terrorism under comprehensive definitions, and focuses on expeditious trials. The BNSS promises time-bound investigations, compulsory videography of searches, and greater reliance on technology. Amid growing crime complexities, these reforms appear both necessary and forward-looking.

Yet, the reality of the past year paints a far more complicated picture.

The most contentious change remains the expanded police powers, particularly regarding arrest, detention, and surveillance. Critics note that provisions such as extended police custody up to 90 days, vague definitions of “acts endangering sovereignty,” and widened search-and seizure authority risk tipping the balance too far in favour of the State. In a system where custodial violence is well-documented and conviction rates remain modest, empowering the police without equally strengthening accountability mechanisms is a dangerous bargain.

High Courts across the country have already flagged concerns. Several benches have questioned the ambiguity in definitions, the risk of overlapping offences, and the potential for misuse—especially against activists, journalists, and vulnerable communities. Lawyers practising in trial courts have also reported a transitional chaos: police officers unsure about procedure, prosecutors still adjusting to the new evidentiary standards, and judges issuing contradictory interpretations due to lack of uniform training.

Perhaps the most troubling theme of the past year has been the erosion of due process norms. While the government insists the new laws protect victims, criminal jurisprudence is built equally on protecting the accused from arbitrary state power. For example, the broadened power to take bodily samples without judicial oversight has raised alarms among constitutional scholars. So have clauses that allow police to issue electronic summons while placing the burden on citizens to prove non-receipt. There is a sense that procedural fairness—often the only shield for the powerless—has been overshadowed in the race to project efficiency.

On the ground, the implementation story is uneven at best. Some states have adapted quickly, investing in digital tools and training modules. Others are struggling with basic infrastructure shortfalls: lack of video-recording equipment, understaffed forensic labs, and police stations unable to meet the mandatory documentation requirements. The promise of a tech-driven justice delivery system cannot be fulfilled when half the country’s police stations still lack stable internet connectivity.

None of this is to deny that India needed criminal law reform. But reform cannot mean ignoring constitutional commitments. The Supreme Court, now hearing multiple petitions challenging the validity of key provisions, faces a historic responsibility. It must decide whether these laws reinforce democratic accountability or rewrite the criminal process in a manner that leaves citizens more exposed.

For a country that prides itself on the rule of law, the question before us is not merely technical. It is moral. A legal system that prioritises speed over fairness, power over protection, or optics over rights may appear efficient on paper but will fail its people in practice.

One year in, the new criminal laws stand at a crossroads. They can become instruments of justice—or tools of coercion. The outcome will depend not on the text alone, but on how firmly India insists that efficiency cannot come at the cost of liberty.