THE DEATHS OF AYUSH ASHNA AND ANIL KUMAR, both Scheduled Caste students at IIT Delhi, brought this crisis to constitutional scrutiny. After the authorities refused to register First Information Reports despite allegations of caste-based discrimination, the families approached the Supreme Court. In a landmark decision in March, earlier this year — Amit & Ors v. Union of India — the Court ordered creation of a National Task Force (‘NTF’) to examine mental health and discriminatory practices in higher education institutions, marking a turning point in Indian educational jurisprudence.
This essay builds on that moment. It argues that student suicides are not merely personal tragedies but constitutional injuries. It traces three illustrative cases, the suicide of an Odisha B.Ed student, a Navi Mumbai nursing student, and several in IIT Delhi, to show how institutions, through legal evasion and administrative apathy, fail their duties of care. In doing so, it maps a socio-legal argument for reconceiving institutional accountability through the lens of constitutional dignity, equality, and mental health justice.
The death of a student by suicide is often narrated through a vocabulary of personal failure, stress, anxiety, academic pressure, or familial expectations. These individualised accounts, while not inaccurate, are deeply insufficient. When such deaths recur across institutions and social locations, they point not to isolated breakdowns but to structural neglect.
In India, elite education remains a promise of transformation, especially for first-generation learners, Dalit and Adivasi students, women, and those from working-class families. When these institutions become sites of silence, humiliation, and abandonment, the harm is not merely psychological; it is constitutional.
According to data submitted to the Rajya Sabha, 98 students died by suicide in higher education institutions between 2018 and 2023, including 39 from IITs. The National Crime Records Bureau (‘NCRB’) reported over 13,000 student suicides in 2021 alone, a number that now surpasses farmer suicides in several states. In 2022, student suicides accounted for 7.6 percent of all suicides nationwide. These figures are not statistical aberrations. They signal a systemic crisis that has not been met with institutional or legal urgency.
At the heart of these deaths lies a recurring pattern of institutional denial, procedural delay, and legal evasion. While many colleges and universities have committees, guidelines, and codes of conduct on paper, these often operate as shells, void of function, capacity, or authority.
The case of the B.Ed student in Odisha, who died after setting herself on fire following alleged sexual harassment, demonstrates how this emptiness plays out in practice. Despite approaching the Internal Complaints Committee (‘ICC’) constituted under the Sexual Harassment of Women at Workplace Act, 2013 (POSH Act), and despite the ICC recommending the transfer of the accused professor, the college principal chose inaction. Under Section 19 of the POSH Act, institutions have a binding obligation to provide a safe working environment, including safety from student colleagues. The principal’s inaction in this case constituted not just negligence but a breach of a statutory duty. No enforcement or disciplinary action followed, suggesting a disjunct between procedural compliance and substantive accountability.
In a similar incident in Navi Mumbai, a nineteen-year-old Scheduled Caste student allegedly died by suicide after months of facing caste-based slurs and humiliation by his principal. The FIR, registered only posthumously, cites the use of casteist language and degrading remarks regarding the student’s masculinity. These are not minor indignities; they are recognised forms of discrimination under the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989. Yet, no arrest had been made at the time of reporting. This delay mirrors a broader pattern in Indian legal institutions, where caste-based humiliation is treated as either a misunderstanding or an unfortunate aberration, rather than an actionable legal wrong. Procedural inertia, delayed FIRs, refusal to believe survivors, and misplaced scepticism renders existing protective laws effectively dormant.
Even in India’s most prestigious institutions, these patterns persist. In Ayush Ashna and Anil Kumar’s cases at IIT Delhi, initial reports of caste-based harassment and isolation were not taken seriously until the Supreme Court intervened. The families had reportedly been informed of the discrimination the students faced, yet the police refused to register FIRs, citing the absence of clear abetment. This is a misreading of Section 174 of the Code of Criminal Procedure (‘CrPC’), which mandates investigation in all unnatural or suspicious deaths. It was only upon judicial intervention that FIRs were filed, highlighting not just institutional inertia but also the broader reluctance of law enforcement agencies to treat student suicides as anything beyond private misfortunes.
Such failures are not aberrations. They are symptoms of a deeper culture of impunity and institutional self-protection. Equal Opportunity Cells (‘EOCs’), mandated under the 2012 UGC (Promotion of Equity in Higher Educational Institutions) Regulations, have largely failed to function. Many institutions either lack these cells entirely or maintain skeletal bodies that exist solely for regulatory compliance.
