Appointing "Independent" High Court Judges

In a post on SpicyIP, I reviewed a big ticket compulsory licensing dispute involving the sound recording industry on the one hand, and radio stations on the other. I went on to reflect on the competence of the current Copyright Board that is adjudicating this highly complex dispute. And asked if the Chairman of the Copyright Board, Dr Raghbir Singh was sufficiently qualified to merit his post.



The Copyright Act requires that the post of Chairman be occupied by a person who is qualified to be a High Court judge. Preliminary investigation led me to Dr Singh's CV, which does not carry any prima facie evidence of him having been an advocate of the High Court for at least ten years.



As many of you know, Article 217 (2) of the Constitution requires that:



"A person shall not be qualified for appointment as a Judge of a High Court unless he is a a citizen of India and- (a) has for at least ten years held a judicial office in the territory of India; OR



(b) has for at least ten years been an advocate of a High Court or of two or more such Courts in succession;"



Dr Singh, a PhD in law has had a very distinguished legal career including the following appointments:



1. Indian Legal Service of the Government of India as Parliamentary Counsel/legislative draftsman (September, 1980 – March, 2000)



2. Joint Secretary & Legislative Counsel (21.08.1991 to 20.08.1996) and Additional Secretary (21.08.1991 to 31.12.1997) in the Indian Legal Service in the Legislative Department, Ministry of Law, Justice and Company Affairs, New Delhi.



3. Secretary , Legislative Department, Ministry of Law, Justice and Company Affairs, New Delhi (01.01.1998 – 31.03.2000). 4. Secretary, National Commission to Review, the Working of the Constitution, New Delhi (01.04.2000 to 30.04.2002).



Impressive though they may be, do the above appointments qualify as "judicial offices" within the meaning of the Constitution? No, says the Supreme Court of India in Sri Kumar Padma Prasad v Union of India : (1992) 2 SCC 428, an important case concerning the validity of appointment of a certain Mr Srivastava to the Gauhati High Court.



The court effectively ruled that any post that is effectively controlled by the Executive (such as the post of Legal Remembrancer-Cum-Secretary, Law & Judicial, held by Mr Srivastava) could never qualify as a "judicial office" within the meaning of Article 217. In pertinent part, the court also endorsed the ruling in Chandramohan that although our Constitution does not envisage a strict separation of powers doctrine, it clearly advocates an independent judiciary: in fact such independence forms part of the basic structure of the Constitution.



Meaning of "Judicial Office"



I reproduce some extracts from the court that may be of interest to our readers:



"We are of the view that holder of "judicial office" under Article 217(2)(a) means the person who exercises only judicial functions, determines causes inter-parts and renders decisions in a judicial capacity. He must belong to the judicial service which as a class is free form executive-control and is disciplined to uphold the dignity, integrity and independence of judiciary.



....It is clear that the expression "judicial office" under Article 217(2)(a) of the Constitution has to be interpreted in consonance with the scheme of Chapter V and VI of Part VI of the Constitution. We, therefore, hold that expression "judicial office" under Article 217(2)(a) of the Constitution means a "judicial office" which belongs to the judicial service as defined under Article 236(b) of the Constitution of India. In order to qualify for appointment as a Judge of a High Court under Article 217(2)(a) a person must hold a "judicial office" which must be a part of the judicial service of the State.

....It is for the first time in the post-independent era that this Court is seized of a situation where it has to perform the painful duty of determining the eligibility of a person who has been appointed a Judge of High Court by the President of India and who is awaiting to enter upon his office. We looked into the official record and permitted learned Counsel for the parties to examine the same. We are at a loss to understand as to how the bio-data of Srivastava escaped the scrutiny of the authorities during the process of consultation under Article 217(1) of the Constitution of India. A cursory look at the bio-data would have disclosed that Srivastava was not qualified for appointment as a Judge of the High Court on the admitted facts which have been on the official files all the time.



Needless to say that the independence, efficiency and integrity of the judiciary can only be maintained by selecting the best persons in accordance with the procedure provided under the Constitution. These objectives enshrined under the Constitution of India cannot be achieved unless the functionaries accountable for making appointments act with meticulous care and utmost responsibility.



The independence of judiciary is part of the basic structure of the Constitution. The Directive Principles give a mandate that the State shall take steps to separate the judiciary from the executive which means that there shall be a separate judicial service free from the executive control. The Constitution scheme, therefore, only permit members of the judicial service as constituted in terms of Article 236(b) of the Constitution to be considered for the post of district judge and that of the High Court Judge."



Applying Padma Prasad to the Copyright Board Case

Coming back to the Copyright Board matter, it is clear that Dr Singh has never held a "judicial office" for the purpose of Article 217(2), as almost all of his appointments were under the control of the Executive. He does not therefore qualify to be a High Court judge and thereby, is not fit to sit as Chairman of the Copyright Board. Of course, this takes his current bio-data at face value and assumes that he has never been an advocate for ten years or more.



If the above holds true, the government ought to immediately review the situation and take steps to replace Dr Singh as Chairman. Else, these compulsory licensing proceedings, which are the first of their kind in India are susceptible to vitiation at a later stage. Clearly, more billing hours for the lawyers. But a sheer drag on the justice machinery in our country and a tremendous waste of resources for litigants who continue to operate in a climate of legal uncertainty.

Other Things and Constitution-Making

Fareed Zakaria's latest piece here captioned "If it's not a crisis, we can't fix it" provides an interesting backdrop to the problems associated with constitution-making. Since this blog lists 'other things' as part of its subject matter, I felt that this would be a good occasion to try and link 'other things' to 'law'. Zakaria speaks of how the American response to both the financial crisis of 2008 and to the post 9-11 terror threat stand in stark contrast to its attempt at healthcare reform. He suggests that perhaps the crisis is somehow conducive to prompt (and perhaps effective) decision-making. Constitutional thought also grapples with the question of how best to enact constitutions (or alternatively, how to legitimately interpret them).

Without getting into an inordinately detailed theoretical discussion, seeing as how some readers may not be intimately acquainted with constitutional dilemmas, I can state here that Ackerman's work deals with constitutional crises, which he terms the constitutional 'moment', although Elster points out that crises are not particularly the best occasions for quality drafting. The underlying principle is that the most effective and lasting constitutional solutions can be achieved during a period of crisis. A related question in constitutional theory is why constitutions are observed at all: does the crisis lend authority to constitutional text?

In India, the emergency and post-emergency era, in which courts undertook what S.P. Sathe termed 'self-legitimating' activism, could perhaps be said to have been one such crisis - which makes you wonder if judicial activism in India today derives its authority from the post emergency understanding of Indian constitutional law: not a unique idea, but an interesting thought for those that believe that good things too can eventually be achieved from the churning of an ocean (forgive the metaphor).

Navigating the Noteworthy and the Nebulous in Naz Foundation -- Part III

This third, and final, post builds on posts of yesterday and the day before on the Naz Foundation Case. In today’s post, I discuss, among other things, the Delhi High Court’s use of “compelling state interest” as a standard for assessing fundamental rights infringements as well as its handling of the equality and equal protection issue.

1. Compelling State Interest and Morality. Paragraph 75 of Naz Foundation appears under the caption “morality as a ground of a restriction to fundamental rights.” This paragraph discusses restrictions on the conjoined fundamental right to privacy-dignity as well as the fundamental right to health. The bench begins by stating that a law infringing a fundamental privacy right must satisfy a “compelling state interest.” It correctly attributes this standard to Justice Mathew’s Gobind opinion. It then travels beyond Gobind to hold that the enforcement of public morality is not a compelling state interest to “justify invasion of the zone of privacy of adult homosexuals engaged in consensual sex in private.”

