This interview has been published by Anshi Mudgal and The SuperLawyer Team
What inspired you to pursue a career in law? Was there a defining moment or personal experience that influenced your decision to enter the legal field?
I wasn’t always drawn to law. As a child, I was more interested in creative pursuits, exploring stories and ideas rather than legal principles. But over time, I found myself captivated by how law shapes society and protects individuals. One pivotal moment was when I witnessed a close family friend navigate a complex legal issue. Seeing how the right legal guidance could change someone’s life made me realize the profound impact of this field. That experience planted the seed of curiosity, and the more I learned, the more I saw law as not just a set of rules, but a way to advocate, solve problems, and create meaningful change. What started as a passing interest grew into a true passion, and today, that commitment to justice is what drives my legal career.
Early in your career, what experiences significantly shaped your understanding of legal practice? Could you share any pivotal moments or cases that contributed to your growth as a trial lawyer?
Early in my career, I was fortunate to be mentored by Senior Advocate Mr. Ajay Burman after graduating in 2011. Under his guidance, I learned the nuances of trial advocacy—everything from drafting precise pleadings to developing effective courtroom strategies. His mentorship provided an invaluable foundation, shaping my approach to legal practice and reinforcing the importance of meticulous preparation.
When I started my independent practice in 2013, it was a turning point in my journey. Representing clients across district courts, High Courts, and tribunals across India sharpened my ability to handle diverse procedural complexities. Each case brought its own challenges, but those experiences pushed me to refine my skills and deepen my understanding of the Indian legal system. Whether it was navigating intricate statutory interpretations or advocating for clients in high-stakes matters, those years played a crucial role in shaping me as a trial lawyer.
As Nelson Mandela once said, “I never lose. I either win or learn.” That philosophy has resonated throughout my career—every challenge, every case, and every setback has been an opportunity to grow and refine my craft. The lessons I’ve learned early on continue to guide me, shaping the way I approach advocacy and justice.”
What led you to establish your own practice, RDB Associates? What vision drove this decision, and what challenges did you encounter during the process?
The decision to start RDB Associates in 2022 wasn’t just a career move—it felt like the culmination of everything I’d learned and cared about as a lawyer. After years of working independently across different courts and states, I kept thinking, What if I could build a firm that doesn’t just handle cases but truly fights for people? I wanted a place where strategy and empathy weren’t buzzwords but the foundation of every case. That’s how RDB Associates was born—a team built to tackle tough legal battles while keeping clients’ voices at the center.
Funny enough, the name “RDB” wasn’t part of some grand plan. Back in law school, friends and professors started calling me that as a nickname—almost like a joke! But over time, it stuck. By the time I started my practice, clients would say, “We’re going to RDB for help,” and I realized it had become part of my identity. When I launched the firm, using that name felt right—it carried the trust I’d earned and the scrappy, personal approach I’ve always believed in.
One case early on shaped everything for me. A client came to me completely broken by a legal battle—they’d almost lost faith in the system. I remember sitting with them, hearing their story, and thinking, This is why I do what I do. We worked day and night, dissecting every angle, and when we won, it wasn’t just about the judgment. It was about watching them walk out of court with their heads held high again. That moment crystallized my philosophy: Law isn’t just about arguments in a courtroom; it’s about restoring people’s dignity.
Building the firm hasn’t been easy. Finding the right team—people who genuinely care about clients as much as winning—took time. Scaling across states while staying true to our “human-first” approach? That’s still a daily balancing act. But every time we take on a tough case or hear a client say, “You made this feel possible,” I know we’re on the right track. For me, RDB Associates isn’t just a firm—it’s a promise to turn legal battles into stories of resilience, one client at a time.
You’ve been at the forefront of medical ethics and healthcare litigation, especially during the COVID-19 crisis. Based on your experience, what legal reforms are essential to better safeguard the rights of patients and healthcare providers in future public health emergencies?
During my time working on the front lines of the COVID-19 pandemic—advising hospitals, patients, and government agencies on everything from vaccine mandates to life-and-death resource allocation decisions—I saw firsthand how our legal frameworks struggled to keep pace with the chaos of a public health crisis. Those years weren’t just about interpreting policies; they were about sitting across from exhausted ICU directors wondering if they’d face lawsuits for triage decisions, or patients’ families begging for clarity on why loved ones couldn’t access treatments. Those experiences convinced me that we need fundamental reforms to protect both caregivers and communities when the next crisis hits. That’s the exact reason why I enrolled in the Postgraduate Diploma in Medical Law & Ethics (PGDMLE) at NLSIU Bangalore. I realized I couldn’t just rage at the system’s flaws; I needed the tools to rebuild it. Studying the ethics of triage protocols, patient autonomy, and distributive justice gave me language for the moral vertigo I’d witnessed. But it also hardened my resolve: we must do better next time.
