WE DID NOT LEARN IT FROM THE NEWS. We learned it from each other.
Last week, a woman who had in 2017 dared to file a case against a powerful man, posted an update on a close friend's Instagram story. The man, who she had accused of chasing her through the streets of Chandigarh, attempting to force his way into her car, had just been appointed Assistant Advocate General for the Haryana government.
Seven and a half years later, the trial is still crawling. And now, the man she named was going to speak on behalf of the State in court.
We were on the phone, both staring at the government notice on our screens. Silent. A gut punch. We have both lived the aftermath of speaking up. We have been trolled, slandered, and told to be quiet. We've seen institutions twist themselves into silence when a powerful man is involved.
In August 2017, the woman had filed a police complaint against Vikas Barala, son of a BJP MP, and his friend. She said they chased her car late at night, tried to corner her, and attempted to open her door. The outrage was swift. Women took to the streets and social media. #AintNoCinderella was launched in response to politicians who blamed the woman for being out at night.
But seven years later, Vikas Barala was about to be handed a government post.
This was never just about the survivor. Her case, as public as it was, is rare. She was able to file an FIR, name her accused, and persist in court. But many women across the country, especially from marginalised communities are denied even that first step.
When we saw the appointment, we knew what we had to do. The news wasn't covering it. The government had made the announcement quietly, and buried it in official notices, hoping no one would connect the dots. But women always connect the dots.
We reached into our networks. Journalists who understood the story. Lawyers who knew the implications. Activists who had the reach. Women who had been following the survivor’s case for years. We made sure that news that had been deliberately obscured became impossible to ignore.
We shared it. We spoke about it. We explained what it meant when the accused sits in the office meant to represent justice. We refused to let it disappear into bureaucratic silence.
And it worked. What started as a buried government notice became the story everyone was talking about. The government was forced to acknowledge what they had hoped would pass unnoticed.
In Hathras, a young Dalit woman didn't live long enough to file an FIR. Her body was cremated by the police at night, without her family's consent. Across towns and villages, countless stories remain buried, not for the lack of truth, but for the lack of safety, access, and faith in the system.
Vikas Barala was appointed Assistant Advocate General on July 18, 2025. This isn't about one man or one position, but about the architecture of impunity.
When a man still facing criminal charges for harassing a woman is asked to represent the State in court, it reveals the true relationship between power and justice in this country. The accused and the authority become indistinguishable. The line between perpetrator and protector disappears.
This is how the system works. Not through dramatic gestures or overt corruption, but through quiet appointments. Through bureaucratic processes that happen in the shadows. Through the normalisation of putting accused men in positions of power over the very women they are accused of harming.
The Supreme Court warned about this in 2016, when it had framed guidelines for appointment of law officers in Punjab and Haryana, and to build transparent systems and stop using public offices as means for “political aggrandisement and appeasement.” The BJP government in Haryana even passed the Law Officers' (Engagement Act) later that year.
And then they ignored it all.
Because this was never about following rules or respecting institutions. Rather, it was about demonstrating that if you are born into the right family, if you have the right political connections, the system will always find a way to protect you. Even if it means placing you in the very institutions meant to deliver justice to your accusers.
This is why we make noise. Not because we believe it fixes everything, but because we know that when formal justice mechanisms fail, public accountability becomes the last line of defense.
The legal system promises transparency, merit-based appointments, and separation between the accused and those who represent justice. When that system breaks down, when a man facing criminal charges is quietly appointed to represent the state in court, public outcry becomes the constitutional check that institutions abandon.
We live in an age of outrage fatigue, where collective anger is dismissed as performative noise. But this cynicism misses something crucial: in cases where the justice system overlooks its own failures, public pressure often provides the accountability that formal mechanisms cannot or will not deliver.
Ten days after growing scrutiny, the Haryana government quietly dropped Vikas Barala from the list. No explanation. No apology. Just a silent retreat that revealed the power of sustained public attention where institutional oversight had failed.
The cynics will say this is small, and that one appointment withdrawn does not change the system. They are not wrong about the scale. But they are missing the constitutional significance: when institutions fail to self-regulate, public accountability becomes not just important but essential to the rule of law itself.
This is how the gaps get filled. Not through grand reforms or perfect justice, but through public vigilance that forces institutions to remember their own standards. Through making buried appointments visible. Through ensuring that when the system fails its own rules, someone is still watching.
Every time women refuse to let deliberately obscured news stay buried. Every time information travels faster than official damage control. Every time public pressure forces institutions to retreat from their worst impulses. Every time accountability emerges where institutional oversight has failed.
The victories may be incomplete, the justice partial. But when formal mechanisms break down, public outcry becomes the safety net that prevents the complete collapse of accountability. In a system where the accused can quietly become the authority, sustained public attention is not just activism—it's a constitutional necessity.