To paraphrase Justice Mathew’s own words in Keshavananda, “I have tried, like Jacob of the Old Testament, to wrestle all night with the angel,” namely, the use of the “compelling state interest” standard in Indian constitutional adjudication. I certainly have no quarrel with the general proposition that enforcement of morality is not a compelling state interest, much less an important or even a marginal interest. However, I believe that Naz Foundation’s use of the “compelling state interest” standard here is completely out of line with prevailing Indian precedents. It is true that Justice Mathew proposed and used the “compelling state interest” standard in Gobind to determine whether the regulations at issue in that case passed constitutional muster. I believe he was so greatly enamored with recent American decisions on contraception and abortion that he readily imported their teachings to India without adequate due diligence. It is one thing to refer to foreign precedents to expand the meaning of the fundamental rights, it is quite another to borrow standards for how those rights are to be restricted from jurisdictions with different analytical frameworks for constitutional questions.

It should be pointed out that the “compelling state interest” standard, which Justice Mathew enthusiastically adopted in Gobind, is part of the U.S. Supreme Court’s strict-scrutiny test to screen restrictions on fundamental rights. That test was judicially developed largely because the American Constitution provides little textual guidance on what restrictions can be imposed on fundamental rights. In India, the situation is rather different because our Constitution has “in-house” rules with specific grounds on which “reasonable” restrictions can be imposed on most fundamental rights (see, e.g., Article 19 (2)).

In fairness to the Naz Foundation bench, I should point out that Justice Mathew was a fairly consistent advocate for varying the applicable standard of judicial review depending on the subject involved. For instance, in Ambica Mills, he argued that laws regulating economic activity should “be viewed differently” from laws which concern freedom of speech and religion, voting, procreation, or criminal procedure. He would defer to legislative wisdom on economic laws and exercise greater vigilance in other areas (of course, his deference to economic laws was in the context of India’s flirtation with socialism during the 1970s!).

Aside from Gobind, I am hard pressed to find any major decision that either affirms or applies the “compelling state interest” standard. Rather, as Naz Foundation, itself, says in paragraph 25, after Menaka, any interference with life or personal liberty “must be right and just and fair and not arbitrary, fanciful, or oppressive.” This “just, fair, and reasonable” standard has been the generally applicable benchmark to assess governmental action for the past three decades now. One way to reconcile the apparent contradiction between paragraphs 25 and 75 in Naz Foundation would be to apply both standards together. In others words, every governmental action that violates a fundamental right must henceforth satisfy Menaka’s test of “just, fair, and reasonable” as well as Gobind’s requirement of furthering a “compelling state interest.” If this interpretation of Naz Foundation is correct, I’m afraid it is a rather radical restatement of the law.

Another way to resolve this conundrum would be to only apply the Gobind + Menaka formula to questions about penumbral or uncodified rights like privacy and health. Questions concerning codified rights would only have to meet the Menaka standard. But this solution would imply a higher constitutional bar for actions affecting penumbral rights than those actions affecting textual rights. This outcome would be irrational since penumbral rights are, in fact, derivatives of textual rights.

2. Substitution of Morality Standards. Let me turn now to the impressive manner in which Naz Foundation redefined the morality argument and turned it on its head. Rebutting the notion that public disapproval of homosexual conduct is an accurate barometer of morality, Naz Foundation brilliantly argues that it is “constitutional morality” rather than popular morality that ought to be the applicable yardstick. This aspect of Naz Foundation is, perhaps, what I like most about the case and underscores why I believe it is a landmark decision. The idea of a controlling “constitutional morality” is in, some sense, a continuation of the bench’s insistence on a secular approach in the judicial process case without risking a footfall into religious or sectarian ditches.

At the same time, I do not believe that Naz Foundation’s substitution of constitutional morality for popular morality is a silver bullet. Just consider the spaghetti bowl of inconsistent Supreme Court decisions on whether there is a constitutional right to trade in liquor or if it is res extra commercium. Some of our most enlightened justices have tied themselves up in knots over this issue because of their concern about its underlying moral implications. I should also point out that Naz Foundation does not imply that any morality-based legislation or governmental action is no longer permitted. Rather, it argues that mere public disapproval is an inadequate reason to restrict a fundamental right.

3. Implied Desuetude of Section 377. I want to end my discussion of morality in Naz Foundation by focusing on a most intriguiging sentence in paragraph 86, which reads:

In fact, the admitted case of the Union of India that Section 377 IPC has generally been used in cases of sexual abuse or child abuse, and conversely that it has hardly ever been used in cases of consenting adults, shows that criminalization of adult same-sex conduct does not serve any public interest.

In this passage, the court was referring to the Additional Solicitor General’s argument that Section 377 should be saved because it was not being enforced against homosexuals. The high court initially rejected this contention in paragraph 74 as contrary to evidence and testimony proffered by the petitioners. Yet, interestingly, the bench returns to this argument in paragraph 86, but only to turn tables on the government. It reasons that, if Section 377 has not been used to prosecute adult same-sex conduct, one can legitimately question whether such conduct should at all be criminally proscribed. In other words, if a statutory provision has fallen into disuse, why bother maintaining it?

Although Naz Foundation does not refer to it, there is, in fact, an old common-law doctrine called “desuetude” that supports this line of reasoning. This doctrine has, in fact, been recognized by the Indian Supreme Court in Municipal Corporation v. Bharat Forge, (1995) 3 S.C.C. 434, and it is a pity that it was not considered in this case. Perhaps, it was because petitioners were not confident that they could satisfy all the elements of the doctrine. For desuetude to set in, the statute in question must have been in disuse for a substantial period of time and some form of contrary practice must have evolved during this period.

4. The Equality Detour. As a threshold matter, I wonder why the bench even bothered addressing the equality argument. It had already resolved that Section 377 violated the penumbral fundamental right of equality-dignity, which was sufficient ammunition for its conclusion that Section 377 was unconstitutional. In fact, it is for this reason that the bench felt it was unnecessary to deal with the argument based on the fundamental freedoms in Article 19. Could not the same approach have been taken with respect to equality?

In my view, the equality section is Naz Foundation’s Achilles' heel. The discussion on equality begins with the bench conceding in paragraph 94 that Section 377 is facially neutral. Yet, the bench points out that the “sexual acts, which are criminalized are associated more closely with one class of persons, namely the homosexuals as a class” (emphasis mine). I’m afraid this part of the judgment is not completely watertight and may not convince an appellate court. As a textual matter, the section proscribes sexual acts involving carnal intercourse that are considered “unnatural” irrespective of whether they involve same-sex or opposite sex partners. Case law under the section shows that it has been used in prosecutions involving oral sex and anal sex. There is ample evidence to suggest that anal sex is not an exclusive homosexual preserve; many heterosexual couples routinely engage in it. And oral sex is commonly practiced by both same-sex and opposite sex partners. Therefore, this aspect of Naz Foundation could be particularly vulnerable on appeal.

To bolster its reasoning that Section 377 is hostile to gays, the bench cites Justice O’Connor’s opinion in Lawrence in which she held that the underlying statute in question targets homosexuals as a class. But what it fails to mention is that the Lawrence statute only targeted homosexual conduct; it was even called the “Texas Homosexual Conduct Statute.” This made it convenient for Justice O’Connor to find it violated the U.S. Constitution's equal protection clause. It is for this reason, that Justice O'Connor was able to file a concurring opinion in Lawrence (Justice Kennedy's majority opinion in that case was completely silent about equal protection). In fact, O'Connor remained unrepentant for her previous opinion in the Bowers Case, where the underlying statute, like Section 377, applied to both same-sex and opposite-sex conduct.