A few priorities stand out to me. First, we have to address the legal gray areas that left healthcare providers paralyzed by fear of liability. I’ll never forget a Zoom call with a rural hospital team who’d reused PPE against normal protocols because they had no other choice—they spent more time worrying about lawsuits than patient care. We need laws that shield providers acting in good faith during emergencies, so they can focus on saving lives, not second-guessing every choice.
Second, patients deserve more than vague promises during crises. Early in the pandemic, I worked with families who couldn’t get straight answers about vaccine access or ventilator allocation. That confusion eroded trust. We need enforceable rights to transparency—clear, legislated standards for how hospitals communicate priorities and allocate scarce resources. It’s not just ethical; it’s practical. Trust is the currency of public health.
Third, the pandemic exposed how rigid regulations can stifle rapid response. I saw hospitals delay adopting telehealth because reimbursement rules weren’t updated, or scramble to interpret conflicting state/federal guidelines. We need “emergency mode” compliance frameworks—agile, pre-authorized systems that let providers adapt quickly without drowning in bureaucracy.
And finally, telemedicine isn’t going anywhere. But its legal foundation? That’s still catching up. I advised dozens of clinics on privacy and licensing hurdles when they pivoted to virtual care overnight. We need durable laws that secure telehealth’s role in equitable care, not just temporary pandemic fixes.
These lessons didn’t come from textbooks—they came from late-night calls with nurses, tense meetings with regulators, and too many conversations with grieving families. If we want a healthcare system that’s both compassionate and resilient, we have to build these reforms into its DNA now. Because the next crisis isn’t a matter of if—it’s when.
As technology continues to reshape the legal landscape, how do you foresee cyber law evolving in India over the next few years, particularly with advancements in AI, increasing concerns over data privacy, and the rise of digital defamation cases?
When I think about the future of cyber law in India, I’m struck by how rapidly technology is outpacing our legal frameworks. We’re at a pivotal moment where innovation and regulation must collaborate to protect citizens while fostering growth. Let me share my perspective on the key areas shaping this evolution.
The Rashmika Mandanna deepfake incident last year was a wake-up call for me. Seeing how easily AI can manipulate reality made me realize how unprepared our laws are. I’ve spent hours discussing with peers: Who’s liable when a deepfake ruins a reputation? The creator? The platform hosting it? Right now, it’s a gray area. I strongly believe India needs AI-specific laws—or amendments to the IT Act—that enforce transparency and hold both developers and distributors accountable. Without this, misinformation could erode trust in digital spaces altogether.
The DPDP Act of 2023 was a milestone, but I’m not convinced it’s enough. Take the Aadhaar breaches—these aren’t just technical failures; they’re systemic risks. In my research, I’ve noticed smaller companies often lack robust compliance frameworks. We need stricter audits, sector-specific rules (like for healthcare or finance), and real consequences for breaches. Personally, I’d advocate for a public awareness campaign too. People deserve to know how their data is used—and how to fight back when it’s misused.
Last month, a friend’s startup was nearly derailed by a viral false review. It reminded me how fragile reputations are online. While free speech is sacred, I’ve seen too many cases where social media platforms hide behind “neutrality” to avoid accountability. My take? We need specialized cyber tribunals to resolve defamation cases faster. And intermediaries should be legally nudged to act responsibly—maybe by mandating takedown mechanisms for verified slander.
The Air India data breach shook me. It wasn’t just about stolen passports—it exposed how vulnerable critical infrastructure is. I’ve spoken to cybersecurity experts who stress that reactive measures won’t cut it. Proactive steps like mandatory audits for utilities, ethical hacking certifications, and cross-border collaboration are vital. Frankly, if we don’t treat cyberattacks as acts of war, we’re leaving the door open for chaos.
The RBI’s cautious stance on crypto is understandable, but ambiguity breeds risk. I’ve met young investors who don’t realize their crypto gains could be taxable—or that scams have little legal recourse. We need clear laws on fraud prevention, taxation, and consumer rights. Blockchain itself isn’t the enemy; it’s the lack of rules. Let’s regulate smartly, not stifle innovation.
