The Empty Chair: Why I, a Member of the Bar, Joined the "Boycott"

 By: A Member of the Kerala High Court Advocates' Association

I am 58 years old and joined this noble profession in 1992. For over three decades, I have walked these corridors, and for the last 26 years, attending the Annual Day of our Association was a ritual I followed religiously. It was not just a function; it was a tradition of our professional family.

To an outsider, these events might have seemed amateurish, but to us, they were everything. The heart and soul of the evening was often a drama staged by the advocates themselves. These performances were certainly not "market-standard" productions, but we applauded them until our hands hurt and laughed aloud like children. The true celebration was never about the perfection of the act, but the shared joy in its making.

But this year, for the first time, I stayed home.

My absence was a silent protest. It was a personal decision born out of deep discomfort with the manner in which the program was arranged, particularly regarding the entry arrangements for the event. The sheer confusion evident on this single count was disheartening. I did not announce my decision; I did not canvas others. I simply wished for my dissent to be a quiet, personal choice, intending for it to die with me.

There were, of course, other recent occasions where I felt a similar discomfort. But in the past, I chose to look the other way, reasoning that the antics of the Association or a specific office bearer were not significant enough to warrant a reaction. I simply decided to ignore them.

However, that silence became impossible to maintain after I read reports in the media and subsequently obtained the letter sent by our President to the Hon’ble Chief Justice, about the empty chairs of the learned judges of the Court.

If the President is looking for a conspiracy to explain the empty chairs, he is looking in the wrong place. When the atmosphere of an organization becomes hostile to decorum, people of conscience—whether they sit on the Bench or practice at the Bar—independently reach the same conclusion: I cannot be a part of this.

I have taken the time to review the reference speeches he has delivered in the recent past. The criticism of the Bench in these speeches was explicit and, in my view, often out of place.

It forces me to ask: Why must such criticism be levied publicly during solemn occasions? There are ample administrative and private channels available to address grievances. When the President stands at the podium, he claims to represent me. He speaks in the name of the Association. But I must ask—were these scathing views democratically vetted before being aired? Did the General Body authorize these public admonishments?

The reality is that Judges are soft targets in this arena. While they may "roar" within the four walls of their courtrooms, they are institutionally handicapped when dealing with the media or responding to public statements. They cannot engage in a war of words on social media. Attacking them in a forum where they cannot respond is not an act of bravery; it is a breach of the fair play that we, as lawyers, are sworn to uphold.

In his letter, the President expresses "shock" at the absence of the Judges. He characterizes their absence as a "concerted action" and "unionisation". He asks a rhetorical question: "How can all 30 take the same decision at the same time?".

I am not a Judge. I do not belong to their "union." Yet, I took the same decision at the same time.

The President writes that we "cannot just give lip service to... 'first generation advocates'". He positions himself as the defender of the common lawyer. Yet, I look at the reality on the ground.

I am reminded of the subsidized lunch scheme—a vital support system for struggling lawyers initiated by a previous committee. Under the current leadership, the scheme was modified to require members to make a specific, formal request to the Association to claim the subsidy.

By forcing young lawyers to formally "apply" for food, the leadership stripped the scheme of its dignity. In this profession, where perception is power, no junior lawyer wants to go on record as being unable to afford lunch. Consequently, the scheme reportedly found no takers and was stopped.

The official narrative may cite a "lack of funds" or allegations of "misuse" to justify the modification and eventual cessation of this scheme. But I refuse to accept that.

I do not believe for a moment that the members of the High Court Advocates' Association are so poor that we cannot collectively afford to feed and support our younger colleagues in need. We have the resources. What we lacked, in this instance, was the empathy to do so with dignity.

My objection to the entry fee was never about the amount. As I said, this Bar is capable. My objection was to the chaotic and undignified manner in which it was implemented.

Initially, a fee was announced. Then, perhaps sensing resistance, it was declared free—but with a condition. To avail of this "free" entry, members were reportedly required to queue up before the Association office to collect a pass.

The image of learned friends, some with decades of standing, having to line up at an office counter to be granted permission to attend their own family gathering is deeply troubling. It reveals just how far the current office bearers have distanced themselves from the majority of the members. They seem to view themselves not as representatives of peers, but as administrators dispensing favors.

The expenses for an Annual Day are not an unachievable target for this Association. But even if they were, let us be clear: we do not need fanfare at the cost of self-respect. We would be far happier with a modest gathering where we stand tall, than a grand spectacle where we are made to queue. We can do without the lights and the stage; we cannot do without our dignity.

The Real Crisis: Professional Mortality

The President claims to fight for the junior members, but I implore him: do not champion them without understanding their real problems.

The "mortality rate" of young careers in this profession is alarmingly high. Bright young minds enter our halls only to leave in frustration because they lack the practical skills to survive.

Instead of picking fights with the Judiciary—which may win elections or cheap applause—the Association should be focused on the urgent needs of these juniors. We must understand that the "mortality rate" of young careers in this profession is alarmingly high. Bright young minds enter our halls only to leave in frustration because they lack the practical skills to survive, skills that law colleges simply do not teach.

We have ample opportunity to fill that gap. We could be training them to become skilled arbitrators, insolvency professionals, judicial officers, and—most importantly—good lawyers who can pay all their bills themselves. We could be equipping them with the tools to survive and thrive in a competitive market.

But to do that, we must change our mindset. We must stop asking them to stand in queues—whether it is for a subsidized meal coupon or a free pass to an Annual Day. That is not empowerment; that is charity. My plea to the leadership is this: Stop treating our juniors as people who need to be "fed" with small favors. Help them instead to become contributors to this Bar, rather than perpetual beneficiaries of its benevolence.

That is the work of a Bar Association. Manufacturing outrage against Judges and various sections of the Bar offers no career path for a junior lawyer; it only offers a political platform for the leadership.

Conclusion

The President describes the events of November 14, 2025, as a "self-inflicted wound on the Judicial Institution". I beg to differ. When we focus on performative wars rather than the survival of our juniors, the wound is on us.

Let no one mistake this dissent for an attempt to curry favor with the Bench. I have stood on my own feet in this profession since 1992, and I have no intention of seeking crutches now. I speak not to please the Judiciary, but because I refuse to remain silent while the dignity of this Bar is diminished.

The empty chairs at the Annual Day were not just a message from the Judges. They were a plea from the Bar: Stop the theatrics and start the work.