When power distorts the scales of justice

Thirukkural with the Times explores real-world lessons from the classic Tamil text ‘Thirukkural’. Written by Tamil poet and philosopher Thiruvalluvar, the Kural consists of 1,330 short couplets of seven words each. This text is divided into three books with teachings on virtue, wealth, and love and is considered one of the great works ever on ethics and morality. The Kural has influenced scholars and leaders across social, political, and philosophical spheres.

Motivational speaker, author and diversity champion Bharathi Bhaskar explores the masterpiece.

Thagudhi Enavonru Nanre; Pagudhiyaal
Paarpattu Ozhugap Perin.”
(Thirukkural 111)

“To treat all — enemies, strangers, and friends — with equal fairness, is the highest virtue.”

Thiruvalluvar envisioned a world where justice was a balance beam, not a weapon — where the ruler, the ruled, and even the voiceless stood on equal ground. But what happens when power begins to decide what is right?

The following quote, often misattributed as a dialogue by Marlon Brando in the movie The Godfather, has always stayed with me:

“When you hold a gun and I hold a gun, we can talk about law. If you hold a knife and I hold a knife, we can talk about rules. If we both are empty handed, we can talk about reason. But if you have a gun and I only have a knife, then the truth lies in your hands. The concepts of law and rules hold meaning only when they rest on equality.”

It is a chilling reflection — that law has meaning only when force stands equal. Fiction or not, it mirrors reality uncomfortably well.

In a case that drew significant public attention, the wealthy accused in a fatal BMW car crash in Delhi was reportedly taken to a distant hospital where her father was a director, instead of a nearby one.

Power dislikes being questioned. In a society divided between the powerful and the powerless, rules stop being rules — they become tools for the strong and chains for the weak.

I was reminded of this fragile balance a few years ago during a visit to London. Our team was invited for lunch by a wealthy business magnate who later offered to drop us at Heathrow airport. When we stepped outside, a gleaming black Rolls Royce stood waiting — my first ride in one.

At Heathrow, where vehicles are allowed to halt barely for a minute, our chauffeur parked calmly, helped us unload, and even offered to walk us inside. I asked, “Won’t the police fine you for waiting here?” He smiled politely and said nothing.

I realised how deeply power infiltrates even the most rule-bound societies. When money speaks, rules go silent.

And then my mind turned to a story from Periyapuranam — one that shows what justice once meant in our land.

In the 12th-century classic, among the 63 Nayanmaars stands Manu Needhi Cholan, a Chola king whose very name became a byword for righteousness. One day, the king’s son was driving his chariot when a calf darted across and was crushed under its wheels. The grieving mother cow went to the palace and rang the Aaraichi Mani — the bell of inquiry the king had installed to hear the cries of those wronged. It was the first time that bell had ever been rung.

The minister examined the case and cleverly shifted the blame, declaring that the calf was at fault for straying into the chariot’s path. But the king, the guardian of justice, refused such a convenient solution. “If a mother is grieving in my land, justice demands that I share her pain,” he said and ordered that his own son be given the same fate as the calf. The prince was executed — and legend says divine grace restored both the calf and the prince to life.

An ideal society indeed — where the voiceless and the mighty were treated as equals.

Today, such stories read like distant echoes. We have laws and law enforcement agencies— yet the truth still bends before status, wealth, or influence. Thiruvalluvar’s call for impartiality remains not merely a virtue, but a test of civilization itself.