To me, cyber law isn’t just about rules—it’s about building trust in a digital India. Yes, laws must evolve faster, but collaboration is key. Lawyers, technologists, and policymakers need to sit at the same table. If we get this right, India could become a global model for balancing innovation and justice. And honestly, that’s what excites me most about working in this field.
Your fluency in Japanese is quite rare among Indian legal professionals. How has this cultural and linguistic proficiency influenced your work with Japanese clients and impacted your approach to international legal matters?
Learning Japanese started as a quirky lockdown project—honestly, I never saw it becoming part of my legal career! While most people mastered Dalgona coffee recipes, banana bread recipes or binge-watched entire seasons of TV shows, I decided to shake things up—I learned Japanese.
Here’s the thing: speaking Japanese isn’t just about translating words. For Japanese clients in India, it’s about catching the quiet stuff—the pauses, the unspoken hesitations. In Japan, communication is layered. You don’t just say what you mean; there’s a dance to it. I remember one case where a corporate client kept avoiding direct answers in emails. When I switched to speaking Japanese in our meeting, their relief was instant. Suddenly, we weren’t just talking at each other—we were problem-solving together. That trust? You can’t Google Translate that.
There’s a saying in Japanese: “Kotoba yori kimochi”—feelings matter more than words. I’ve seen this play out in messy cross-border disputes or even delicate family cases. Once, in a tech contract negotiation, a tiny phrasing mismatch in English drafts nearly blew up the deal. But because I could explain the legal nuances in Japanese, we untangled it over a 10-minute call. The client joked afterward, “You’re like a legal diplomat with a dictionary brain.”
Sure, it’s fun to surprise people when I switch languages in meetings, but the real win is this: law isn’t just about arguments. It’s about making someone feel heard, especially when they’re far from home. Whether it’s a corporate fraud case or a criminal defense matter, speaking Japanese lets me bridge two worlds. I’m not just their lawyer—I’m someone who gets why a bow matters more than a handshake, or why silence sometimes speaks louder than a contract clause.
Funny how life works, right? A lockdown hobby became the tool that lets me turn legal headaches into human connections. And honestly? That’s the part of my job I love most—not just winning cases, but making sure no one gets lost in translation.
You’ve built strong collaborations with international law firms. How have these alliances strengthened your ability to manage cross-border disputes, and what are some of the key challenges in reconciling international legal standards with Indian practices?
One of the most rewarding parts of my career has been working with international legal teams—especially those involving Japanese stakeholders in tech, healthcare, or fraud cases. My fluency in Japanese and understanding of cultural nuances aren’t just “skills on paper.” They’ve been lifelines in building trust and untangling disputes that span borders. Let me give you an example: early in my career, I worked on a cross-border corporate fraud case where a Japanese tech firm was navigating a joint venture dispute with an Indian partner. The legal stakes were high, but so were the cultural ones. Being able to draft documents in Japanese, interpret subtle cues in negotiations, and explain the “why” behind India’s regulatory frameworks helped bridge gaps that might’ve derailed the case.
These collaborations have taught me that cross-border work isn’t just about knowing the law—it’s about weaving together perspectives. For instance, working with EU teams on healthcare compliance, I saw firsthand how GDPR’s strict data privacy rules clashed with India’s evolving digital health policies. By pulling insights from both sides, we crafted hybrid strategies that satisfied regulators in Brussels and Mumbai. It’s like being a legal translator—not just of language, but of intent.
But let’s be real: harmonizing international standards with Indian practice isn’t a tidy process. I remember a case where a Japanese client insisted on arbitrating a dispute in Tokyo under Japanese law, while the Indian counterpart demanded litigation in Delhi. The tension wasn’t just about “choice of law”—it was about pride, precedent, and perception. We navigated it by framing arbitration in Singapore as a neutral middle ground, but getting there required hours of candid conversations about what each side truly feared losing.
Procedural differences can be landmines too. Once, during discovery in a U.S.-India fraud case, I realized the American team’s aggressive document requests were seen as invasive by the Indian witnesses. We had to recalibrate—explaining the “why” behind U.S. discovery rules to our clients, while gently pushing the U.S. team to respect local discomfort with overly broad requests. It wasn’t in any textbook; it was about empathy as much as strategy.