I entirely agree with Naz Foundation that, in implementation, Section 377 “does end up unfairly targeting a particular community.” However, I'm skeptical about whether the Supreme Court will accept this argument. There do not appear to be many cases in which a facially neutral law has been successfully challenged on the ground that it is enforced in a discriminatory manner. Perhaps, I'm influenced by what happened in Rathinam with respect to Section 309 of the Penal Code, which criminalizes an attempt to commit a suicide. Initially, the Bombay High Court struck down Section 309 on the ground of equal protection. It found that the provision did not provide adequate guidance and was susceptible to arbitrary application. However, the Andhra Pradesh High Court took a contrary view. The Supreme Court agreed with the Andhra Pradesh High Court, both in Rathinam as well as in Gian Kaur (which overruled Rathinam). Justices in both cases rejected the challenge to Section 309 on equal protection grounds. Don’t get me wrong; I strongly believe that Section 377 has a disparate and invidious impact on gays. I just don't think that this argument could be a winning one under prevailing Indian jurisprudence. I'll be very happy to be proved wrong.

5. The Dynamite of Non-Discrimination. I am still trying to unravel the true meaning of the high court’s holding on Article 15 (1). However, I must applaud the bench's precedent-setting conclusion that sexual orientation is a valid anti-discrimination marker under Article 15 (1). In fact, this aspect of Naz Foundation is sheer dynamite! If this holding is sustained on appeal by the Supreme Court, it has the potential to fundamentally reorder the Indian legal system. Just think about it. Article 15 (1) makes it illegal for the State to discriminate on various grounds, such as sex, place of birth, race, caste, or religion. If sexual orientation is now included as one of these prohibited grounds, several existing laws, including those that define marriage as being between a man and woman, are in constitutional jeopardy. Regretably, on this issue, the homophobic appellants before the Supreme Court do have a point.

6. Obiter on Horizontal Discrimination. In my view, the bench went on a “frolic of its own” by declaring in paragraph 104 that Article 15 (2), the Constitution's public-access provision, proscribes “horizontal discrimination” on the ground of sexual orientation. This was a completely unnecessary observation that had nothing to do with the underlying case. The writ petition did not contain any allegation about private discrimination against gays, and there does not appear to have been any substantial discussion of this issue during oral arguments. Therefore, I can only conclude that the bench misdirected itself to address this non-issue. Accordingly, I believe that the bench’s observations regarding Article 15 (2) are only in the nature of obiter.

7. Strict Scrutiny. Just as I take issue with Naz Foundation’s use of the “compelling state interest” standard under Article 21, I have serious reservations about its wisdom in needlessly importing the American doctrine of strict scrutiny to invalidate Section 377. As the bench admits in paragraph 110, the use of strict scrutiny has been decisively rejected by the Supreme Court in Ashok Kumar Thakur. Yet, Naz Foundation insisted that it could still use strict scrutiny based on the Supreme Court’s decision in Anuj Garg. The bench reasoned that, upon a “harmonious construction” of the two Supreme Court judgments, strict scrutiny would not apply to affirmative action, while it would to apply to disadvantaging measures targeting a vulnerable group based on personal characteristics.

I’m afraid I find the high court’s reasoning on this issue to be rather disingenuous for several reasons. First, Anuj Garg was a decision of a two-judge bench while Ashok Kumar Thakur was a constitution bench decision. Second, Ashok Kumar Thakur was the later decision, handed down several months after Anuj Garg; and ordinarily the subsequent larger bench decision should carry more weight than an earlier decision from a smaller bench. Third, there is nothing in Ashok Kumar Thakur to indicate that its refusal to apply strict scrutiny was only confined to affirmative action. Fourth, how do we reconcile the high court’s cute reasoning with the Supreme Court’s 2003 decision in John Vallamattom. The case involved the constitutionality of Section 118 of the Indian Succession Act (affecting the right of Indian Christians to make so-called death-bed charitable dispositions. It was not an affirmative action decision by any stretch. Yet, in it, Justice Khare said he was skeptical about the application of strict scrutiny in India.

I have the same concerns about using strict scrutiny to evaluate equality and equal protection claims under our Constitution as I do about using the “compelling state interest” standard to assessing fundamental rights violations under Article 21. The two American doctrines are, in a sense, two sides of the same coin. Strict scrutiny was invented to scrutinize classifications because the U.S. Constitution does not contain anti-discrimination provisions, such Articles 15 and 16, of our Constitution, and it requires a showing of a compelling state interest in order for a suspect classification to be upheld.

In India, our Supreme Court has generally applied rational-basis review to evaluate most classifications. From a tactical perspective, the bench could have applied this long-standing test and concluded, based on the evidence, that Section 377 flunked it. This would have been a better strategy, in my view, than subjecting Section 377 to a more stringent test, whose application is likely to be challenged before the Supreme Court.

8. Concluding Observations. Naz Foundation’s use of the severability-in-application doctrine is certainly a creative extension of the Supreme Court’s decision in Chamarbaugwala (ironically, that case advocated caution in the use of American precedents). However, I should note that the Supreme Court’s observations on severability, which Naz Foundation relied upon, were made in the context of legislative competence to enact a statute based on the division of powers between the centre and the states in the Seventh Schedule. They did not involve a statute that was found unconstitutional for violating fundamental rights. Be that as it may, Naz Foundation effectively used Chamarbaugwala to retain Section 377 on the statute book even though it was found to be unconstitutional on several grounds. I have some concerns about this Solomonic solution, but I respect the high court’s pragmatic decision under the circumstances.

Finally, my friend and classmate, Ramaswamy, offers an interesting alternative road that the high court could have taken in resolving this matter. According to him, the case could have been presented as a matter of statutory interpretation rather than constitutional law focusing on the phrase “carnal intercourse against the order of nature” in Section 377. The high court could have ruled that sex between consenting same-sex adults was not “carnal intercourse against the order of nature.” I leave it to you, our readers, to tell us what you think of this idea.

Navigating the Noteworthy and Nebulous in Naz Foundation -- Part II

Having celebrated Naz Foundation’s glorious ramparts yesterday, I turn now to critically appraise the decision’s side streets and alleys. I thought I would be able to complete that task in a single post today. However, after further meditating on Naz Foundation’s meaning, I think I need another post to do full justice to the case (and to save you from the exhaustion of reading). There are several disparate elements of the judgment that I discuss in today’s post. But I'm especially interested in the court's privacy analysis and consequential holding. In tomorrow’s post, I will focus on Naz Foundation’s discussion of the “compelling state interest” standard as well as its handling of the equality and equality protection issue.

Before I resume my analysis of the judgment, I want to pay special tribute to petitioners’ counsel (and their many advisers) for their superb litigation strategy in this case. They did an exceptionally good job of marshaling and submitting a complex mélange of arguments backed by solid and first-class research. The written pleadings and oral arguments reflect considerable hard work, much internal discussion and organization, and careful planning. I’m especially impressed by petitioners’ decision not to ask the high court to strike down Section 377. It was a potentially risky decision. But it was a responsible one that helped ensure a successful outcome. Now back to Naz Foundation.

1. Format and Style. Let me start with some structural quibbles. First, many readers complain that the judgment is 105 pages. I suspect that, after it is edited for publication in the law reports, the page count will go down considerably. I am disappointed, however, that the bench chose to adopt the tedious, standard template for Indian judgments. That template requires a detailed, and mostly superfluous, summary of arguments before a discussion of the issues. Consequently, pages 6 to 25 of Naz Foundation are a rambling regurgitation of the arguments presented by both sides. If this section had been considerably reduced or even eliminated, the judgment could have been considerably abbreviated.

