Ankit Vardani
When I first stepped into a remote village in Rajasthan for a legal literacy camp, I thought I
carried something powerful — knowledge of the law. I believed the law, especially Public
Interest Litigation (PIL), could open doors for those who had always been shut out. But what I
didn’t expect was the silence that followed when I asked a group of rural women if they had ever heard of PIL.
Not one hand went up. We often speak of India’s progressive legal framework — our Constitution promises equality, our courts have struck down injustice, and our policies claim to protect the vulnerable. But in the dusty courtyards of these villages, surrounded by cracked mud walls and hesitant voices, all that remained was silence — not out of defiance, but out of distance. Distance from the system that claims to protect them.
Where Law Begins and Policy Ends
At its core, PIL was introduced to democratize access to justice for the marginalize Landmark
cases like Hussainara Khatoon v. State of Bihar or Vishaka v. State of Rajasthan remind us how
PILs have given voice to the voiceless — from undertrial prisoners to working women.
But there’s a critical gap: policy delivery.
Legal rights on paper are meaningless without policy mechanisms to make them real. Women in rural India — especially those affected by poverty, caste, and lack of education — don’t just need laws. They need people who will walk with them to the courtroom, who will write petitions on their behalf, who will help them understand that their pain is not a private burden but a public injustice.
That’s where we’ve failed.
Field Reflections: When Law Doesn’t Reach Her
During my time volunteering with the Rajasthan State Legal Services Authority (RLSA) and
Mukti Foundation, I met a group of women who were victims of land grabbing. Their families
had lived on that land for decades, but they had no formal documents. A powerful local
businessman had fenced off the property and claimed it as his own.
They sought help, and an NGO supported them in filing a PIL. The court passed an order in their favor. But months later, when I visited again, the fence was still there. Nothing had changed.
“Court mein jeet gaye, par zameen toh uski hi hai,” one woman said. “We got the verdict, but the land never truly returned to us.”
That one sentence captures the failure of public policy — a disconnect between judicial orders
and administrative enforcement. Laws can give judgment, but only policies can deliver justice on the ground.
Legal Aid Exists — But Not Equally
There’s a provision in Indian law that promises legal support to poor women — yet awareness
remains minimal.. But who tells them that?
In many villages, women are still unaware that such support even exists. And even when they
know, the system often intimidates them. Procedures are complex. Forms are in English. Legal
aid lawyers are overburdened, underpaid, and not always sensitized to gender realities.
In one village, a woman asked me quietly, “Will someone like me even be allowed to stand in
court?” Her voice shook — not because of fear of the law, but fear of being humiliated, ignored,
or misunderstood.
We don’t just need more policies. We need policies with heart.
Public Policy Must Walk with the Law. Here’s what I’ve learned: justice isn’t delivered by courts alone. It requires a symphony — of laws, policies, grassroots workers, legal aid, and most importantly, trust. If public policy truly wants to empower rural women, here’s where it must begin:
Awareness as a right: Every Panchayat should have a monthly legal awareness day — focused especially on women’s rights.
Decentralized legal aid: We need more female paralegals and legal clinics in remote areas — not just in district courts.
Implementation audits: When courts pass orders in PILs, there must be local follow-up
committees to track action.
Language and dignity: Legal processes must speak the language of the people — literally and culturally.
The Woman Who Changed My Thinking
There’s one woman I can’t forget. Her name was Kamla. She was part of a community displaced due to illegal mining in a tribal area near Jodhpur. When I spoke to her about the PIL filed on their behalf, she looked me in the eye and asked, “Kya nyay sirf kagaz par hota hai? (Is justice only something written on paper?)”
That question still echoes in my mind.
Kamla wasn’t asking for a revolution. She was asking for dignity. For a policy that doesn’t just
mention her, but reaches her.
Conclusion: The Justice We Owe Her
As a law student and a public policy enthusiast, I often find myself caught between two worlds
— the clean, ordered world of statutes and judgments, and the messy, real world of women like
Kamla. The more time I spend in this space, the more I realize: our job is not to choose one over the other, but to bridge them.
PIL gave India hope. But without effective policy delivery, it risks becoming just another symbol — powerful, but distant. If we truly want women in rural India to experience justice, we must go beyond passing laws. We must build systems that listen, walk, and act
About the Contributor
I am a law student and a fellow of the LPPYF Cohort 5 at IMPRI. I have volunteered with the
Rajasthan State Legal Services Authority (RLSA), where I worked on legal awareness initiatives and engaged with grassroots realities of justice delivery. I am also a University Gold Medalist in B.A. (Hons.) History. My interest lies in the intersection of law, policy, and gender justice.
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