An RTI study, earlier this year, revealed that over half of India’s universities lack functional EOCs. The regulatory framework is non-binding and devoid of enforcement mechanisms. Draft UGC Equity Regulations propose improvements, but unless backed by statute and penalties for non-compliance, they risk repeating the same cycle of symbolic reform and practical stasis. In Abeda Salim Tadvi v. Union of India (2025), the Supreme Court acknowledged institutional discrimination and directed the UGC to frame equity regulations, marking a rare judicial recognition of caste and gender-based exclusion in higher education.
The rising tide of student suicides, particularly among historically marginalised groups, must be recognised for what it is, not merely a failure of institutional support or mental health provisioning, but a constitutional breakdown. These deaths reflect the erosion of constitutional protections meant to secure dignity, equality, and care. In cases like those in Odisha, Navi Mumbai, and IIT Delhi, the harm suffered by students was not only psychological, but also must be understood in legal terms. These students were not merely abandoned by administrators or peers; they were failed by a system bound to uphold their rights.
Recent Supreme Court jurisprudence has begun to confront these questions directly. In Amit Kumar & Ors v. Union of India (2025), the Court acknowledged that educational institutions must take active responsibility for the psychosocial well-being of their students. While invoking the principle of loco parentis, that universities act as guardians of students in their care, the Court moved beyond viewing suicide as an individual act of despair. Instead, it characterised these deaths as “systemic failures” that point to “a severe lack of institutional empathy and accountability.” Mental health, in this framework, is not merely a welfare issue, it is a constitutional one, embedded in Article 21’s guarantee of life and dignity.
However, the loco parentis approach, while well-intentioned, risks reinforcing paternalistic structures that infantilise students rather than empowering them as rights-bearing individuals. What is needed is a shift from guardianship to constitutional accountability. The State and its institutions must not act as benevolent overseers but as duty-bound actors tasked with enabling autonomy, care, and safety through legally enforceable norms.
A deeper reading of constitutional dignity supports this view. The Indian Constitution supports a relational, status-based conception of dignity, not merely an abstract moral quality, but a concrete legal safeguard against “denials of equal social standing.” From this vantage, dignity is not a static attribute possessed by all; it is something that is systematically undermined when institutions tolerate exclusion, stigma, or dehumanisation. When casteist abuse goes unpunished, when complaints of harassment are buried, and when counselling exists only in name, what is denied is not merely emotional safety but full constitutional personhood.
In Farzana Batool v. Union of India (2021), the Court clarified that access to professional education is not a “governmental largesse” but a constitutional mandate. It affirmed that the state has a positive obligation to ensure that access to education is not just formal, but meaningful. This includes creating enabling conditions for retention, well-being, and dignity. A student pushed out due to caste-based humiliation, or a woman silenced for reporting sexual violence, has not simply dropped out; they have been constitutionally excluded.
The framework of indirect discrimination, as affirmed in Lt. Col. Nitisha v. Union of India (2021), is crucial here. The Court held that facially neutral norms which disproportionately burden marginalised groups amount to discrimination under Articles 14 and 15. This doctrine squarely applies to institutions that purport neutrality, no caste-based exclusions, no overt sexism, yet foster environments where those from certain social locations are disproportionately silenced, targeted, or pushed to the brink. The law must account not only for intent but for effect.
Article 17’s prohibition of “untouchability in any form” cannot be read narrowly. As the Court held in Indian Young Lawyers Association v. State of Kerala (2018), Justice D.Y. Chandrachud advanced a broad, transformative reading, arguing that Article 17 must encompass all forms of exclusion rooted in notions of purity and pollution, including those based on gender. In his view, the constitutional intent was to dismantle hierarchies that operate through social and ritual exclusion, whether based on caste, gender, or other axes.. This split is instructive: it reveals that the meaning of constitutional dignity and exclusion is not fixed, but contested, and in this contest, institutional practices like disassociation, denial of complaints, and procedural evasion can arguably fall within the broader, status-based understanding of untouchability.
Finally, Articles 15(3), 15(4), and 38 impose affirmative duties on the state to not only avoid discrimination but to proactively dismantle structures of inequality. These duties extend beyond the government to all state-funded or publicly accountable institutions. Universities, especially central and state-run ones, fall within this ambit. Pursuing the Constitution’s positive obligations under these provisions necessarily demands institutional transformation, not merely in policy but in the very architecture of care, accountability, and inclusion within educational spaces. It would result not in symbolic reform but structural change: anti-discrimination policies with teeth, binding mental health norms, accountability for institutional non-compliance, and targeted interventions rooted in social justice.
