The air inside Delhi’s Karkardooma court felt thick as 17-year-old Aarav Sharma (name changed) stood in the witness box, shoulders stiff, hands trembling behind his back. His eyes searched the room anxiously until they found the one face that had stood by him through it all—Kritika (name changed), 16, sitting resolutely in the front row.
For six months, Aarav, a class 12 student and aspiring computer engineer, had been confined to an observation home. His father, a Delhi Transport Corporation bus driver, and his mother, a homemaker, had been running from pillar to post. His crime was a relationship that began like countless adolescent romances across India—quietly, awkwardly and inevitably.
But in India, under the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences (POCSO) Act, 2012, consent is irrelevant if one or both partners are under 18. Love, as many adolescents may define it, becomes a legal offence.
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Aarav’s world collapsed in August 2023 when Kritika’s parents, after discovering their WhatsApp chats, filed a complaint. The police arrived at his Mandawali home at 5am on August 17, waking the family to a nightmare they had never imagined.
Their romance began in late 2021 in a cramped tuition centre in East Delhi. Both lived within walking distance, three streets apart in Mandawali, a neighbourhood stitched together by narrow lanes, small flats and big ambitions. “They were two children trying to understand affection, not exploit it,” says Aarav’s lawyer Vikram Bhatia. “What they shared was mutual, voluntary and gentle, yet the law treated him like a predator.”
Their world crumbled when Kritika’s mother scrolled through her chats. Her parents, both government-school teachers, saw disaster and filed a complaint. Within hours, Aarav was taken away and Kritika’s defence did not matter. Inside the juvenile home, Aarav suffered academically and emotionally. He missed board exams. His school expelled him. He fell into bouts of anxiety and silence. Kritika’s parents took away her phone, restricted her movements and eventually sent her to a hostel in Jaipur.
In February 2024, the court acquitted Aarav, noting the romantic nature of the relationship and the girl’s consistent testimony.
By then, their relationship had collapsed under the weight of the trial. They no longer speak to each other. Aarav and Kritika’s story is not an exception; it is part of a rising trend. “One in four POCSO cases today involves consensual adolescent relationships,” says Delhi-based criminal lawyer Richa Sharma, who has represented several such defendants. She adds that parents use POCSO to control their children, especially in inter-caste or inter-faith relationships, turning the law into a weapon rather than a shield.
Kavya, 16, and Sasi, 17, children of textile mill workers, ran away when Kavya’s parents arranged her engagement. A POCSO case followed. Sasi spent nine months in custody. Kavya attempted self-harm twice. Both dropped out of school.
Pratik, 18, was arrested because his girlfriend was only 17. Both were preparing for NEET. A disapproving uncle filed the complaint. The case was eventually dismissed, but both suffered anxiety and depression.
Sheetal Shinde
India’s age of consent debate cannot be separated from the country’s social anxieties around teenage sexuality. Unlike many western democracies where teenage autonomy is acknowledged, Indian society continues to operate within caste boundaries, strict parental authority, notions of female purity, community reputation and fears of gossip.
Parents expect teenagers to excel academically, but deny them emotional independence. Sheetal Shinde, who teaches at BITS Law School, Mumbai, says digital exposure has made young people aware of their sexuality and that punishing them for exploring it creates moral contradictions. The assumption that Indian teenagers remain sexually inactive is a cultural myth rather than reality. Sociologists argue that criminalising adolescent intimacy does not curb it; it merely pushes it online, underground and into unsafe spaces.
India’s current framework is shaped by the Justice J.S. Verma Committee, formed after the 2012 Nirbhaya gang rape. The committee retained the existing age of 18 for classifying someone as a juvenile and emphasised stronger protections for children from sexual violence. Senior advocate Indira Jaising, amicus curiae in the Supreme Court in the ongoing case involving the age of consent, told the court that India criminalised adolescent intimacy in a way most democracies do not and that the law must differentiate between exploitation and affection. Adds law student Mishthi Jain, “The law collapses the difference between love and assault. That is neither just nor realistic.”
Most countries follow calibrated systems. In the United Kingdom, Australia and Canada, the age of consent is 16 with close-in-age exemptions; in France and Germany it is 15 to 16; in Canada it is 14 to 15 if the partner is less than five years older. India’s rigid 18-year threshold, without exceptions, is among the strictest globally.
The 283rd Law Commission Report declined to reduce the age of consent but did recommend close-in-age exemptions, diversion through counselling instead of prosecution and judicial discretion. Shinde says the law must protect children from predators rather than punish natural curiosity.
Still, many child-rights advocates and policymakers warn that lowering the age bar could have dangerous consequences in a society still grappling with gender inequality, early marriage and sexual violence. India’s socio-economic landscape remains deeply unequal. Millions of girls are married before 18 despite laws prohibiting it, and poverty often drives families to treat daughters as economic burdens. In such settings, lowering the age of consent could be weaponised by older men and traffickers, exploiting young girls under the guise of consensual relationships. In submissions to the Supreme Court, authorities, too, offered similar reasons for holding firm at 18, such as fear of legitimising child marriage, risk of older men exploiting younger girls, challenges in rural areas with strong patriarchal norms and difficulty for police in assessing genuine consent.
The Law Commission’s report echoed this caution, warning that reducing the age from 18 to 16 could have a direct and negative effect on the fight against child marriage and trafficking. It also observed that enforcement agencies might struggle to differentiate between consensual and coerced sex in rural or patriarchal settings where power imbalances are pronounced.
Legal scholars, however, argue that India’s blanket 18-year rule reflects moral paternalism rather than evidence-based policy. By contrast, the empowerment approach recognises adolescents as capable of evolving judgment and emotional maturity. Reform does not mean abandoning protection. It means recalibrating it, ensuring that the law distinguishes between predation and consent. Several reforms could achieve this, such as close-in-age exemptions to decriminalise consensual sexual activity between adolescents aged 16 to 18, judicial discretion allowing courts to evaluate intent, coercion and context before criminalising, and stronger safeguards against trafficking, grooming and child marriage so that genuine exploitation remains punishable. “A close-in-age exception will not weaken protection, it will make it fairer. The law has to grow with society, not freeze teenagers in time,” says law student Sarah Joby, stressing that revisiting the statute is essential if India wants to balance protection with evolving social realities.
Such a framework would align India’s law with constitutional values and contemporary social realities, recognising that sexuality and maturity evolve along a spectrum rather than a calendar date. Ultimately, the age of consent debate is not just about legal thresholds; it is about the kind of society India aspires to be. A society that treats young people as informed individuals capable of responsible choices, or one that continues to infantilise them under the guise of morality. “Law cannot be the moral policeman of teenage love,” says Shinde. “Its role is to protect, not to punish natural curiosity.”