Legal documents have mistrust written all over them. It's

Hearken, O seekers of wisdom, to the words of Karan Johar, who mused on the nature of trust and law: “Legal documents have mistrust written all over them. It’s unfortunate, but the human DNA is so tuned to kind of taking you for granted that we tend to protect ourselves legally. That’s why I don’t read them, as if I read them, I will go soft. To me, the human relationship is far more important than the professional bond I share with anyone.” In this reflection lies a meditation on the eternal tension between trust and self-protection, between the purity of human connection and the cold precision of written law.

Since the earliest dawn of civilization, humankind has sought ways to preserve faith between individuals. In ancient Sumer, clay tablets recorded agreements of trade and property; in Rome, contracts were sealed with oaths before gods and witnesses. Yet, as societies grew and hearts grew cautious, men turned to parchment and signature, fearing the fickleness of human nature. Johar’s lament recognizes this evolution with melancholy wisdom: that legal documents, born of prudence, also bear the imprint of mistrust. Each clause whispers not of unity, but of the fear that one soul may betray another.

Consider the story of Julius Caesar and his trusted friend Brutus. Bound not by legal contracts but by mutual loyalty, their bond was broken by ambition and doubt. Had they inscribed their understanding into law, would it have prevented betrayal? Likely not—for trust, once corrupted, cannot be restored by ink or seal. Johar’s insight points to this truth: no written safeguard can mend a broken human relationship, and no document can replace the honor that binds hearts freely and sincerely.

He confesses that he avoids reading contracts, not out of recklessness, but from the desire to preserve tenderness. “If I read them,” he says, “I will go soft.” This is the vulnerability of the empathetic heart. To dissect a relationship into clauses and signatures would be, to him, to transform warmth into transaction. In a world governed by professional bonds, Johar chooses instead to honor the realm of feeling—the sacred territory where human connection transcends legal obligation.

Yet his words also carry an undertone of sorrow. “It’s unfortunate,” he admits, “that human DNA is tuned to take others for granted.” This is the tragedy of human nature: we are creatures capable of immense trust, yet driven by self-interest to safeguard ourselves. The law, therefore, becomes both shield and mirror—protecting us from harm, but also revealing our collective incapacity for unguarded faith. Johar’s reflection is not a rejection of legality, but a mourning of the innocence it replaces.

From this reflection emerges a timeless lesson: trust is the highest currency of human interaction. The law may codify agreements, but it cannot breathe life into them. True partnership—whether in art, commerce, or friendship—thrives only when both parties act not from fear of consequence, but from the integrity of conscience. Johar teaches that the essence of human harmony lies not in signatures, but in sincerity.

O seekers of understanding, let this wisdom guide your dealings with others. Use legal documents as tools, but never let them replace human connection. Sign your contracts, but seal your relationships with kindness and honor. In the marketplace of the world, protect yourself wisely—but remember that the heart’s truest strength lies in its capacity for trust. For when law governs without love, it breeds suspicion; but when love governs within law, it breeds peace.

Take this teaching into daily life: build professional bonds rooted in clarity, yet nourish human relationships with empathy. Guard your integrity as fiercely as your rights, and remember that no legal document can replace the sacred power of genuine goodwill. In this balance between the written and the felt, between law and trust, lies the art of living wisely—and the secret to lasting harmony among men.