This constitutional reading finds reinforcement in international human rights frameworks that increasingly recognise mental health not as a clinical silo but as integral to dignity, equality, and full social participation. The World Health Organization defines health as a state of “complete physical, mental and social well-being,” and the OHCHR affirms that “the right to health is a fundamental part of our understanding of a life in dignity.”
Despite this normative clarity, mental health remains marginalised in both budgeting and institutional architecture. WHO reported that global government mental health expenditure was less than 2 percent of the median for general health, an even starker disparity in low-income countries like India. This structural neglect is mirrored in Indian universities, where counselling services remain inaccessible, underfunded, or depoliticised, particularly for students facing casteist, gendered, or class-based violence.
Even though India’s Mental Healthcare Act, 2017 affirms the right to mental health and decriminalises suicide, it stops short of imposing binding obligations on educational institutions to address the systemic causes of student distress. In this context, Kirloskar Brothers Ltd v Employees State Insurance Corporation (1996) is illustrative wherein the Supreme Court recognised that in a welfare state, employers must ensure that workers are able to lead meaningful lives and participate equally in welfare frameworks. While not directly about students, the ruling affirms a broader principle: institutional actors bear a duty not just to avoid harm but to enable conditions of wellbeing. If such obligations exist in employment contexts, their absence in spaces of education, particularly for young, vulnerable, and historically excluded students, is a glaring omission.
The failure to treat student mental health as a structural and rights-based issue entrenches a hierarchy of harms: physical distress is medicalised and prioritised, while psychosocial suffering, especially when shaped by discrimination, is rendered invisible. If dignity under Article 21 is to be meaningful, and if Articles 15(3), 15(4), and 38 are to guide institutional reform, mental health must be embedded in the legal obligations of universities.
The NTF on student suicides, constituted by the Supreme Court in Amit Kumar, is a welcome step. But for it to succeed, it must treat these deaths as violations of constitutional rights, not just administrative lapses. Its recommendations must be enforceable. These include mandatory audits, criminal liability for institutional inaction, public disclosure of grievance data, and independent oversight mechanisms. Care must be legalised. Dignity must be made operational. Only then can educational spaces begin to heal from the exclusions they have long normalised.
While the Supreme Court has not expressly articulated a constitutional right to an “environment of care,” there is a prima facie basis for recognising such a duty within existing constitutional jurisprudence. Article 21 has long been interpreted to include dignity, autonomy, and the conditions necessary for meaningful life. In Vishaka v. State of Rajasthan (1996), the Court held that institutional inaction in the face of foreseeable harm could constitute a rights violation, and consequently issued binding guidelines to safeguard women from sexual harassment. This marked a significant shift in recognising institutional responsibility for creating enabling environments. Similarly, in Amit Kumar , the Court affirmed that universities are not only academic spaces but bear a constitutional obligation to ensure the mental and emotional well-being of students. In recognising that student suicides reflect systemic failures and institutional indifference, the Court implicitly links neglect to constitutional harm. The content of “care” in this context is not abstract. Rather it emerges from the very legal duties outlined in the Court’s directive: addressing discrimination, preventing harassment, and ensuring psychosocial support. Together, these precedents provide a framework for grounding an institutional duty of care within the Constitution’s rights-based logic.
To translate this architecture into action, two legal pathways become available. First, through judicial interpretation, the courts could recognise a failure to create a supportive, inclusive campus environment as a violation of Article 21 when it results in foreseeable psychological harm or suicide. Second, Parliament or the UGC could codify minimum standards of student care under binding regulations, modelled on the UGC (Prevention of Caste-Based Discrimination) Guidelines and the Vishaka framework. These could include mandatory counselling infrastructure, responsive grievance redressal, annual equity audits, and public disclosure of institutional compliance reports.
This shift is not merely aspirational; it is urgent. The deaths of students like Rohith Vemula, Ayush Ashna, Anil Kumar, and others are not anomalies. A constitutionalised ethic of care does not suggest paternalism, but structural attentiveness to the conditions of marginalisation, alienation, and neglect that disproportionately affect Dalit, Adivasi, queer, and first-generation students. Without such a shift, institutions will continue to operate in a zone of legal immunity, publicly expressing sympathy while remaining structurally indifferent.
If we accept that the Constitution mandates not only equality in access but equality in experience, then educational institutions must be held to a positive constitutional duty: to nurture environments where no student is made to feel invisible, expendable, or irreparably alone. The right to life must not merely begin at birth; it must extend to the conditions that make life liveable.