Meghana Sri Lakshmi
The Indian Constitution enshrines a solemn promise of equality and non-discrimination in Articles 14 and 15, committing the nation to protect citizens equally before the law. Yet, feminist legal reforms in India often assume a uniform category of “women,” treating their experiences and needs as largely homogeneous. This simplification conceals the intricate diversity and structural inequalities that shape Indian women’s lives. In reality, Indian law protects some women better than others because it fails to recognize how caste, class, religion, and sexuality intersect with gender to create complex, layered forms of discrimination and exclusion. [1, 4]
The trajectory of feminist legal reform in India is marked by significant milestones such as the Vishaka Guidelines on sexual harassment [5], the Joseph Shine judgment decriminalizing adultery [7], and the Laxmi case addressing sexual violence [9]. These landmark achievements are often rightfully celebrated for advancing women’s rights. Yet, they predominantly reflect the realities of urban, Savarna (upper-caste) [2, 10], middle-class women, who have access to education, formal employment, and legal literacy. Feminist jurisprudence, ironically, often mirrors the very hierarchies it seeks to dismantle by centering an idealized figure of womanhood shaped by privilege and visibility.
This elite-centric lens has produced a skewed feminist legal discourse that systematically overlooks vast sections of Indian women, those in rural areas, working in informal economies, belonging to Dalit and Adivasi communities, religious minorities, and queer or transgender identities. [10, 11, 15] For these groups, gender-based violence cannot be disentangled from caste discrimination, economic deprivation, religious orthodoxy, or heteronormativity. As a result, feminist legal discourse remains partial and fragmented, offering protection that is unevenly distributed and often inaccessible to the most vulnerable. [18]
Historically, Indian feminism has evolved in conversation with both nationalist and postcolonial projects, which tended to prioritize the image of the “respectable woman” as the moral center of the nation [2]. Legal reform was often pursued through this narrow frame, protecting “women” as wives, mothers, and workers, while sidelining those who did not fit neatly into these roles. Even well-intentioned legislative interventions, from anti-dowry laws to workplace harassment regulations, have primarily been designed around women who occupy stable, middle-class, heteronormative spaces. [6] Those outside these boundaries, such as migrant laborers, sex workers, or queer and trans persons, remain peripheral to mainstream feminist imagination and, consequently, to legal protection. [12, 13, 18]
Kimberlé Crenshaw’s concept of intersectionality offers a crucial corrective lens for this imbalance. [4] Intersectionality reveals the invisibility endured by marginalized groups within both mainstream feminist and legal narratives, urging us to see that caste, class, religion, and sexuality are not additive but mutually constitutive in shaping how women experience oppression and access justice. In the Indian context, where identity itself is a deeply layered and socially embedded construct, this framework is not a theoretical luxury but a practical necessity. Without it, the law risks perpetuating precisely the exclusions it claims to remedy. [4, 12, 15]
The intertwining of caste and gender-based violence is starkly illustrated in cases such as the Hathras [23] and Khairlanji incidents [24]. In both, Dalit women’s bodies became sites of collective punishment, their assault a statement of caste dominance and patriarchal control. Yet mainstream feminist responses often failed to adequately address the caste dimension, reflecting the embedded upper-caste biases within India’s rights discourse [10, 15]. Religion further complicates this terrain. Muslim women, for instance, navigate patriarchal religious authority on one hand and state paternalism on the other, as seen in the Shayara Bano case challenging triple talaq [16]. Similarly, class continues to structure access to justice. The Protection of Women from Sexual Harassment (POSH) Act, for example, assumes a formal workplace equipped with internal committees and written complaints, conditions absent in the informal sector where most women actually work [21]. Sexuality, too, remains a decisive factor, as reflected in the aftermath of the NALSA judgment recognizing transgender rights but leaving social stigma and bureaucratic exclusion largely untouched [20].
The question then arises: have feminist law reforms truly broadened justice, or have they simply replicated middle-class norms under the guise of inclusion? The POSH Act and the Domestic Violence Act are instructive examples. The former, designed for corporate offices and universities, often excludes domestic workers, street vendors, and agricultural laborers. [21] The latter presupposes heteronormative family structures, leaving queer partnerships and non-traditional households inadequately protected [22]. Moreover, courts often interpret these laws through a narrow lens of “good womanhood,” valorizing ideals of domesticity, chastity, and silence, which restricts the contours of who is recognized as deserving protection and perpetuates stereotypes about women’s roles and behavior. [2, 17]
This pattern of exclusion reflects not genuine inclusion but a process of assimilation where marginalized women must fit within dominant societal paradigms rather than the law adapting to embrace plural realities. Without interrupting this cycle, feminist reforms risk perpetuating inequality by enforcing a one-size-fits-all model that neglects the profound diversities among Indian women. [1, 20]
To transcend these limitations, feminist legal thought must undergo a radical transformation grounded in intersectional principles [4, 12]. This begins with centering the lived experiences of women from marginalized communities such as Dalit, Adivasi, rural, queer, Muslim, and informal-sector workers, whose perspectives have historically been silenced [12, 14, 15, 17]. Legal reform must emerge through participatory processes that engage these women directly, ensuring the law is responsive to diverse realities rather than abstract ideals. Intersectionality also demands that data collection, jurisprudence, and legal education reflect the social complexity of India rather than reproducing elite biases. [4, 12]
Furthermore, diversifying the voices of those who interpret and enforce the law and increasing the representation of marginalized women within lawmaking, the judiciary, and legal academia is vital to building jurisprudence sensitive to intersectional oppression. Initiatives such as feminist judgment projects and intersectional legal clinics already demonstrate how alternative readings of law, rooted in lived experience, can challenge dominant frameworks and produce more inclusive outcomes. Expanding these efforts beyond urban, English-speaking circles could create transformative spaces for legal empowerment [12, 17, 18].
Importantly, it must be emphasized that intersectionality does not fracture or weaken feminism; rather, it enriches and deepens feminist struggles by attending to the specificity of oppression. This approach acknowledges that the quest for gender justice is inseparable from struggles against casteism, classism, religious discrimination, and heteronormativity. [12, 17] Intersectional feminism recognizes complexity without flattening it, producing legal insights and advocacy that are both nuanced and inclusive [4, 12].
Above all, equality before the law demands specificity, not sameness. The question “Who is the Indian woman?” resists any homogenous answer. It must be continually revisited and redefined whenever the law endeavors to protect her. As India’s social realities evolve, so must its feminist legal frameworks, ensuring that justice is not reserved for a symbolic or privileged few but extended to all women in their full, complex, intersectional diversity and circumstances. Only through this lens can Indian feminist jurisprudence truly fulfill the Constitution’s promise of equality and dignity for every woman.
References
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About the Contributor: Meghana Sri Lakshmi is a PhD student specializing in gender, law, and social justice. Her research focuses on feminist jurisprudence, intersectionality, and human rights
Disclaimer: All views expressed in the article belong solely to the author and not necessarily to the organisation.
Acknowledgement: This article was posted by Aashvee Prisha, a research intern at IMPRI.
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