Second, although the text is divided into convenient headings to facilitate easy reading, each of the headings has the same font with no numbering scheme or outline to indicate how they relate to each other. This makes it difficult to identify the boundaries between major parts of the decisions. Third, text is so evenly formatted that it is difficult to determine, in many instances, whether a certain sentence is the bench’s observation or a verbatim quote from one of the many authorities cited in the judgment.

2. Legal and Legislative History. The judgment has a very brief section on the legal history of Section 377. This section appears largely to rely on the account presented in Naz Foundation’s original writ petition. However, that reliance is incomplete for the judgment omits a critical paragraph in the writ petition, which explains how the introduction of Section 377 “was contrary to then existing Indian traditions, which did not treat sodomy as a crime.” It is unclear why the judges chose to ignore this paragraph borrowed from an important collection of essays on same-sex attraction. Perhaps, they felt that this issue would take them down the slippery road of interpreting religious and spiritual sources -- a journey fraught with potential for controversy, as Chief Justice Chandrachud discovered after his Shah Bano decision. It would have also required the judges to accept, deny, or at least comment on the petitioners’ loaded submission that Section 377 was based on “traditional Judeo-Christian moral and ethical standards.” Accepting such a submission, even if substantiated by historical evidence, could have made the judgment appear unnecessarily divisive.

Laconically observing that the “Penal Code was drafted by Lord Macaulay and introduced in 1861 in British India,” the judgment fails to mention anything about the statute’s colourful legislative history (“travaux preparatoires”). For instance, it could have referred to Macaulay’s decision to refrain from appending any guidance notes or illustrations to Section 377 (contrary to the practice for other parts of the Penal Code) motivated by his puritanical belief that the provision involved “an odious class of offences [about which] as little as possible should be said.” It could have mentioned, if the bench was so inclined, other historical nuggets, such as the fact that early offenders under this section could receive a whipping, in lieu of imprisonment, under the Whipping Act of 1864. In this respect, Naz Foundation is a bit of a disappointment, as I had fully expected it to discuss the statute’s Victorian background and why it had been enacted in order to understand why it is no longer relevant. In this respect, Naz Foundation is in stark contrast to the extensive discussion of legal history in the case it cites so extensively, Lawrence v. Texas.

3. Review of Section 377 Caselaw. I find Naz Foundation’s discussion on Section 377’s case-law incomplete. Although the judgment refers to several leading cases (many from obscure and hard-to-find law reports), it does not tell us whether all or any of these cases involved same-sex conduct. Instead, after discussing the underlying holdings in each case, Naz Foundation argues that the “tests” for attracting Section 377 have changed from “the non procreative to imitative to sexual perversity.” If the judges intended to use “tests” as a moniker for “standards,” I’m afraid that the cases they cite offer them very little support. Those cases appear to have been discussing the object or intent of Section 377 (which varied from case to case) instead of the ingredients of the offence or the standards for sustaining a conviction under it.

4. What Should We Call "Them?" The decision suffers from some taxonomical confusion about what to call those with same sex attraction given the diverse nature of groups involved. Discussing the petitioners’ standing in paragraph 6, the judgment refers to Naz Foundation’s work with the “gay community or individuals described as “‘men who have sex with men.’” It then states that, “for sake of convenient reference, they would hereinafter be referred to as ‘homosexuals’ or ‘gay persons’ or gay community.” Now, it does not seem particularly convenient to use three terms as a substitute for two. And where do these definitions leave lesbians, bisexuals, and transgendered persons? Are they subsumed within “homosexuals” or “gay persons”? What about those men who aren’t conventionally bisexual or homosexual but aren’t straight either because they have sex with men? Are they also homosexuals or gay persons under paragraph 6?

The confusion over nomenclature is further compounded in subsequent paragraphs of the judgment because either the judges forget about the definition in paragraph 6 or simply decided against using it. Paragraph 50 refers to the “MSM and [the] gay community” (emphasis mine). But paragraph 52 mentions “MSM,” “lesbians,” and “transgenders.” And paragraph 61 reverts to the phrase “MSM and [the] gay community.”

5. Government's Legal Representation. In paragraph 11, the bench notes that a “rather peculiar feature” of the case involved the Home Ministry and Health Ministry filing separate and contradictory affidavits about Section 377. Yet, the judgment goes on to accept the Home Ministry’s affidavit and arguments as the Union of India’s position without providing any explanation. The choice may have been obvious to the court, but it is not for a bystander like me.

As a related matter, it is worth mentioning that, at various points in the judgment, the bench justifiably rejects the bizarre and absurd submissions made by the Additional Solicitor General (who appeared on the Union of India’s behalf) and castigates him for making them (see especially paragraphs 70-72). It even offers him a little civics primer when he questions the court's competence to exercise judicial review. It is amazing that the government’s position was presented so poorly and crudely in such an important case.

Among the Additional Solicitor General’s arguments, which the bench rebuked, was his contention that Section 377 is not “prone to misuse as it is not enforced against homosexuals.” Now, besides the high court’s cogent reasons for rejecting this unsubstantiated statement, there was an additional justification for not accepting it. Under our federal scheme of governance, it is the state governments who control police and law-enforcement agencies. The Central Government has very little direct role in determining whether or not to prosecute a case under Section 377. Thus, it would have not been appropriate for the high court to have relied on the Additional Solicitor General’s statement on Section 377 prosecutions because he was not representing any of the states (they were not even parties to the proceedings).

6. The Christmas Tree Effect. Reflecting the growing cosmopolitanism of the Indian judiciary, the case cites a large number of international and comparative constitutional sources. But unlike other contemporary decisions, the foreign citations in Naz Foundation are not mere ornaments or serial lights to make the decision sparkle. The case is among a handful of decisions in which judges rely on foreign precedents to actually shape an imaginative domestic outcome. References to Hong Kong, Fiji, and Nepal decisions in Naz Foundation are particularly important because they remind the reader that gay rights aren’t some luxurious western construct. The dates of many citations reveal that the bench continued to research the case long after it had been reserved for judgment.

Yet, precisely because it includes so much material, Naz Foundation is like an over-decked Christmas tree with decorations obscuring virtually every bit of green. In some parts, the decision seems like the work of magpies: no shred of information seems to be too obscure for inclusion in its great kitchen sink of ideas. It is surely the Indian first case to actually cite a webcast!

Furthermore, Naz Foundation is among the first cases that I’m aware of in which statements of the prime minister, health minister, and solicitor general are used as “unilateral declarations” (in the sense of the International Court of Justice’s 1974 Nuclear Tests Case) of the government’s position on Section 377 and attitudes towards men having sex with men. I suppose the court intended to formulate something like an estoppel doctrine using statements of high constitutional functionaries.

Naz Foundation also relies on several international “soft-law” sources, such as the “Yogyakarta Principles,” and the “London Declaration of Principles on Equality” to argue that there is an emerging norm of international law on sexual orientation. As appealing as these principles might be, they hardly qualify as authentic sources of international law for they have been adopted by very few states. They are not general principles of international law, much less customary international law.