And enforcement? That’s where theory meets reality. I’ll never forget the scramble to enforce an arbitral award from London in an Indian court—only to hit roadblocks because of a missing stamp paper. It felt absurd in the moment, but it taught me to sweat the small stuff and see the bigger picture: global rulings mean nothing if you don’t understand local procedural quirks.
At its core, this work is about more than legal frameworks. It’s about asking questions like: How does a Japanese CEO’s expectation of “consensus” align with India’s more hierarchical corporate culture? Or Why might a German tech firm balk at India’s approach to interim injunctions? Those human, cultural layers are what make cross-border work so messy—and so fascinating. Every case is a crash course in humility, creativity, and finding common ground when the rulebooks disagree.
Your pro bono work reflects a strong commitment to legal inclusion and social justice. What fuels this dedication, and how do you envision the broader role of legal professionals in expanding access to justice for marginalized communities?
Justice isn’t just my profession—it’s a responsibility that defines how I approach the law. While my resume may not explicitly list pro bono hours, my career has been shaped by a conviction that legal advocacy should never be a luxury. Early in my practice, I represented a single mother facing wrongful eviction. She hadn’t slept in days, terrified of losing her home, yet she hesitated to seek help because she assumed the system was ‘not for people like her.’ That moment crystallized for me how deeply fear and complexity alienate marginalized communities from the very institutions meant to protect them. Since then, I’ve anchored my work in dismantling those barriers.
My commitment starts with direct action. I’ve prioritized cases where individuals, like that single mother, lack the resources to fight systemic inequities. Whether it’s negotiating with landlords, defending workers’ rights, or guiding survivors of domestic violence through restraining orders, I’ve learned that access is the first hurdle. Many never reach a courtroom because they don’t know their options. That’s why I partner with NGOs to host free legal clinics in underserved neighborhoods. At one clinic, a teenager asked me, ‘Can the police really do that?’ after facing harassment. We drafted a complaint together, but what stayed with me was his shock that he had rights. It’s not enough to represent people—we have to empower them.
This is where legal literacy becomes transformative. I’ve spent weekends leading workshops in rural communities, breaking down laws into relatable terms. For example, explaining inheritance rights to women through stories instead of statutes, or using role-play to teach villagers how to file RTI requests. When people grasp their rights, they shift from feeling powerless to becoming advocates for themselves and their communities. Technology amplifies this. During the pandemic, I collaborated with a tech startup to create a chatbot that guides users through labor law disputes in regional languages. One textile worker used it to reclaim months of unpaid wages—proof that innovation can democratize justice.
But individual efforts aren’t enough. The legal fraternity must confront systemic flaws. I’ve joined advocacy groups pushing for reforms like simplifying bail procedures for low-income defendants and expanding legal aid funding. Last year, I testified before a state committee about how archaic procedural rules delay justice for rape survivors. It’s frustrating work—progress is slow—but necessary. We can’t fix a broken system without challenging its foundations.
Mentorship is equally critical. I volunteer at law schools to nurture students who see law as a tool for social change. One mentee, now a public interest lawyer, recently texted me after winning a landmark case for tribal land rights: ‘You showed me that justice isn’t just in textbooks.’ That’s the legacy I want—inspiring the next generation to prioritize ethics over billable hours.
Ultimately, justice is about dignity. Dr. King’s words—‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere’—ring truer today. When a farmer can’t contest land grabs or a Dalit student faces caste-based harassment without recourse, it corrodes our collective faith in the system. My role, as I see it, is to bridge the gap between the law’s promise and its practice. That means showing up in courtrooms and communities, drafting policies and pamphlets, leveraging tech and tradition.
Yes, the challenges are vast—underfunded legal aid, bureaucratic inertia, and a culture that equates legal success with corporate pay checks. But every small victory, whether it’s a client’s relieved smile or a law student’s spark of idealism, reminds me why this work matters. Justice isn’t abstract; it’s the assurance that the system sees you, hears you, and fights for you. And until that’s a reality for every Indian, I’ll keep pushing—case by case, reform by reform, heart by heart.
As a current member of the Sentence Review Board for the Delhi Government, you help review clemency and early release cases. What are the major aspects you have to keep in mind while making such decisions?
I, though not a member, while assisting the Sentence Review Board, have learned that every case is a mosaic of stories, laws, and emotions. Let me share a few moments that shaped my perspective.
