Panchaatige & Paathera: Law and Justice in Bunt Society

In a matrilineal world where memory was law and wisdom held court, justice wasn’t written—it was spoken, trusted, and lived.

My grandmother had seven brothers. One survives. Of them, the one second from the youngest was my favourite growing up. Maybe because he was the most I spoke to—one of the few still alive when I was born. Once, I sat with him to discuss something legal. I can’t recall the exact issue, but I remember walking away awestruck by his clarity and sense of fairness. He didn’t raise his voice. He just reasoned.

On our way home, my grandmother said, “Jayaram Ajja, like his maternal uncle, was known for Panchaatige.”

Panchaatige ( translated to the process of mediation and providing resolution) wasn’t just mediation—it was an institution. A person revered for their fairness, wisdom, and ability to weigh complex matters without bias would be called upon to resolve disputes outside the court system. Their final word was the paathera (word). It wasn’t notarised, stamped, or sealed. It simply had weight—because it came from them. Their word was their bond.

And this wasn’t reserved for men alone. Gurkaardis (matriarchs), Guthinaare (those from reputable houses), Yajamanas and Yejamaandis—people divinely or hereditarily entrusted to lead—were often called to sit Panchaatige.

In older times, these elders sat on wooden chairs in the verandahs of large ancestral homes. All feudal lords who watched over land, villages, and families. Their courts weren’t courtrooms but porticos shaded by tiled roofs and ancestral memory. Whether it was a quarrel over Kambala bulls or a matter as grave as inheritance division, the paathera was binding.

And when human judgment failed, divine judgment was sought through Bhoota Kola.

As Bunts migrated during the exodus to Bombay, Madras, Bangalore, England, Dubai, and the US, Sanghas—community associations—were formed. These weren’t legal bodies, but they retained the habit of quiet leadership. A man or woman of repute—regardless of profession—could be sought for advice and arbitration.

Before a marriage, when maternal uncles from both sides met to discuss dowry or division of costs, a person known for sitting Panchaatige would preside. This was no casual conversation; it was the shaping of a family alliance. The role wasn’t just about arbitration—it was about guidance. They were marriage counsellors, financial advisors, family therapists, and judges, all rolled into one.

This system was embedded in the matrilineal fabric of Bunt society. The maternal uncle was the decision-maker in the marriage of his niece—not the father. His detachment from inheritance gave him credibility. He had no claim to her dowry, nor was he vying to pass on land to his own children. He made decisions for his sister’s child with no agenda but care.

Here, kinship and justice meet at a sociological crossroads. Structural-functionalism views such systems as crucial in maintaining the equilibrium of a society—one where every role serves a function. The maternal uncle’s authority wasn’t arbitrary; it was systemic, embedded in roles that distributed power to sustain social order.

We can also examine Panchaatige through the lens of Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of social capital and symbolic power. Those called to deliver paathera wielded cultural legitimacy. Their influence wasn’t mandated by a state but earned through repeated demonstrations of trustworthiness, discretion, and discernment. The legitimacy of their voice was accumulated capital—capital that held sway over families, decisions, and futures.

Similarly, the habitus—those ingrained dispositions of Bunt culture—normalised justice as reputational, not contractual. A child learned that fairness was not just about rules but about relationships. That honour wasn’t something you claimed but something given to you by others, repeatedly, until it formed a social body of belief.

Bunts who grew up around such people naturally developed a knack for the law and, more importantly, judgment. Out of the lawyers we studied who pursued law as a profession between the 1970s until the early 2000s, 84.23% of them were at some point influenced or grew up around someone who was known for sitting panchaatige.

Karnataka, Maharashtra, and Tamil Nadu—the three states that had the most population of Bunts—showed a spike in lawyers with Bunt-associated last names. From Justice KS Hegde, whose son Lokayuktha N. Santosh Hegde was also widely popular, to the two well-known Hon'ble Judges K. Jagannath Shetty's—one K representing Kedambady and the other representing Kalmanje and also Justice Vishwanath Shetty.

Panchaatige became a way of life. Even Bunts, who didn’t formally study law, became fluent in the ethics of it. Businessmen were expected to show a kind of everyday justice. A hotelier wouldn’t charge for a meal a customer was unhappy with—not for the review, but because it was just. If someone was injured on their property, the owner bore medical costs—not for liability, but because it was right.

This sense of justice was personal, and its vocabulary vast. Tulu, as I’ve written before, is richer in transactional language than romantic sentiment. A Bunt rarely arrives at a home empty-handed. A bottle of wine, a box of sweets, a basket of fruit—it’s not just etiquette; it’s balance. A justice of presence.

There’s also the concept of runa—debt. But not monetary debt. A Bunt may or may not repay a bank loan (let’s be honest), but a favour? A helping hand? That will be returned. This is a different kind of currency. One that circulates in relationships. When someone does not acknowledge runa, they’re not punished with paperwork. They’re punished with silence. A quiet distance, a sliver of slander, an absence from gatherings.

Those who sat Panchaatige were often the moral centre of a family or society. To ignore their paathera wasn’t to break a rule. It was to lose your place.

The behavioural economist might call this an informal institution of reciprocity. When norms are internalised deeply enough, you don’t need law; you need loss aversion. What is feared is not penalisation but exclusion. The threat of being left out—from conversation, ritual, kinship—is what keeps the wheels of this moral economy turning.

