When Falling in Love Becomes a Radical Act, Interfaith Marriage and the Erosion of Constitutional Freedoms
From Monalisa and Farman’s Kerala Wedding to Maharashtra’s Anti-Conversion Law, the Battle Over Personal Choice Intensifies
Monalisa Bhosle, the garland-seller at the Mahakumbh mela who went viral on social media, got married this week. Big deal? Well, yes, when you consider the name of the bridegroom: Farman Khan.
The wedding itself was unremarkable—two people in love, exchanging vows, beginning a life together. But in contemporary India, where interfaith marriage has become a political battleground, where “love jihad” theories have migrated from fringe conspiracy to state legislation, and where adult women’s choices are subject to scrutiny by families, communities, and governments, this marriage is anything but ordinary.
Monalisa, who says she is 18, claims her family was putting pressure on her to marry someone they had picked for her, which is why they sought safe haven in Kerala. Rajya Sabha MP A. Rahim, present at the wedding, said: “The couple has realised that they are safe only in Kerala where all their constitutional rights will be protected.”
The irony is layered. It was in Kerala where the high court in 2017 annulled the marriage of a 24-year-old Hadiya who had converted to Islam because she was too “weak and vulnerable” to decide for herself. It took a Supreme Court order to reverse that decision. It was also in Kerala where the “love jihad” theory, as yet unproven, was born two decades ago.
From rumour to legislation, what a long way we’ve come.
The Spread of Anti-Conversion Laws
This week, Maharashtra became the 13th state to clear a bill that mandates government permission to convert. Over half of India’s citizens now live in states where interfaith marriage is effectively banned not just by parental disapproval or vigilante bullying but by law.
The bill follows a now-familiar template: a 60-day notice to the government by the person who wishes to convert, and tough penalties including non-bailable jail terms of up to seven years. All states that introduce it make the same claim of protecting daughters. BJP MLA and minister Nitesh Rane sang the same refrain: “This bill will protect Hindu girls from love jihad.”
The language is carefully chosen. “Protection” suggests vulnerability. “Girls” infantilises adult women. “Love jihad” invokes a conspiracy theory that has been repeatedly debunked but continues to circulate in political discourse. The combination is powerful: it casts the state as a protective father figure, intervening to save naive daughters from predatory outsiders.
But where does protection end and infantilisation of adult women begin? The right to privacy and to make choices is guaranteed by the Constitution. This must include the right to make choices that others might consider bad or unwise. Hadiya’s marriage ended in divorce, and Monalisa certainly has a knack for making news. But these are their decisions, upheld by Supreme Court precedent.
The Constitutional Framework
The Supreme Court has repeatedly affirmed the right of adults to marry whom they choose. In Lata Singh v. State of Uttar Pradesh, the Court ruled: “Once a person becomes a major he or she can marry whosoever he/she likes.” This is not a qualified right; it is absolute. Age of majority confers autonomy.
In the Shakti Shalini judgment, the Court recognised the threat to couples from their own families when it passed orders to prevent “honour” killings, including directing the provision of safe houses. The Court understood that for many couples, the greatest danger comes not from strangers but from those closest to them—parents, siblings, community members who cannot accept a choice that crosses caste or religious lines.
The right to privacy, affirmed as a fundamental right in the Puttaswamy judgment, further buttresses the autonomy of individuals in their most personal decisions. If privacy means anything, it means the freedom to choose one’s life partner without state surveillance and interference.
Yet these constitutional protections are being gradually eroded by state legislation that presumes to know better than adult citizens what is in their interest.
The Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh High Court Interventions
Petitions challenging these anti-conversion laws have been pending in the Supreme Court since 2020. Until then, separate judgments from various high courts carry some glimmer of hope.
The Gujarat High Court struck down an assumption in law that religious conversions for marriage are necessarily fraudulent. This is a crucial intervention. By removing the presumption of fraud, the Court restores the possibility that a conversion might be genuine—a product of sincere belief rather than deception.
In Madhya Pradesh, the High Court went further, holding that a notice period and declaration to a magistrate before converting violated the fundamental right to privacy. Requiring individuals to announce their intentions to the state, to wait for state permission, to submit to state scrutiny of their most personal decisions—this, the Court recognised, is incompatible with constitutional guarantees.
These judgments are important, but they are not final. The Supreme Court will ultimately decide the constitutionality of these laws. Until then, couples in different states face different legal regimes, different levels of scrutiny, different risks.
The Radical Act of Love
In a country where 95 per cent of marriages, according to the India Human Development Survey, are still arranged by families in accordance with caste and faith, where murders are committed in the name of family honour, and where even the inter-mingling of girls and boys is frowned upon, the simple act of falling in love can be a radical if not dangerous act.
Love marriages cross boundaries that arranged marriages typically respect. They are choices made by individuals rather than families. They represent the assertion of personal autonomy against collective control. In a society structured around family, community, and tradition, this assertion is inherently challenging.
When love crosses religious lines, the challenge intensifies. It threatens the boundaries that communities have constructed to maintain their identity and cohesion. It raises questions about children, about inheritance, about belonging. It forces communities to confront the possibility that their members might choose to leave.
The state’s response—through anti-conversion laws, through parental consent requirements, through surveillance and penalties—is an attempt to reinforce these boundaries, to make it harder for individuals to cross them. It is the state aligning itself with conservative social forces against individual autonomy.
The Kerala Paradox
Kerala’s role in this story is paradoxical. It was in Kerala that the “love jihad” theory was born two decades ago. It was in Kerala that the High Court annulled Hadiya’s marriage, calling her “weak and vulnerable.” Yet it is also in Kerala that Monalisa and Farman sought refuge, believing their constitutional rights would be protected.