There was a case involving a young man, barely 21, who’d been incarcerated for a non-violent drug offense. His file showed a troubled past—no family, homelessness, and exploitation by a local gang. But over time, he’d transformed. He earned a high school diploma in prison, taught others to read, and even started a small vegetable garden in the prison yard. The warden shared how he’d mediate conflicts among inmates, calling him a ‘quiet peacemaker.’ When compiling his case, I made sure to highlight not just his clean disciplinary record, but the person he’d become. It wasn’t about excusing his crime—it was about asking, Has he earned a chance to prove himself outside these walls?
Then there was the heart-wrenching case of a 65-year-old woman serving time for embezzlement. She’d been a single mother, desperate to fund her daughter’s cancer treatment. Her remorse was palpable in every interview. She’d spent her incarceration stitching clothes for orphanages and writing letters of apology to the victims. But what stayed with me was her daughter, now cancer-free, pleading for a chance to care for her aging mother. I remember sitting with her file late one evening, thinking about the weight of punishment versus redemption. How do you measure justice when regret is so profound?
I also recall a case where victim impact steered the conversation. A man convicted of assault had exemplary conduct in prison—counseling peers, earning certifications—but the survivor, still battling PTSD, feared his release. There were no easy answers. I worked closely with social workers to ensure her voice was central in the report, even including her request for a restraining order. It reminded me that fairness isn’t just about the offender; it’s about holding space for those still healing.
Collaboration is key. Once, a prison nurse flagged an inmate’s terminal illness—a man with months to live, too frail to pose any risk. His brother, a farmer in Punjab, wanted to take him home to spend his final days with family. The medical reports, the brother’s letters, and the quiet dignity of the prisoner’s acceptance of his fate… these details became the backbone of my recommendation. The Board approved his release, and I later heard he passed away surrounded by loved ones. It reinforced why we must never reduce people to their worst mistakes.
These experiences taught me that clemency isn’t about leniency—it’s about listening deeply to the law, the evidence, and the human heart. My job is to ensure the Board sees the full picture: the tears behind the paperwork, the growth amid the grit, and the fragile hope of second chances.
You regularly engage with academic institutions and legal forums. What core principle do you emphasize to aspiring lawyers that you feel is often overlooked in formal legal education? Additionally, what guidance would you offer to young professionals still finding their footing in the legal field?
When I mentor young lawyers, I always start with this: The law isn’t just about books and courtrooms—it’s about the person sitting across from you. Early in my career, I represented a single mother fighting a wrongful eviction. She wasn’t just a “tenant” in a file; she was terrified of losing the home where her kids took their first steps. That case taught me something no textbook ever did: empathy isn’t soft—it’s strategic. You can’t fight for someone if you don’t see them.
Here’s what I wish someone had told me when I was starting out:
Stay curious, but stay grounded. The law changes faster than TikTok trends—today it’s AI regulation, tomorrow it’ll be space law! But don’t chase shiny things at the expense of fundamentals. I still rehearse courtroom procedures in my head like a nervous rookie. Why? Because last year, I won a case on a procedural technicality my opponent overlooked. Basics matter.
Words are your secret weapon. Early on, I wrote briefs packed with Latin phrases, thinking it made me sound smart. Then a judge pulled me aside and said, “Counsel, I’ve got 50 cases today—make me care in one page.” Now I write like I’m explaining things to my grandma. Clarity beats complexity every time.
Your reputation isn’t a LinkedIn badge—it’s your currency. Once, a client asked me to hide evidence. I walked away, even though it meant losing a paycheck. Two years later, that same client referred a friend, saying, “You’re the only lawyer I trust.” Integrity compounds.
Find your people. I wouldn’t be here without my mentor, Justice Kapoor, who once told me over chai, “Law is 10% argument, 90% listening.” Surround yourself with folks who’ll call you out when your ego’s writing checks your skills can’t cash.
And burnout isn’t a trophy. I learned this the hard way during a marathon corporate trial. By day three, I was running on vending machine coffee and hubris. When I fumbled a simple objection, the opposing counsel smirked, “Tired, RDB?” Now I treat rest like it’s part of the job—because it is.
Winston Churchill once said, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal…” I’ve lived that. I’ve lost cases I should’ve won and won ones I had no business touching. But what sticks with me isn’t the verdicts—it’s the client who hugged me after reuniting with their child, or the retiree who whispered, “You gave me hope again.”
At the end of the day, great lawyering isn’t about being the smartest in the room. It’s about being the one who notices—the trembling hands, the unasked question, the quiet victory hidden in a compromise. Master that, and you won’t just practice law. You’ll change lives.
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