7. Dignity Dimension. I liked the bench’s discussion of “dignity,” in paragraph 26. But I felt that the judgment could have elaborated a bit more on the reference to the “dignity of the individual” in our Constitution’s preamble (borrowed word-for-word from the Irish Constitution). Moreover, it is very surprising that Naz Foundation did not cite Kharak Singh here. In paragraph 16 of Kharak Singh, Justice Ayyangar makes a direct link between privacy and individual dignity enshrined in the preamble. This paragraph was subsequently reproduced as a block quote in Gobind. Why Naz Foundation did not use the quote is a mystery to me especially since it was attempting to telescope privacy with dignity – a maneuver first undertaken in Kharak Singh, a six-judge-bench decision of the Supreme Court.

8. Privacy and Indian Constitutional Law. In yesterday’s post, I hailed Naz Foundation for expanding the doctrinal understanding of privacy. However, I believe that the bench’s analysis of privacy under our Constitution is far from adequate. Let us start with paragraph 35, which is located immediately below the caption “development of law of privacy in India.” This paragraph is devoted to a discussion of Kharak Singh (the largest Supreme Court bench to discuss privacy in any meaningful sense). In Kharak Singh, Justice Ayyangar, speaking for the majority, explicitly held that “the right to privacy is not a guaranteed right under our constitution.” However, he found that a state regulation, which permitted domiciliary visits by the police, was unconstitutional because it violated a “common law right to privacy.” He located this common-law right under the expression “personal liberty” under Article 21.

In a separate and concurring opinion, Justice Subba Rao went much further than Justice Ayyangar and affirmed that the Constitution protects a fundamental right to privacy. In discussing Kharak Singh, Naz Foundation notes that the majority “did not go into the question” whether the police domiciliary visits “violated the right to privacy.” Yet, after referring to Subba Rao’s concurring opinion, Naz Foundation blithely concludes: “in effect, all seven learned judges held that ‘right to privacy’ was part of the ‘right to life’ in Article 21.” The High Court does not explain the basis for this sweeping sentence. It appears to have simply lifted it -- without proper attribution -- from the Supreme Court’s opinion in Canara Bank. Canara Bank is an embarrassingly bad opinion for a number of reasons, including its completely unnecessary digression into American constitutional theory, Just read it and you’ll see what I’m talking about!

After Kharak Singh, Naz Foundation mentions Gobind (a somewhat maverick decision of Justice Mathew, which has been criticized for glossing over the majority holding in Kharak Singh) and Rajagopal (where Justice Jeevan Reddy largely followed Gobind on the privacy issue). In both decisions, the Supreme Court cautioned that privacy was not an absolute fundamental right and it would “necessarily have to go through a process of case-by-case development.” Yet, that admonition was conveniently forgotten by the Supreme Court in Canara Bank. As Naz Foundation accurately reports, Canara Bank concluded that the right to privacy has been accepted as “implicit in our Constitution.”

While I acknowledge that Canara Bank is binding precedent on the Delhi High Court, I believe that Naz Foundation could have undertaken a more rigorous privacy analysis without simply cutting and pasting from Canara Bank. This is not unreasonable to demand from a bench, which demonstrated great skill in cherry-picking among conflicting Supreme Court decisions on application of the strict scrutiny test.

Upon holding that there is a right to privacy under the Indian Constitution, Naz Foundation proceeds to articulate an untethered and delocalized understanding of privacy. Relying on that broad notion of privacy, paragraph 47 contains the poignant declaration that “[a] person cannot leave behind his sense of gender or sexual orientation at home.” It is unclear, however, whether this sentence is the high court’s own words or simply a quote from another source. Then, we stumble upon following statement (also in paragraph 47): “privacy allows persons to develop human relations without interference from the outside community or from the State (emphasis mine).” I’m tempted to stop and reflect further on the practical meaning of this remarkable observation, but I need to move on. So, I’ll defer to your comments about its wisdom.

9. Privacy and the Vires of Section 377. Naz Foundation’s substantive commentary on privacy ends with the observation that Section 377 denies a gay person a right to full-personhood, which is implicit under Article 21 of the Constitution. Presumably, this is because Section 377 violates the unarticulated fundamental right to privacy. Yet, the thickness of this important conclusion is substantially undercut by the decision’s actual findings on the merits in paragraph 132. That operative paragraph of the judgment states that Section 377 is unconstitutional “insofar as it criminalises consensual sexual acts of adults in private” (emphasis mine).

Based on the wording of paragraph 132, one cynical, but plausible, way to interpret Naz Foundation is that the new constitutional bar on Section 377 prosecutions applies only to sexual acts in a private dwelling or establishment. Under this interpretation, the section may still be freely applied to prosecute “non-private” conduct in a public place. Such a result would be particularly unfortunate because many documented instances of 377 harrassment have involved conduct in parks and other public places. They are quite unlike the police raid on John Lawrence’s bedroom, which was later declared a zone of privacy in the US decision, upon which Naz Foundation appears to have strongly relied.

In some sense, the substantial disconnect between Naz Foundation’s soaring rhetoric on the concept of privacy and its parsimonious finding regarding the applicability of Section 377 illustrates the limitations of using privacy as a legal theory to challenge morality-based legislation. At first blush, privacy is a convenient and tempting shield to prevent the government from intruding into gays’ bedrooms. But it does not protect them when they leave their homes and affirm their bonds (even in the most benign manner) in public. It can be especially problematic in the Indian context because the “private” of many Indian gays is usually in the long shadows or dark corners of public places, like parks or beaches. For them, paragraph 132 does not seem to be a particularly liberating and emancipating holding.

(This post, written entirely in my personal capacity, will be concluded tomorrow).

Fraternity in the Constitution: Cultural Policing in Dakshina Kannada

A recent report by the PUCL-Karnataka on 'Cultural Policing in Dakshina Kannada: Vigilante Attacks on Women and Minorities 2008-9' released in March 2009 fills in the gaps on the cultural policing debate by providing valuable evidence that led upto the Ram Sene pub attack in Mangalore, and its aftermath, by locating it in a wider politico-cultural context. This blog has discussed the issue previously in the following two respects:

1. One of us had taken exception to the media referring to the incidents as 'moral policing'. The Report rightly uses the term 'cultural policing' rather than moral policing. Cultural policing essentialises the cultural practices of a particular group as the aspirational culture of a place and imposes it on everyone else. The Report says that 'The aim of cultural policing is to produce a form of social apartheid where the various communities become self-enclosed structures with inter-community social interaction being actively discouraged.' (p 2)

2. Another post on this blog had said that progressive movement should take mode of protests and their efficacy seriously, in light of the 'pink chaddi campaign' to oppose the attacks. Chapter V of the Report makes an interesting read in this regard.

Our readers would find Chapter IV of the Report titled Cultural Policing leading to Social Apartheid: Violation of the Constitutional Order' particularly interesting. This chapter conceptualizes cultural policing as a form of social apartheid which attacks the idea of fraternity in the Indian Constitution:

Dr. Ambedkar recognized how difficult, yet important, the principle of fraternity was. As he put it, “Fraternity means a sense of common brotherhood of all Indians—if Indians are seen as being one people. It is the principle which gives unity and solidarity to social life. It is a difficult thing to achieve.’ He goes on to underline the centrality of fraternity by noting that that ‘ Without fraternity, equality and liberty will be no deeper than a coat of paint.”

Cultural policing, in its insistence that communities should not interact with each other and in its attempts to punish all those who try to live out the meaning of the Preamble’s promise of ‘fraternity’, is a fundamental attack on the very Constitutional order. The promise of fraternity held out in the Preamble is what is contested at its very roots by cultural policing. What cultural policing wants to produce are monolithic self-enclosed communities with no form of social interaction between them. It is antithetical to the idea of ‘We, the people of India’ and insists that India is no more one nation, but rather a conglomeration of separate peoples. (p 40)

The chapter then goes on to outline the various rights within the fundamental rights framework (right to form intimate association, right to freedom of speech and expression, right against discrimination, and the right to education) as providing the content to the preambular idea of fraternity.

