Last week, as news broke of the acquittal of former Wrestling Federation of India chief Brij Bhushan Sharan Singh in the sexual harassment case filed by several women wrestlers, the country immediately split into familiar camps.One side declared it proof that the allegations never stood up to scrutiny. The other called it a betrayal of women. As always, social media held its own trial long before anyone had read the judgment. But there is another question that deserves far more attention than the predictable political slugfest.What does a judgment like this mean to the ordinary Indian woman? Not to television panellists. Not to politicians. Not to activists. But to the 24-year-old intern wondering whether she should complain about her boss. To the domestic worker who has nowhere to turn. To the college student deciding whether reporting harassment is worth the humiliation. To the journalist, the nurse, the corporate executive, the factory worker and the entrepreneur.Women do not watch landmark sexual harassment cases as spectators. They watch them as previews of their own future. That is why cases involving public figures carry a burden that extends far beyond the individuals in the courtroom. Whatever the legal outcome, they shape public confidence in our institutions.The court’s responsibility is clear: it must decide cases solely on the evidence before it and the standard of proof required by law. Courts cannot convict to satisfy public sentiment, nor should they. But the responsibility of a democracy does not end with a judgment. Governments, legislatures, police, employers, sporting bodies, educational institutions and civil society must all ask a more uncomfortable question — do Indian women believe the system will protect them if they speak up? If the answer is increasingly “I’m not sure,” then we have a problem that no single verdict can solve.India has made remarkable progress on paper. We have stronger laws against workplace sexual harassment. We have the POSH Act. We have fast-track courts. We have helplines, awareness campaigns and the powerful message of Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao.The Prime Minister has repeatedly spoken about women’s dignity, sanitation, education and financial inclusion. Millions of girls have benefited from policies that encourage them to stay in school and participate in public life. These are achievements worth acknowledging. But laws and slogans are only half the story. Trust is the other half. And trust cannot be legislated. It must be earned.The tragedy is that many women still calculate the cost of speaking before they calculate the harm they have suffered. “Will anyone believe me?” “Will I lose my job?” “Will my family support me?” “Will I spend years in court?” “Will my private life become tomorrow’s headline?”These are not hypothetical fears. They are the questions women ask every day. High-profile cases amplify those fears because they are lived out in public.When nationally celebrated athletes spend years pursuing legal remedies, endure relentless public scrutiny and then see a case end in acquittal at the trial stage, countless women naturally ask themselves what such a journey might look like for someone with far less visibility, influence or support.That is not a criticism of the court. It is a reflection on the system. Justice is not measured only by outcomes. It is also measured by confidence. A legal system may follow every rule correctly and still leave citizens feeling alienated if the process is painfully slow, emotionally exhausting or inaccessible.That gap between legality and legitimacy is where democracies must pay attention.This is not unique to India. The #MeToo movement demonstrated how many women chose silence for years because they believed speaking up would cost them more than staying quiet. In Britain, repeated scandals forced police forces to confront allegations that women lacked confidence in reporting abuse. In the United States, universities, corporations and newsrooms have spent years rethinking how complaints are handled — not because every allegation is true, but because every complainant deserves a process that is fair, timely and credible.The lesson is simple. Women’s faith in institutions is built long before a judge delivers a verdict. It begins with the police officer who records a complaint with dignity. It continues with an investigation that is professional, impartial and prompt. It depends on witnesses feeling safe, evidence being collected thoroughly and proceedings moving without unnecessary delay. And it requires workplaces, sporting bodies and public institutions to create environments where complaints are addressed early instead of becoming national crises.This is where India must do better.First, investigations into sexual harassment cases involving positions of power must be faster and more transparent, without compromising fairness. Second, witness support systems need serious investment. Justice is not only about legal representation; it is also about emotional, psychological and financial support.Third, Internal Committees under the POSH Act cannot remain box-ticking exercises. Every institution — public and private — must ensure that they are independent, trained and trusted.Fourth, we need greater public legal literacy. Too often, people confuse an acquittal with a declaration that nothing happened, or an allegation with proof of guilt. The law is more nuanced than our hashtags.Finally, we must reject the toxic habit of treating every case as a political contest. The moment sexual harassment becomes another Left-versus-Right debate, women lose. Justice cannot wear party colours. Neither can dignity.I also believe that institutions grow stronger when they are willing to examine themselves honestly.We cannot ask women to dream bigger if we do not also give them confidence that, when they seek justice, the system will stand beside them.The measure of a great democracy is not whether difficult cases divide public opinion. They always will. The measure of a great democracy is whether its women still believe that justice is worth pursuing. That is the faith we must protect. Because once women lose faith in justice, justice itself begins to lose its meaning.— The writer is an acclaimed author