This paradox reflects the complexity of Indian society. Progressive and regressive currents coexist, sometimes in the same institution, sometimes in the same person. The Kerala High Court that ruled against Hadiya is the same institution that has issued progressive judgments on other issues. The state that gave birth to “love jihad” conspiracy theories is also the state with the highest literacy, the strongest left political tradition, the most developed civil society.
Monalisa’s choice to go to Kerala suggests that, despite everything, the state retains a reputation for tolerance. Whether that reputation is deserved in practice, for couples like hers, remains to be seen.
What Is at Stake
Queer feminist activist and educator Chayanika Shah warns of dangerous portents: “This is the State legislating against anyone who is seen as falling out of line.” The phrase captures what is at stake. These laws are not just about interfaith marriage. They are about conformity, about the state’s power to enforce social norms, about the limits of acceptable dissent.
When the state requires 60 days’ notice before conversion, when it mandates parental consent for marriage registration, when it presumes fraud in interfaith unions, it is asserting that some choices are not really choices at all—that individuals who make them must be either victims or predators.
This assertion denies the complexity of human motivation. People convert for many reasons: sincere belief, love, convenience, family pressure, personal exploration. To presume fraud in every case is to ignore this complexity. To require state scrutiny of every conversion is to treat all converts as potential criminals.
It also denies the reality of power within families. When the state requires parental consent, it empowers parents who may be abusive, controlling, or simply opposed to their child’s happiness. It sides with family authority against individual autonomy. In a society where family honour killings still occur, this alignment is dangerous.
The Path Forward
Petitions challenging these laws have been pending in the Supreme Court since 2020. The Court’s eventual ruling will determine whether these state-level restrictions survive constitutional scrutiny. The Court will have to weigh the state’s claimed interest in preventing fraud and protecting vulnerable individuals against the fundamental rights to privacy, autonomy, and equality.
The precedents are strong. Lata Singh, Shakti Shalini, and Puttaswamy all point toward protecting individual choice against both family and state interference. But precedents can be distinguished, limited, or overruled. The composition of the Court matters. The arguments of the parties matter. The broader political context matters.
Until the Court rules, couples like Monalisa and Farman will continue to navigate a patchwork of legal regimes, seeking safe havens where their choices will be respected. Some will find them; others will not. Some will face harassment, violence, even death. Others will build lives together, proving that love can survive the obstacles placed in its path.
Conclusion: The Personal Is Political
The marriage of Monalisa Bhosle and Farman Khan is, on one level, just two people starting their lives together. But in contemporary India, such a marriage cannot escape political meaning. It challenges the forces that seek to police the boundaries of community and faith. It asserts the primacy of individual choice against collective control. It claims the constitutional rights that are supposed to belong to every citizen.
Whether their marriage will flourish or founder, only time will tell. But their decision to marry, to seek refuge, to assert their rights—these are acts of courage in a society that makes such choices difficult and dangerous. They remind us that, for all the laws and theories and political rhetoric, love remains a radical act.
Q&A: Unpacking Interfaith Marriage and Anti-Conversion Laws
Q1: Who are Monalisa Bhosle and Farman Khan, and why is their marriage significant?
A: Monalisa Bhosle is a garland-seller who went viral at the Mahakumbh mela. Her marriage to Farman Khan is significant because it is an interfaith union in a country where such marriages face increasing legal and social obstacles. Monalisa claims her family pressured her to marry someone else, leading the couple to seek refuge in Kerala. Their wedding highlights the tension between individual choice and family/community control, and the varying levels of protection available in different states.
Q2: What are anti-conversion laws, and how many states have passed them?
A: Anti-conversion laws mandate government permission for religious conversions. They typically require a 60-day notice period to the government and impose tough penalties, including non-bailable jail terms of up to seven years, for violations. Maharashtra recently became the 13th state to pass such legislation, meaning over half of India’s citizens now live in states where interfaith marriage is effectively restricted by law. Proponents claim these laws protect women from “love jihad,” though the conspiracy theory remains unproven.
Q3: What has the Supreme Court said about the right to marry?
A: The Supreme Court has repeatedly affirmed the right of adults to marry whomever they choose. In Lata Singh v. State of Uttar Pradesh, the Court ruled: “Once a person becomes a major he or she can marry whosoever he/she likes.” In the Shakti Shalini judgment, it recognised the threat to couples from their own families and passed orders to prevent “honour” killings, including directing safe houses. The right to privacy, affirmed in Puttaswamy, further protects individual autonomy in personal decisions.
Q4: How have high courts ruled on anti-conversion laws?
A: While Supreme Court petitions challenging these laws have been pending since 2020, some high courts have issued favorable rulings. The Gujarat High Court struck down the presumption that religious conversions for marriage are necessarily fraudulent. The Madhya Pradesh High Court held that requiring notice and declaration to a magistrate before conversion violates the fundamental right to privacy. These judgments offer hope but are not final; the Supreme Court will ultimately decide constitutionality.
Q5: What is at stake in the debate over interfaith marriage?
A: At stake is the fundamental question of individual autonomy versus state and community control. Queer feminist activist Chayanika Shah warns these laws represent “the State legislating against anyone who is seen as falling out of line.” When the state requires notice periods, presumes fraud, or mandates parental consent, it treats adult citizens as incapable of making their own choices. In a society where 95% of marriages are still arranged by families according to caste and faith, and where “honour” killings occur, the simple act of falling in love across religious lines becomes a radical assertion of constitutional rights.
