Not long ago, I was speaking to a friend about how, as a blind person, even something as simple as going to the park for an evening walk feels like a privilege. The absence of tactile paths, human assistance, and basic accessibility features turns a park—a symbol of leisure for many—into a space of exclusion. My friend, who is able-bodied, responded with genuine surprise: “I didn’t even think that could be a problem.” That remark, though innocent, points to something deeper. It reveals a structural ignorance embedded in our social consciousness—an erasure that extends beyond conversation into policy, technology, and institutions. This erasure was recently exposed in Pragya Prasun v. Union of India, where two petitioners—a visually impaired person and an acid attack survivor—challenged the inaccessibility of digital KYC systems. Requirements like blinking for live photos or submitting handwritten signatures excluded them from essential services such as banking, telecom, pensions, insurance, and government schemes. These were not technical bugs—they were systemic barriers that violated fundamental rights under Article 21 of the Constitution and the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (RPwD) Act, 2016, which mandates reasonable accommodation for persons with disabilities (PwDs).

The Court recognised this for what it is—a denial of dignity in a digital age. It ruled that when digital access becomes essential to life and welfare, it must be made inclusive. It ordered sweeping changes: The Reserve Bank of India must allow alternative ways to verify ‘liveness’; thumb impressions must be accepted; paper-based KYC must remain available; and digital systems must comply with global accessibility standards. The Court also called for accessibility audits, involvement of disabled users in testing platforms, dedicated grievance systems, and disability sensitisation training for staff. In both scope and spirit, the ruling reinforces that inclusion is not charity—it is a constitutional obligation.

Yet, here lies the real problem. The law did its job. The judiciary demanded structural change. But enforcement continues to falter—not because the rules are unclear, but because we lack a regulatory culture that sees accessibility as essential.

This becomes stark when compared to how other sectors treat violations. Under the Digital Personal Data Protection Act, 2023, companies can face penalties up to 250 crore rupees for breaches. The SEBI Act imposes fines up to ₹25 crore for market manipulation. The Companies Act penalises financial irregularities in crores. The Environmental Protection Act fines industries ₹15 lakh for pollution, with an added ₹50,000 for each day the offence continues.

Now consider the RPwD Act—India’s primary disability rights law. It imposes just ₹10,000 for first-time violations and caps fines at ₹5 lakh even for repeat offenses. Even a continued denial of accessibility can cost less than a missed compliance filing. What does this tell us? That disability rights are not viewed as essential—they are treated as optional, secondary to development goals rather than foundational to justice. It shows that institutions, even with the right legal tools, do not yet treat accessibility as a priority. Because compliance does not come from rules alone—it comes from what we value.

This brings us to a deeper question: What kind of law is the RPwD Act meant to be? Justice R Mahadevan, in a landmark ruling, called it a “super statute”—a law that, while legislative in form, deserves the status and seriousness of a constitutional principle. He emphasised that disability rights are not acts of welfare but expressions of equality, dignity, and non-discrimination.

This idea echoes the work of legal scholars William Eskridge and John Ferejohn, who define a super statute as one that establishes a new public norm, gains lasting legitimacy, and reshapes legal frameworks over time.

On paper, the RPwD Act checks many boxes. It creates a rights-based framework for disability, mandates reasonable accommodation—practical and tailored adjustments to ensure equal access—and aligns Indian law with international standards.

Yet in practice, implementation remains shallow. Penalties are minimal. Institutions rarely treat its objectives as core to their mission. The Act remains more of a promise than a force. Instead of transforming how systems work, it is too often reduced to a gesture of goodwill. Until the RPwD Act is taken seriously—not just in courts, but in schools, offices, and design boards—it will remain a super statute in theory but a paper right in reality.

To truly make the RPwD Act what it claims to be, we need a shift where inclusion is proactive, not reactive. Where accessibility is built into the first sketch of a park, a website, or a classroom—not added as an afterthought under judicial pressure.

This shift will only happen when exclusion comes with real costs—legal, financial, and reputational. But the deeper work is cultural. We need a society that does not ask ‘why do we have to make this accessible?’ but instead asks ‘Why would we not?’ That is how law will become lived reality and myself and millions like me will be able to access everything ranging from parks to paperwork, without litigating for it.

This article is authored by Anchal Bhatheja, mission accessibility consultant and research fellow, Vidhi Centre for Legal Policy, New Delhi.