As Sudhir Krishnaswamy puts it, fraternity is perhaps the least talked-about ideal in the Preamble to the Constitution. With its roots in the French Revolution, the importance of fraternity (and related notions of solidarity, cohesion and social inclusion) is receiving increasing academic attention in the English-speaking world. One of the most notable legal treatments of the idea is by Hugh Collins in two articles: (i) 'Discrimination, Equality and Social Inclusion' 66 (1) Modern Law Review 2003 (16), and (ii) 'Social Inclusion: A Better Approach to Equality Issues?' 14 Transnational Law and Contemporary Problems (2004-5) 897.

The Report must be commended for highlighting this oft-forgetten pillar of our constitutional framework, and may be seen as the beginning of civil society, academic (and hopefully, judicial) conversations on fraternity.

Finally, certain specific legal strategies outlined in Chapter VI will also be of interest to some readers.

Beards, Burqas and Bias: Contemptuous Statement?

Venkatesan's interesting post on the Salim case (dealing with the extent to which minority institutions can lay down rules that conflict with the religious beliefs of a student) drew some interesting comments. I want to offer a slightly different perspective (legal) and also to reflect on Justice Katju's unfortunate statement that equates all bearded Muslims with the Taliban!

Most newspapers report that Justice Katju, who, when confronted with Salim’s argument that the constitution guaranteed him the right to practice his faith by keeping his beard is said to have stated: “We don’t want to have Taliban’s in the country. Tomorrow a girl student may come and say that she wants to wear a burqa. Can we allow it?”

I spoke to two counsels who appeared for Salim who confirmed that these statements were indeed made in court. Thereafter, I wrote a short note on Justice Katju's offensive remarks, calling for sharp censure from the Chief Justice. More importantly, I opined that notwithstanding the merits of the case, Justice Katju's callous and insensitive comments about a minority community renders him unfit to be an impartial judge in a case involving the religious rights of that very community. Therefore, the case must be reheard before another bench and it must be considered afresh whether or not Salim's SLP can be admitted.

I sent this short note of mine to a leading newspaper a few days back and they were meant to carry it the very next day. Unfortunately, they expressed reservations at the last minute, citing their fear about potential contempt issues.

I was taken aback: Does every critique of a judge amount to contempt? And besides, if our media shirks away from carrying any critique of a judge, no matter how offensive his remarks, whither our core democratic and free speech values enshrined in the Constitution? And whither the interests of a minority community, whose sentiments are so liberally trampled upon by a judge, meant to uphold constitutional values?

Isn't it fair to demand that a judge who equates every Muslim with a beard with a member of the Taliban is censured? And to argue that such a judge has breached the secular fabric of our Constitution in very deep ways. And that he is not fit to hear a case involving a minority community about whom he has made these gravely offensive remarks?

I am extremely saddened at the attitude of the newspaper in this regard, but do hope that better sense prevails. I have asked them to indicate which portions of the note they've construed as contemptuous, with the hope that such portions could be worked around. In the meantime, if any of our readers know of any courageous papers that may be willing to publish such a piece, please let me know.

Now coming to legal analysis bit, I beg to differ with Venkatesan's views for the following reasons:

1. Most of the decisions delineating the scope of Article 30 would appear to suggest that Article 30 is not an absolute right. Rather, the state has some powers to step in, if the minority institution in question is mal-administered. And this limited power to regulate would also encompass the admission process, particularly when the institution in question has received state aid (TMA Pai case). The power to regulate would also appear to reduce (somewhat) when the minority institution in question has not received any state funds. In Salim's case, the convent school in question has not received any state funds.

2. It is highly improbable that a court would find that a uniform rule that required all students to have a clean shaven countenance amounts to evidence of "maladministration". An unequal application of such a rule might have demonstrated bias and therefore maladministration. But there is nothing on the facts to indicate any such unequal treatment. The petition filed before the Supreme Court speaks about the fact that Sikhs are permitted to keep their beard, hinting at the fact that the school might have made an exception for Sikhs in this regard. However, I spoke with counsel appearing in this case who confirmed that to the best of his knowlede, no Sikh or other student had ever received preferential treatment under the school rules. In other words, the school was likely to ask even Sikh students to erase facial hair.

3. Saleem argues that his right to freedom of religion under Article 25 has been violated. However, Article 25 itself begins by stating that it is subject to other provisions. In other words, Article 30 would trump Article 25 in this context.

One might even draw some support from Article 28(3) that stipulates that any unaided institution can impart religious instruction without the consent of the student or his/her guardian. If a Muslim student can be forced to kneel down and pray at a church (belonging to a Christian convent), surely such a student can also be made to shave his beard, even when such shaving contravenes his religious beliefs. As the MP High Court rightly put it, the student does have an option if he/she is troubled by such a rule: leave the school!

Therefore the Supreme Court bench may have been right in denying admission to Salim's SLP. However, in view of Justice Katju's statements made in open court that equated very bearded Muslim with a Taliban, the possibility of bias against a community cannot be ruled out. And the Chief Justice must not only censure such remarks, but take immediate steps to have this case reheard before anther bench. For justice must not only be done, but also be seen to be done!

Screening “Smoking” Bans through a Constitutional Lens

I began a discussion with Madhav Khosla after reading his interesting take on Justice Kaul's "smoking" judgment. Unfortunately, owing to certain intervening events, I lost the thread and came back to articulating my stand on this issue only recently in this Mint editorial. I reproduce it below. I benefited greatly from discussions with Madhav, Arun and Tarunabh and thank them for their insights.

Given that "smoking" related cases are still pending before the courts, this issue is a burning one that refuses to be stubbed out in the near future. So do continue watching this space for more.


The law, smoke and mirrors

"I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking. I wonder what great things have come from such hours. When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind— and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his one expression.”

Ayn Rands’ sentiments mouthed through one of her characters in the classic Atlas Shrugged may have spurred some of us to light up. But ought that be reason enough to prohibit the publication of this book in India? Although current legal norms weigh against such censorship of the printing press, it certainly sanctions it when “text” migrates to “screen”. The law vests our Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) with the discretion to axe any scene that glamourizes or encourages smoking, notwithstanding the fact that such scene may be integral to the plot or to the character. And notwithstanding the fact that the law does not prohibit smoking, unless committed within public precincts.

It is in this context that the Delhi high court’s recent denunciation of a regulation banning the depiction of on-screen smoking is a very welcome one for those of us who zealously guard our free speech rights against an overtly paternalistic state. Justice Sanjay Kishen Kaul rightly notes that such regulation violates the right to free speech and expression guaranteed under Article 19(1)(a) of the Constitution of India.

However, the judgement is problematic in that it implicitly endorses CBFC’s right to interfere with artistic freedom, when the scene in question encourages smoking.

The case centres around a rule (promulgated under what is commonly referred to as the Cigarettes Act, 2003) which prohibited “characters” in films and television programmes from “displaying tobacco products or their use”. A writ petition challenging the constitutionality of this rule came up before justice Kaul. It is very difficult to take exception to justice Kaul’s staunch defence of the freedom of speech guaranteed under Article 19(1). However, his reasoning leaves much to be desired.

For one, he ducks the issue of whether or not certain exceptions articulated under different heads in Article 19(2) can save the governmental regulation in question, claiming that it is not germane to the controversy. Not only is it germane to the controversy, it is absolutely critical.

