in the judiciary, and that safeguards and accountability mechanisms are in place. Such an approach would strengthen, not weaken, respect for the institution by presenting it as robust enough to confront its own flaws.
What complicates matters further is the broader political and ideological context in which this controversy has unfolded. Since the BJP came to power, rewriting school and college textbooks has been a central part of its cultural and political agenda. Changes have been justified in the name of correcting colonial distortions, reclaiming indigenous perspectives, and fostering national pride. Yet, many of these revisions have involved selective emphasis, omission, and reinterpretation that align closely with majoritarian narratives. History textbooks have increasingly valorised medieval Hindu kingdoms, framing their struggles primarily as righteous resistance to Muslim rule. Complex periods of conflict, alliance, trade, and cultural exchange are flattened into civilisational binaries. Wars of plunder and territorial expansion, which were common across eras and rulers, are moralised depending on who waged them.
Muslim rulers are often portrayed in a largely negative light, with brief and almost perfunctory acknowledgements of figures like Akbar’s tolerance or Babur’s intellectual curiosity. The economic storylines too are skewed, with Mughal wealth contrasted against British impoverishment in ways that lack balance and nuance. These are not minor editorial choices. They shape how young citizens understand their past, their neighbours, and themselves. Yet, these passages have not provoked the same level of judicial or executive outrage. This selective sensitivity suggests that the issue is not the presence of bias or problematic content in textbooks per se, but which institutions or narratives are being questioned.
Right-wing commentators and political figures have increasingly portrayed the judiciary as an obstacle to development, especially when court judgments prioritise environmental protection, civil liberties, or minority rights over large infrastructure projects or majoritarian religious practices. An adviser to the Prime Minister recently described the judiciary as the single biggest obstacle to development. Such statements, far more sweeping and hostile than anything found in a middle school textbook, often pass without institutional consequence. Against this backdrop, the Court may have perceived the textbook passages as part of a broader attempt to
delegitimise it. If so, the response becomes emotionally intelligible, but constitutionally questionable.
The irony is that the textbook appears to have applied a similar critical lens to other arms of the State. The chapter on elections included an image of currency notes allegedly found in a candidate’s car, a clear reference to the problem of money power in politics. Chapters discussing governance did not shy away from pointing out corruption, inefficiency, and abuse of authority in the executive. If the aim was to foster critical awareness among students, then the judiciary was not being uniquely singled out. Rather, it was being treated as one institution among others, subject to scrutiny and discussion.
Education, especially in the social sciences, is not meant to produce uncritical reverence. It is meant to encourage questioning, debate, and an understanding of how institutions actually function, with all their strengths and weaknesses. A civics textbook that only praises institutions without acknowledging their challenges risks becoming propaganda. Students are not served well by bland tutorials that avoid discomfort. They live in a world where news about judicial delays, controversial judgments, and allegations of corruption are readily accessible. Pretending these issues do not exist only widens the gap between textbook knowledge and lived reality.
This does not mean that anything goes. There is a genuine responsibility on textbook writers to be careful, precise, and fair. Broad statements need evidence. Context matters, especially when addressing young minds. The NCERT, as an institution, must ensure rigorous peer review and editorial oversight. Sloppily worded sentences can do real harm, not because they criticise authority, but because they oversimplify complex realities. The criticism of the judiciary in the textbook may well have deserved revision, clarification, or even removal after due deliberation. But such decisions should emerge from academic processes, not from the glare of courtroom admonitions and ministerial threats.
The deeper problem exposed by this episode is the asymmetry of power and reaction. The judiciary, feeling attacked, responds with sweeping declarations. The executive, eager to avoid confrontation, promises action. Educational authorities fall in line. Meanwhile, the larger issues of selective historical representation, ideological bias, and the politicisation of curriculum remain unaddressed. The judiciary appears to target certain portions of the textbook, while ignoring others that are equally, if not more, problematic. This selective intervention undermines the claim that the concern is purely about educational standards or institutional integrity.
In a mature democracy, institutions must develop thicker skins. Respect cannot be commanded by silencing criticism; it is earned through transparency, accountability, and reasoned engagement. When courts react strongly to even mild or clumsy criticism, they risk appearing insecure. When governments rush to censor rather than contextualise, they weaken the intellectual foundations of education. And when textbooks are constantly rewritten to suit prevailing political sensibilities, students are left with a shifting, unreliable understanding of their society.
The way forward lies not in outrage or punishment, but in dialogue and reform. The NCERT should review the textbook through an independent, multidisciplinary committee of historians, political scientists, educators, and perhaps even retired judges. Passages that lack nuance can be rewritten to better reflect complexity. Students can be taught that the judiciary plays a vital role in upholding the Constitution, while also grappling with issues like backlog, access, and occasional misconduct. Such an approach would model critical thinking rather than suppress it.
At the same time, there needs to be a broader reckoning with how textbooks are being shaped. If critical references to the judiciary are unacceptable, then uncritical glorification of certain historical periods or communities should also be questioned. Consistency matters. Either education embraces complexity across the board, or it risks becoming an instrument of selective storytelling.
The controversy is not just about a few lines in a Class 8 textbook. It is about how confident India’s institutions are in their own legitimacy. A judiciary secure in its role should be able to withstand scrutiny, even when imperfectly expressed. A government committed to democratic education should defend the space for questioning, even when it is uncomfortable. And an education system worthy of its name should prepare students not to worship institutions blindly, but to understand them, engage with them, and improve them.
Censoring textbooks is not a corrective measure. It does not address corruption where it exists, reduce pendency, or strengthen public trust. It merely shifts the problem out of sight, leaving students less informed and less prepared to participate meaningfully in civic life. If the goal is to preserve the dignity of the judiciary and the integrity of education, the answer lies not in silencing critical voices, but in ensuring that those voices are informed, balanced, and free.