Take divorce, for example. Before the courts ever got involved, a woman in distress would often be taken to the family's matriarch —the eldest matriarch or divine mother-figure in the house. If she couldn't solve the issue, a Panchaatige would be called. Not to dissolve the marriage, but to rebalance the harm, to offer space for dignity, and sometimes, to quietly agree to separation without spectacle. Justice here was not about public settlements but private healing.

Before colonisation, divorce was not a taboo in Bunt society, and there was no stigma attached to it. The Epic of Siri itself rooted Bunt culture in second marriages. However, even then, to prevent divorce, there was often a Panchaatige—a mediation before relationships were broken, grounded in the belief that no one should rush into such decisions. This was particularly important because of the age at which many were married.

My great-grandmother, Daaramma, was said to have been 13 when she got married and 14 when she had her first son. With their frontal lobes not yet fully developed, decisions made at such a young age were often hasty, impulsive, and, at times, irrational. The Panchaatige served as a space to intervene and find solutions, to provide a layer of wisdom from those who had lived through such experiences, helping to navigate those challenges before a rash decision was made. The wisdom passed down through these elders wasn’t just about preserving tradition—it was about protecting the individual from themselves, ensuring that the choices made at such a vulnerable age were well considered and guided by collective wisdom.

Today, this system is disappearing. In many places, it’s already gone. Families are nuclear. Elders are no longer deferred to. Courts are slow, expensive, and deeply procedural. And even within families, disputes have gone legal.

Where Panchaatige once resolved everything from land disputes to fish fights (yes, one mother once dragged her kids to the Gurkaardi because they argued over which piece of fish was bigger), we now see families splinter in silence—or lawsuits.

Once, my grandfather made my cousin and me shake hands after a brawl over a lost watch. I still insist he lost it. It’s unresolved. But we shook hands.

What has been lost is not just an institution but the people who carried its wisdom and the culture that made space for that kind of justice. The modern legal system may resolve matters, but it doesn’t always restore peace.

Panchaatige wasn’t about winning. It was about returning. To understanding. To harmony. To each other.

It was lyrical, not litigious. It was reputational, not recorded. It was a song of social trust—a delicate balance between memory and morality.

And now, with its silence, a question remains:

When justice leaves the home, where does peace go?

From a sociological perspective, the Panchaatige and Paathera system in Bunt society offers rich insights into the function of informal justice, social cohesion, and the intricate webs of kinship that sustain a community. The figures who presided over Panchaatige were not merely mediators but wielded social capital—an authority that was cultivated through trust, fairness, and discernment over time. Their legitimacy was not granted by the state but by the community’s collective recognition of their wisdom, demonstrating the power of symbolic capital as explained by Pierre Bourdieu.

In a world that has increasingly shifted towards formalized legal systems and bureaucratic methods of dispute resolution, the traditional role of the Panchaatige as an institution of trust and community-based justice seems both quaint and deeply meaningful. This shift is exemplified in Emile Durkheim's structural-functionalism, where the function of such systems is to maintain social order and cohesion. The maternal uncle as a decision-maker reveals an intricate balance of kinship, family dynamics, and gender roles, encapsulating Talcott Parsons’ views on the role of family structures in society.

The practice of reciprocity in Bunt society, demonstrated through concepts like runa, can be understood through the lens of Georg Simmel’s theory of social interaction, where mutual exchanges are the currency that binds individuals together. Moreover, G.H. Mead's concept of the social self aligns with the importance of recognition in maintaining one’s place within the community. The idea that the greatest punishment is exclusion—being distanced from familial gatherings and social events—highlights the significance of social networks and the emotional weight of loss aversion, a concept from behavioral economics.

The moral economy of the Bunt community illustrates that justice was not about rigid legal contracts but about maintaining the balance of relationships—an approach that stems from deeply ingrained cultural memory. Maurice Halbwachs' concept of cultural memory is evident here, as the practice of Panchaatige was passed down generationally, fostering a collective identity rooted in shared practices, trust, and respect.

Max Weber’s theory of the transition from traditional authority to legal-rational authority speaks to the broader societal shift away from these informal justice systems towards more bureaucratic, state-enforced mechanisms. While the legal system may resolve disputes, it doesn’t always restore the peace and harmony that was a hallmark of Panchaatige. This transition reflects the complex dance between modernity and tradition, where the erosion of community-driven justice systems may come at the cost of the restorative and personal aspects of dispute resolution.

Disclaimer: There are many lawyers and Judges I may have failed to mention; don't sue me!

P.S. Some of the lawyers that shaped my life who I have met or have known from a distance or up close:

1) Justice KS Hegde - He was not only just but also created educational opportunities like no other. I did not know him, but I have read extensively about him, and his anecdotal evidence is just amazing. I find no flaw.

2) Lokayuktha Justice Nitte Santosh Hegde - I have sat through his speeches in person and have known people close to me who have known him, and he is an inspiration.

3) MJ Alva - an uncle who listened to endless questioning about law and who I look up to

4) Perody Shivaji Shetty

5) A. Shetty - a childhood friend who is this amazing lawyer- and I'm rooting for her.