Article 19(2) permits the state to intrude upon the right to free speech when such intrusion is “reasonable” and is in the interest of any of the following: the sovereignty and integrity of India, the security of the state, friendly relations with foreign states, public order, decency or morality, or in relation to contempt of court, defamation or incitement to an offence.

It is difficult to see how the banning of on-screen smoking would fit within any of the above heads. Although one may qualify measures to discourage smoking as “public health” measures, this cannot tantamount to preserving “public order”.

As for “decency” and “morality”, the less said the better. The closest I ever came to witnessing such a nexus was when a student of mine categorically asserted that “civilized people do not smoke”.

Without dealing conclusively with whether or not the impugned ban fitted within any of the above heads, justice Kaul assumed that even if it did, it would still not amount to a “reasonable” restriction. Particularly since there already existed another guideline under the Cinematograph Act, 1952, that permitted CBFC to chop “glamourized” smoking scenes. In other words, an outright ban on “any” smoking scene was “unreasonable”, whereas a ban on only “glamourized” smoking scenes was perfectly constitutional. But this begs the question: Do such bans fall within the purview of the Article 19(2) categories at all? Unless they do so, one need not bother examining their reasonableness or otherwise.

Although the legality of the CBFC guidelines was not in issue, justice Kaul implicitly defends them. It is therefore imperative that film-makers take steps to challenge the constitutionality of these guidelines.

On a broader note, if our zealously paternalistic state is worried about the ill effects of smoking, it must take on the tobacco lobbies and ban smoking altogether (as to whether such a measure is likely to withstand a constitutional challenge is a moot issue). But until then, a film-maker must be offered the artistic freedom to depict the iconoclastic Hank Rearden lighting up his cancer stick in as swashbuckling a manner as possible. Even if this necessarily means more smoke-filled lungs and the encouragement of a habit described by James I as “loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain...[and].. dangerous to the lungs...”

The Last Founder Dies

The last surviving member of our Constituent Assembly, Ranbir Singh Hooda, died on February 1. I'm unclear whether Hooda made any significant contributions to the Constituent Assembly's deliberations. This is something I hope to investigate further as part of my ongoing research on how our Constitution was created and adopted. But I suppose it is an achievement, in and of itself, that Hooda outlived all of his other founder colleagues (they were men and women; which is why the use of the collective "founding fathers" is inappropriate). He lived for almost sixty years after the product of their labours came into force.

The Haryana government reportedly plans to create a monument to the founders in Rohtak. Thankfully, it won't be another Delhi-based monument (even if it is very close to the National Capital Territory). I think every state capital needs such a monument as an educational and research institution on the Constitution and the values it embodies. Two years ago, I visited the National Constitution Centre in Philadelphia (not in Washington, DC, if I may point out). It is a truly fascinating interactive museum that explains the meaning and significance of the U.S. Constitution to the people. I wonder when Indian cities will have a similar facility.

Bipartisan and non-partisan appointments for democratic institutions

Whatever might be the implications for the individuals involved in the current controversy over the Election Commission, the CEC's second letter to the President raises a very important point. Under the current scheme of things under Article 324 of the Constitution, CECs and ECs are appointed by the President on the advice of the Prime Minister. We have come a long way from that idea. Almost every body of importance established in recent times (like the National Human Rights Commission, Central Vigilance Commission, Central Information Commission etc) has a bipartisan (or even non-partisan) appointment committee. Let the controversy bring out one good, in that the Constitution is amended to ensure appointments to the Election Commission are made by a committee comprising at least of the Prime Minister and the Leader of Opposition in the Lok Sabha.

On a related matter, this report says that the government is planning to establish a permanent regulatory committee (National Textbook Council) to examine school text books, to make sure they do not preach values against the spirit of the constitution. It appears to be a move to preempt another textbook controversy if the BJP comes to power after the next general election. The completely depoliticised composition of the Committee is rather interesting to note:

'The NTC will ... be headed by a retired judge of the Supreme Court nominated by the Chief Justice of India. It will have six member - officials picked from the Central Institute of Indian Languages (CIIL), IITs, reputed social science research institutes, and academics from the fields of languages, science and mathematics, social sciences and humanities. Two of the members will be women.'

The idea of an impartial regulatory watchdog making sure that our schools do not teach hate may be a useful one. However, we need to be wary of it becoming a body which kills imagination by overzealous censorship of all 'offensive' ideas.

Is there a lacuna in Article 74?

With the Prime Minister, Dr.Manmohan Singh having been hospitalised, he will be virtually absent from office on health grounds for a month at least. My friend, Manoj Mitta has suggested in Today's Times of India (Unlike U.S., India has no 2-in command) that Article 74 of the Constitution has a lacuna in that it does not provide for a No.2 in the Council of Ministers to officiate as the PM in his absence. However, he adds after reproducing Article 74, as follows: "Therefore, the cabinet can carry on even when the Prime Minister is temporarily absent". A literal reading of Article 74 does not sustain Manoj's position. I am also inclined to disagree with him that the Prime Minister is only first among equals in his cabinet consisting of elected representatives. I outline my take as follows:

1. There is no lacuna in Art.74: Having provided in Art.65 that the Vice-President can officiate as President in the absence of the President, did the Constitution-makers forget to include a similar provision in the case of the Prime Minister? In the U.S., the electors of the President know who is the Vice-Presidential candidate, who will take over as the President if there is a vacancy. Therefore, the U.S.Constitution provided for such a succession. In India, which follows Parliamentary democracy, voters do not know who the Prime Minister will be after the elections, let alone his successor, in case of a sudden absence of the PM. Therefore, our Constitution-makers wisely refrained from copying the American model. Instead they worded Article 74 to require that there ought to be a Council of Minister headed by the Prime Minister all the times. That is, the two ingredients of Article 74 are inseparable twins. The Constitution does not envisage an absentee Prime Minister. Like every one, Manoj agrees that the PM is absent, and will be absent for a month at least. Therefore, the right course would be for the PM to resign, and let his successor be sworn in as the next PM, in accordance with what his party decides.

2. Why does our Constitution not recognise an officiating PM?: The answer lies in Manoj's own story where he claims, apart from other things, the PM also has access to the nuclear button. Can such a responsibility be entrusted to someone who is just officiating - whether legally or through a formal/informal mechanism, as Mr.Pranab Mukherjee does now? In 1948, the question of access to nuclear button might not have arisen, but the Constitution-makers did know that the office of the PM is endowed with serious and onerous responsibilities, and it requires a full-fledged leader who enjoys the confidence of the House. An officiating PM cannot enjoy the confidence of the House, even if the Constitution had sanctioned it. Therefore, they expected the ruling party or coalition to quickly move in, elect a new leader, and ask that leader to accept the office of the PM, in case there is a sudden vacancy. A vacuum in the office of the PM, even for a few hours, is a serious matter. Remember 1984 when the nation took a few hours to choose Indira Gandhi's successor? What we are likely to witness is vacuum for several days, which is ominous. Here, precedents may be cited - Vajpayee when he was hospitalised or even MGR when he went to the U.S. for treatment as the Chief Minister for nearly a month. Well, these were flawed precedents which did not correctly reflect the spirit of Article 74.

3. Is the Prime Minister first among the equals? A bare reading of the Constituent Assembly Debates on December 30, 1948, when it discussed draft article 61 (corresponding to the current article 74) suggests that the office of the Prime Minister was conceived as the supreme one, and an inevitable concomitant of Parliamentary democracy. One Member K.T.Shah wanted deletion of the words "with the Prime Minister at the head' from draft Article 61(1), but the amendment was rejected after a lengthy reply from Ambedkar.

