Ah, how the mighty are judged!

Just a few months ago, the then Chief Justice of India, DY Chandrachud, was The Law. His name, attached to landmark verdicts.

But now? He stands accused—of overstaying in his official bungalow.

Six months past retirement and the judge who once directed others to vacate illegal encroachments now finds himself accused of… encroaching.

“Hypocrisy!” scream the trolls.
“Entitlement!” shout the critics.
And somewhere, in the eye of the storm, sits the judge with two daughters who suffer from a rare, incurable disorder called nemaline myopathy—a condition that affects their skeletal muscles, making even basic movement a challenge.

The official house, he explains, was specially modified for their care. Ramps, rails, fittings—all installed with love, not luxury. He’s not refusing to move forever, just till the next home is similarly modified. But ah, Justice, our dear blindfolded lady with scales in hand, is not one to peek from under her veil and say, “Oh, poor man! Let’s make an exception!”

No, no. The law doesn’t bend because you once sat on its highest chair. In fact, it mustn’t. Because when the judge begins to seek exceptions, the pillars of justice begin to crack.

So, where does this leave us?

Between the tight string of justice and the soft cushion of mercy.

Justice is clear: Move out.
Mercy says: Wait, maybe he needs more time.

But mercy—real mercy—never comes cheap. It requires sacrifice.

You see, if the current Chief Justice or another constitutional authority says, “You may stay,” the question is—at whose cost? Another judge, another official, another family might be in line for that very bungalow. Mercy given without cost is not mercy, it’s just a new form of entitlement.

True mercy comes only when someone else sacrifices for it.

If another top official were to say, “Let him stay. I’ll manage somewhere else,” that would be mercy born out of sacrifice. If a fellow citizen with influence says, “Let them shift into my home while theirs is modified,” then that’s compassion, walking the talk.

Because in every act of true mercy, someone gives up something they had every right to keep.

And so we find ourselves not at the gates of legality, but at the crossroads of humanity.

What the retired Chief Justice seeks is not immunity. It is grace. And grace, unlike legal orders, cannot be demanded. It must be given—freely, willingly, and at a cost to the giver.

And I wonder… in a nation full of voices screaming for rights, is there still someone willing to give theirs up for two little girls who can barely stand?

Because mercy… real mercy… always stands on the shoulders of sacrifice.

Which is why Christ’s death on the cross makes sense to me—because justice demanded punishment for my wickedness, but God, in mercy, chose to sacrifice Himself so that I could go free…!

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