On a warm Wednesday morning, May 21, the highest temple of justice in the land— the Supreme Court of India— chose to perform a familiar ritual. A petition seeking a First Information Report (FIR) against Justice Yashwant Varma was swiftly swept aside, not because the allegations weren’t serious, but because, as it turns out, the petitioners hadn’t first written formal love letters to the President and the Prime Minister.

The petition, filed by Advocate Mathews J. Nedumpara and three others, was linked to disturbing claims: that bundles of illicit cash had been recovered from the official residence of Justice Varma following an in-house inquiry. Yet, the guardians of justice found more fault in the petitioner’s paperwork than in the possible misconduct of one of their own.

Presiding over the matter, Justice Abhay S. Oka and Justice Ujjal Bhuyan didn’t blink at the nature of the allegations. Their attention lay firmly on the fact that the matter had already reached the desks of two of the most powerful people in the country. The Chief Justice of India, they explained, had taken the magnanimous step of forwarding the report of the in-house inquiry, along with Justice Varma’s response, to the President and Prime Minister.

The court’s reasoning? “Since the petitioners have not filed a representation before the President and the Prime Minister seeking action, the writ petition seeking mandamus is not maintainable.” One might think that in a country where the judiciary claims to be the last refuge of justice, a matter this serious would be acted upon, not stalled behind a bureaucratic etiquette lesson.

Other pleas in the petition—like challenging the Veeraswami judgment, which sanctifies in-house inquiries as the holy grail for handling judicial misconduct—were simply brushed aside. The bench concluded these “need not be considered at the present stage.”

Not now, not yet. Perhaps never.

As the matter opened, Justice Oka, addressing the petitioner Nedumpara, who stood alone and persistent, remarked with the certainty of an oracle:
“There was an in-house inquiry report. It has been forwarded to the President of India and the Prime Minister of India. So follow the basic rule. If you are seeking a writ of mandamus, you have to first make a representation to those authorities before which the issue is pending. Action has to be taken by the President and the Prime Minister.”

What followed was an admission as bizarre as it was revealing:
“We are not saying you cannot file. You don't know the contents of the report. We also don't know the contents of that report. You make a representation calling upon them to take action. If they don't take action, then you can come here.”

In this circus of due process, everyone is blindfolded—except the accused.

Still pressing forward, Nedumpara questioned the judicial crutch known as the Veeraswami judgment, under whose shelter judges cannot be criminally investigated without the express permission of the Chief Justice of India. A judge, then, must bless the prosecution of a fellow judge—an arrangement that smells more like fraternity than fairness.

Justice Oka calmly summarized the entire thrust of the petitioner’s plea:
“Ultimately, your main prayer is action should be taken against the concerned judge.” And then, as if closing a rulebook rather than weighing justice, he said:
“Please follow the basic rule while seeking the writ of mandamus.”

Nedumpara clarified further that this was not only a plea for mandamus. It was also a declaration that the discovery of cash from the judge’s chambers constituted a cognizable offence under the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita and the Prevention of Corruption Act, and that the police were, by law, duty-bound to register an FIR.

The bench’s response? Silence. “The bench did not entertain the matter further.”

According to the petitioners, the Chief Justice had forwarded the in-house inquiry report to the President and Prime Minister only after reportedly finding the allegations to be prima facie true. This is not rumor or gossip—it is the Judiciary’s own documentation. Yet, even then, the Supreme Court refused to allow a criminal investigation, effectively treating the judiciary like a sacred cow that must never be touched, no matter how strong the stench.

This is not the first time Nedumpara has tried. In March, he filed a petition against the then-ongoing in-house inquiry itself, asking instead for an open criminal probe. But at that time, the Supreme Court had deemed it “premature.” Their words then were clear: “At this stage, it will not be appropriate to entertain this Writ Petition.”

Now, when the inquiry is over, it’s not “premature”—just “procedurally invalid.”

How long must a fire burn before someone admits there’s smoke?

In this new petition, the petitioners mounted a strong argument: that the Veeraswami ruling, which demands prior approval of the CJI to even lodge an FIR against a sitting judge, is contrary to democratic norms and must be reconsidered. The courts have used this judgment like a cloak—a cover under which allegations simmer but never boil.

They also rightly argued that impeachment is not enough. Removing a judge from office might be a civil remedy, but when that same judge is found with questionable cash at his residence, penal consequences must follow. As the petition poignantly stated: when the accused is a judge, the gravity of the offence is far greater.

The petitioners also called for a full investigation—to identify who paid the alleged bribes, who benefitted, and which cases were compromised. But the doors remained shut, bolted by rules designed not for transparency, but for protection.

Let’s not forget the spark that ignited this controversy. On March 14, a fire broke out at Justice Varma’s official residence in Delhi. As flames engulfed a storeroom, large amounts of cash were discovered—some of it burnt, most of it unexplained. A few days later, on March 21, the Chief Justice of India formed a three-member committee to look into it, based on a report by Delhi High Court Chief Justice DK Upadhyay.

The committee’s report, along with Justice Varma’s response and related visuals, was published on the Supreme Court’s website—a move some hailed as transparency, though others saw it as a controlled release, carefully curated.

Then came the subtle choreography. On March 24, Justice Varma’s judicial work was quietly withdrawn by the Delhi High Court. The Supreme Court Collegium recommended his transfer to the Allahabad High Court, his original posting. A judge suspected of corruption was not suspended or investigated—he was transferred. A change of location, not a call for accountability.

Justice Varma has, of course, denied all wrongdoing. He insists it is all a conspiracy against him.

But the pattern is hard to ignore: An internal report hints at something serious. Fire, cash, inquiry. Then, silence, transfer, and excuses. While the public is asked to trust the system, the system spares no effort in protecting itself.

It seems in India, when it comes to judges judging other judges, even a pile of cash cannot speak loud enough. Only silence echoes in the courtroom.

Case No.: W.P.(C) No. 534/2025

Case Title: Mathews J Nedumpara and Ors. v. Supreme Court of India and Ors.