Ambedkar said:

"Supposing you have no Prime Minister; what would really happen? What would happen is this, that every Minister will be subject to the control or influence of the President. It would be perfectly possible for the President who is no adidem with a particular Cabinet, to deal with each Minister separately singly, influence them and thereby cause disruption in the Cabinet. Such a thing is not impossible to imagine. Before collective responsibility was introduced in the British Parliament you remember how the English King used to disrupt the British Cabinet. He had what was called a Party of King's Friends both in the Cabinet as well as in Parliament. That sort of thing was put a stop to by collective responsibility. As I said, collective responsibility can be achieved only through the instrumentality of the Prime Minister. Therefore, the Prime Minister is really the keystone of the arch of the Cabinet and unless and until we create that office and endow that office with statutory authority to nominate and dismiss Ministers there can be no collective responsibility.

"...I have not been able to understand why, for instance, Prof. K. T.Shah thinks that the Prime Minister ought to be eliminated.If I understood him correctly, he thought that he had no objection if by convention a Prime Minister was retained as part of the executive. Well, if that is so, if Prof. K. T.Shah has no objection for convention to create a Prime Minister, I should have thought there was hardly any objection to giving statutory recognition to the position of the Prime Minister.
In England, too, as most students of constitutional law will remember, the Prime Minister was an office which was recognised only by convention. It is only in the latter stages when the Act to regulate the salaries of the Minister of Cabinet was enacted. I believe in 1939 or so, that statutory recognition was given to the position of the Prime Minister, Nonetheless, the Prime Minister existed.

"I want to tell my friend Prof. K. T. Shah that his amendment would be absolutely fatal to the other principle which we want to enact, namely collective responsibility. All Members of the House are very keen that the Cabinet should work on the basis of collective responsibility and all agree that is a very sound principle. But I do not know how many Members of the House realise what exactly is the machinery by which collective responsibility is enforced.Obviously, there cannot be a statutory remedy. Supposing a Minister differed from other Members of the Cabinet and gave expression to his views which were opposed to the views of the Cabinet, it would be hardly possible for the law to come in and to prosecute him for having committed a breach of what might be called collective responsibility. Obviously,there cannot be a legal sanction for collective responsibility. The only sanction through which collective responsibility can be enforced is through the Prime Minister. In my judgment collective responsibility is enforced by the enforcement of two principles. One principle is that no person shall be nominated to the Cabinet except on the advice of the Prime Minister.

"Secondly, no person shall be retained as a Member of the Cabinet if the Prime Minister says that he shall be dismissed. It is only when Members of the Cabinet both in the matter of their appointment as well as in the matter of their dismissal are placed under the Prime Minister, that it would be possible to realise our ideal of collective responsibility. I do not see any other means or any other way of giving effect to that principle. Supposing you have no Prime Minister; what would really happen? What would happen is this, that every Minister will be subject to the control or influence of the President. It would be perfectly possible for the President who is no adidem with a particular Cabinet, to deal with each Minister separately singly, influence them and thereby cause disruption in the Cabinet. Such a thing is not impossible to imagine.

"Before collective responsibility was introduced in the British Parliament you remember how the English King used to disrupt the British Cabinet. He had what was called a Party of King's Friends both in the Cabinet as well as in Parliament. That sort of thing was put a stop to by collective responsibility. As I said, collective responsibility can be achieved only through the instrumentality of the Prime Minister. Therefore, the Prime Minister is really the keystone of the arch of the Cabinet and unless and until we create that office and endow that office with statutory authority to nominate and dismiss Ministers there can be no collective responsibility."

Not all of Ambedkar's fears may be relevant now. But they help us to understand why the Constitution-makers considered the office of the Prime Minister and the President differently, and did not provide for an officiating Prime Minister.

Salve at Oxford - Terrorism and (a political analysis of) PILs

Mr Harish Salve, former Solicitor-General, gave a talk last night (03 December 2008) at Exeter College, Oxford. The two themes he discussed are summarised below:

On terrorism:
Mr. Salve noted that this attack has been perceived differently, whether or not it was in fact different (he acknowledged, without accepting or rejecting it, the explanation that this may have something to do with the fact that this time the rich were targets). But he did say that the thing most different about this attack was the reaction of the 'middle classes'. Speaking as a lawyer, he lamented that the most immediate fall-out is likely to be a thorough discrediting of the human rights discourse. He also referred to the intense pressure the government is under to act swiftly and decisively, and worried that this might lead to hasty actions. Whatever the outcome, he believed that the incident has the potential to reshape the geo-political realities of the region, and perhaps the world, and also have very important implications for domestic politics in India.

My Comments -
Arun has referred to Darryl Li's brilliant analysis on this blog, which argued against the dangers of seeing this incident, dastardly as it is, to be unique and transformative. Mr. Salve indicates that whether we like it or not, the preception is definitely that this is India's 9/11. My own hypothesis is that in being a drawn out rather than an instantaneous event, captured live on television and CCTV cameras, must have something to do with our perceptions. Images can be powerful, especially if they linger. Its real parallel with 9/11 might lie in the role playes by these images in shaping our perceptions of the events (remember the planes hitting the twin towers?).

On public interest litigation:
Some of the talk entailed detailed explanations for an international audience, but it did contain some original analysis which might be unfamiliar and will interest us here. Mr. Salve contextualised PILs as a tool used by the Supreme Court to establish its identity as 'a relevant institution of government'. This is the same theme he elaborated upon in his last talk in Oxford, which was reported on this blog.

He proceeded to give a historical account of India's judicial system, with its roots in colonial times. He mentioned anecdotally that low-caste villagers involved in land-disputes would join the British army to become eligible to access the colonial government's courts rather than the local panchayats (and thereby improving their chances of success).

He then traced the foundation of the Indian Supreme Court in the image of the US SC, although the young Court remained fairly conservative till the mid-60s. Mr. Salve offers a very interesting analysis of the right-to-property cases of its early years. He explains that the Court had no problem when the government took on feudal powers, abolition of zamindari being an example. It was mainly when capitalist institutions like banks and industries were interfered with by Mrs. Gandhi that the SC took up the mantle to defend them.

He then outlined the embarrassing role played by the SC during emergency (in ADM, Jabalpur) and the subsequent need to reinvent itself institutionally. He mentioned the part played by judges like Krishna Iyer and Bhagwati through the '80s. This decade saw great strides in cases relating to prisoners and other marginalised sections of society. Although these cases can be seen as disturbing the institutional balance of branches of government, they did not invite any serious opposition from the other branches of government because they left the political elite largely undisturbed.

In the '90s, he said, the PIL jurisprudence came to focus on two broad themes
(1) environmental activism, which has largely continued in the new century.
(2) activism relating to transparency and good governance. Cases like Vineet Narrain took on the political elite which was hitherto undisturbed. This led to a backlash from the political elite we have seen in recent years. The judgment in Association for Democratic Reforms, discussed previously on this blog, is an indication that the SC is prepared to backtrack on this issue.

In response to a question, Mr. Salve said that the SC has consistently refused to apply the same standards of transparency to itself and what we have instead is obscurity on the functioning of the Court itself (he particularly mentioned the unsatisfactory manner of appointment of judges). In response to another question, he said that the presence of someone like Justice Katju has forced rethink on the Court's institutional role and might force the court to put PILs and separation of powers on sounder doctrinal footings.

Disclaimer - I have tried to report honestly, but there might be errors due to miscomprehension on my part. I reserve the right to made suitable modifications if such error is pointed out to me by the speaker or any of the attendees.