Nearly a decade after Mohammad Akhlaq was dragged from his home in Dadri, Uttar Pradesh, and lynched by a Hindu mob over false rumors that his family had consumed beef, the Indian state appears ready to deliver its final betrayal: absolution to his killers. In a move that reeks of political impunity and institutional surrender, the Uttar Pradesh government—under the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP)—has reportedly moved to withdraw the murder case against the accused. This is not merely legal maneuvering; it is moral bankruptcy. It is the state not just failing justice, but actively joining the mob.
Akhlaq’s murder in September 2015 sent shockwaves across the nation. A 52-year-old dairy worker and former soldier, he was bludgeoned to death and his teenage son seriously injured, all because of a WhatsApp-fueled rumor that beef—deemed taboo by many Hindus—was found in their refrigerator. Forensic reports later confirmed it was mutton, not beef. But truth mattered little. What mattered was the license to terrorize Muslims under the guise of “protecting cows” and “Hindu sentiment.”
In the immediate aftermath, then-Prime Minister Narendra Modi offered a belated condemnation. But over the years, the political ecosystem shifted—lynchings went from being condemned as “anti-national” to being tacitly tolerated, even glorified. Perpetrators were celebrated; victims were vilified. And now, the state is set to erase the crime altogether.
The withdrawal of the murder charges—reportedly under Section 302 of the Indian Penal Code—is not a procedural oversight. It is a deliberate signal: that killing a Muslim over suspicion, rumor, or prejudice carries no lasting consequence. That the life of a Muslim man is so disposable, even the legal record of his murder can be expunged.
This move exposes a dangerous trend: the systematic dismantling of accountability in hate crimes. The Uttar Pradesh government has already withdrawn several other cases linked to communal violence and anti-cow vigilantism, often citing “lack of evidence”—a convenient excuse when investigations are botched, witnesses intimidated, and political will absent. In Akhlaq’s case, despite the horrific nature of the crime and national outrage, the legal process has been marred by delays, political interference, and a lack of witness protection. Now, with the state itself moving to quash the case, justice doesn’t just stall—it’s strangled.
What message does this send to India’s 200 million Muslims? That their lives are not worth prosecuting for. That their grief is not worth acknowledging. That their citizenship is conditional—revocable at the whim of mob sentiment and state complicity.
And what does it say about the rule of law in India? That it bends not to evidence or morality, but to majoritarian politics. When a government withdraws a murder case not because the accused are innocent, but because they belong to the “right” community, it ceases to be a government of laws—and becomes an instrument of ethnic impunity.
The withdrawal of Akhlaq’s case is not just about one man or one family. It is about the soul of a nation. India once prided itself on being a secular democracy—a place where justice, however imperfect, was blind to religion. Today, that vision is being systematically dismantled. Each withdrawn case, each unpunished lynching, each politician who stays silent, chips away at the foundation of constitutional morality.
We cannot allow Akhlaq’s name to fade into the archive of forgotten atrocities. His death was not just a crime—it was a test of India’s conscience. And with this latest act of legal erasure, the state has failed that test.
If India is to reclaim its democratic dignity, it must do more than mourn victims like Akhlaq and Athar Hussain. It must punish their killers. It must protect their communities. And it must never let the law become a tool of vengeance—or of exoneration for the vengeful.
Because when the state jumps in to shield murderers, it doesn’t just abandon justice—it joins the lynch mob.
