In India, whenever a crime happens, there is an immediate rush. Not for justice, not for facts, but to be the first. A race begins among news channels to break the story before anyone else, to flash the headline first, to grab maximum TRPs and pull in more viewers. In this race of numbers, views, and competition, something fundamental is forgotten. The incident they are covering is not a television drama. It is not content. It is a tragedy. It involves real people, real families, and real lives that are already broken in ways we can never fully understand. But somewhere between breaking news banners and prime-time debates, empathy gets lost.
News channels today do not just report facts; they perform them. Anchors don’t simply tell viewers what happened; they tell them what to think. The same statements are repeated again and again, the same clips are looped throughout the day, the same words are used with slightly different tones, until an opinion is formed not through evidence, but through repetition. And repetition is powerful. When we hear something often enough, it starts feeling like the truth, even if it isn’t fully proven.
The media is highly influential, especially in a country like India, where a large part of the population still relies on television news as their primary source of information. Many people trust news channels blindly. They assume that if it is being shown on national television, it must be true. This makes it very easy for media narratives to shape public opinion. Without reading charge sheets, without understanding legal procedures, without seeing actual evidence, people begin to judge. Social media adds fuel to this fire. Clips from debates are shared out of context, headlines are turned into Instagram reels, and WhatsApp forwards present opinions as facts.
The court, on the other hand, does not work this way. It cannot afford to. The justice system is slow, not because it is careless, but because it has to be careful. Courts are bound by procedure. They cannot form allegations just because something “looks suspicious” or because public sentiment demands quick answers. They have to examine evidence, question witnesses, analyse forensic reports, listen to both sides, and follow a structured legal process. This takes time. Sometimes weeks, sometimes months, sometimes even years. But this delay is not a weakness; it is necessary. Justice cannot be rushed without risking being wrong.
The problem arises because media and courts operate on completely different timelines. Media thrives on speed. The faster the headline, the better the rating. Courts thrive on accuracy. The slower and more detailed the process, the safer the outcome. But when the media starts acting like a parallel court, this balance collapses. Media trials begin where legal trials have barely started.
What makes this even more dangerous is the way stories are presented. News channels today use dramatic background music, aggressive taglines, emotionally loaded words, and confident anchors who speak as if the truth is already known. The storytelling is done in a way that forces viewers to choose sides. Someone is presented as the villain, someone as the victim, and the narrative is fixed very early on. Once this happens, changing public perception becomes almost impossible, even if the court later says otherwise.
As viewers, we are not neutral either. We all carry our own beliefs, biases, and assumptions. When the media presents a story, we subconsciously lean towards the version that matches what we already believe. This is why media trials are so effective. They don’t just create opinions; they reinforce existing ones. Slowly, without realising it, we stop asking questions and start accepting narratives.
One of the most disturbing examples of this in recent Indian history is the Rhea Chakraborty case following the death of actor Sushant Singh Rajput in 2020. What began as a tragic and complex case of mental health, death, and investigation soon turned into one of the most aggressive media trials the country has seen. Rhea Chakraborty was accused, judged, and declared guilty by news channels long before any court could do so.
Day after day, prime-time debates portrayed her as a criminal. Her character was dissected publicly. Her relationships, her lifestyle, her messages, and even her facial expressions were analysed on television. Words like “gold digger,” “witch,” and “manipulator” were openly used. Hashtags calling for her arrest trended daily. News channels conducted their own “investigations,” leaked selective information, and framed theories as facts. Background music played during debates made the coverage feel more like a crime show than a real case involving a young woman’s life.
What was often ignored was the lack of solid evidence. Agencies like the CBI, ED, and NCB conducted investigations, but the media had already decided the outcome. When Rhea was arrested in a drug-related case, it was projected as final proof of guilt, even though drug consumption charges are legally very different from murder allegations. Later, when multiple agencies failed to find evidence linking her to Sushant Singh Rajput’s death, the media quietly moved on. But the damage was already done.
Rhea Chakraborty spent weeks in jail, faced public hatred, online abuse, and social isolation. Her career was destroyed. Her mental health suffered. Even after courts and investigative agencies clarified that there was no evidence of murder, public opinion did not fully shift. This is the lasting impact of media trials. Courts may acquit, but society rarely forgets the label once it has been stamped.
Media trials do not just affect the accused. They affect the entire justice system. Witnesses can be influenced. Judges can face indirect pressure. Investigations can be diverted to satisfy public outrage rather than facts. Most importantly, the idea of “innocent until proven guilty” is completely erased. In media trials, people are guilty until proven innocent, and sometimes not even then.
As viewers, we also carry responsibility. Every time we click on sensational headlines, every time we share half-baked information, every time we participate in online hate, we strengthen this system. Media survives because it is consumed. TRPs rise because people watch. Outrage sells because outrage is rewarded.
Courts are not perfect. The media is not entirely evil. But when the media starts playing judge, jury, and executioner, justice becomes secondary to entertainment. A democracy cannot survive on noise alone. It needs patience, truth, and restraint.
The next time a crime becomes a prime-time drama, it might be worth pausing. Asking whether we are watching the news or consuming someone’s tragedy for entertainment. Because the court may take time to decide guilt, but the media has already decided something far more dangerous: who deserves public punishment.
Reference links:
- Rhea Chakraborty: How the media trial of a Bollywood actress blew up in smoke – BBC News
- Rhea Chakraborty’s Trial by Media Reflects Entrenched Misogyny – The Wire