Guest Post: Marital, Material, Maternal: An Analysis of the “Change in Material Circumstances” Standard in the Supreme Court’s Abortion Judgment

[This is a guest post by Ananya Giri Upadhya.]


In June, the United States Supreme Court’s decision to overturn Roe v Wade triggered observations that the right to abortion was better protected in India than in the United States. A judgement in September by the Supreme Court of India (SC) providing for abortions after the 20-week mark to unmarried women was further affirmed as a “huge step forward”. However, the new “change in material circumstances” standard evolved by the SC leaves much in the hands of lower courts, which may not be as progressive. 

The Case

India does not provide an absolute right to abortion; that is, based on the will of the woman. Instead, Section 3(2) of the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act, 1971 (“Act”), as amended in 2021, stipulates that a woman may opt for an abortion up to the 20-week mark with one medical opinion that it risks her life or “grave injury to her physical or mental health” or that there is a substantial risk that the child, if born, would suffer from serious abnormalities. Meanwhile, abortions beyond the 24-week mark are generally impermissible unless necessary to save the woman’s life or a substantial abnormality is diagnosed.

Abortions between 20 and 24 weeks are only allowed in six categories, provided they are backed by two such medical opinions. Section 3B of the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Rules, 2003 (“Rules”) lays down these categories:

  • Of women: (1) minors, (2) survivors of sexual assault, rape or incest, or (3) women with physical/mental disabilities, 
  • Of foetuses: (4) a foetus with a malformation that risks incompatibility with life or serious handicap, or 
  • Of circumstances: (5) a woman in humanitarian settings, disasters or emergency situations (declared by the Government) or (6) a woman who has experienced a “change of marital status during the ongoing pregnancy (widowhood and divorce)”

Those involved in abortions not permitted by the Act, including the woman herself, are criminally liable under the Indian Penal Code (IPC) for up to seven years’ imprisonment.

X v. Government of NCT of Delhi (“X v. NCT”) was born out of an unmarried woman’s interest to terminate her 23-week pregnancy because the partner had refused to marry her “at the last stage”, ending the relationship. Her prayer was that Category 6 be interpreted as including a “change in relationship status”, through an equality claim that the category provided a leeway to married women but not to single or unmarried women. Giving birth, she stated, would lead to social stigma, agony and financial burden to both her and the child.   

The Delhi High Court, however, dismissed her petition, refusing to give the legislation the purposive interpretation it deserved, given the object of the Act “to liberalise” provisions relating to abortions (ironically, one of the judges had opined in a maintenance case last year that social welfare statutes must be liberally construed so as to not defeat their purpose). X then approached the SC in July, who, in a temporary ruling allowed her to get an abortion considering the object of the Act and a 2021 amendment which replaced references to a “married woman” and “husband” in the Act with “woman” and “partner” respectively.

The SC’s Final Judgement

While considering the issue again in September, the SC did not restrict itself to the equality claim on “relationship status”, although X’s petition, some part of the July order, and a recent petition by Nikhil Datar, the gynaecologist whose efforts resulted in many of the 2021 amendments, hewed to this claim.

Instead, the SC expanded Rule 3B to include all women (instead of expanding it to women who faced a change in relationship status). Yet, as it still considered Rule 3B a “leeway” for women who were unable to get an abortion earlier (paragraph 82), it was imperative for it to impose some restriction on abortions – which it opted to do by way of the term “change in material circumstances” (“CMC”) (paragraph 93). It left each case to be tested against this standard per its unique facts and circumstances (paragraph 94).

The Problem

The SC itself identifies that women face infrastructural issues and stigma that prevents them from availing safe abortions (paragraph 18). Assuming women do make it to the doctors – to its credit, the judgement reiterates positive obligations on the state to make abortions accessible and affordable (paragraphs 129, 130, 133, and 134) – how would doctors respond to this change in law? Alok Prasanna writes that as long as the IPC criminalises abortions not saved by the MTP Act, doctors will be scared of charges by partners or families who want the pregnancy to continue to term and adjudge the CMC standard accordingly.

The trouble only begins here. The SC identified that doctors asked for family consent, documentary proofs, and judicial authorisation even while Rule 3B prevailed (paragraph 22). With the shift from a clear (albeit limited) categorisation in Rule 3B to the vague (albeit broader) standard of CMC, doctors might find themselves incapable of the required inquiry, which has a socio-economic and not medical basis. Doubtful of whether their interpretation of the standard will be held correct in case a charge is filed, they may opt to defer to the court before carrying out an abortion itself (or choosing not to abort at all, in which case the woman has to go through the harrowing process all over again with other doctors).

If they do decide to adjudge the CMC standard, doctors may look for documentary proofs, especially those matching the examples given by the SC – a loss of a job leading to financial insecurity, domestic violence, sudden diagnosis of a chronic disease, if she suddenly has dependents to support, or if she found out she is pregnant after the 20-week mark (paragraph 92). This is problematic because doctors may take these examples as exhaustive, and because documentary proofs may not always be available (such as in cases of domestic violence which is not reported due to stigma). Further, there is a disproportionate impact of requiring documentation on women working in the informal sector – for labourers (especially migrant labourers), proving the work-related impacts of childbirth through documents is impossible.

Alternatively, to avoid a criminal charge, they may ask the woman to prove that her family members are consenting to abortions. A woman whose partner, family or partner’s family want her to go through with the pregnancy and are promising support will not only be unable to show family consent, but also financial insecurity.

Back to Courts

Most ‘hard cases’, then, will fall to courts. On one hand, judges are better equipped to adjudicate socio-economic questions such as CMC and their adjudication of cases will not render them liable to criminal charges (unlike doctors). On the other hand, it remains to be seen how progressively courts assess the standard. To ascribe an attitude to judges based on decisions that predated the CMC standard might be premature, but high courts have disregarded a woman’s wish to get an abortion to continue her education and career (see Neelam Choudhary v. Union of India).  

Part of the issue comes from how the standard is phrased. Courts are not required to assess merely “material circumstances”, but a “change in material circumstances”. The SC’s example of job loss evinces a view that career or educational interests are only relevant insofar as there has been some change in the woman’s position since conceiving that changed her mind after the 20-week mark. The phrasing comes from the understanding of Rule 3B as a ‘leeway’ and as a carry-forward of the phrase “change in marital status”. However, a divorce under the “change in marital status” exception is usually no sudden process: a divorce formalised during pregnancy is likely to follow a process of discord and separation that started well before conception or the 20-week mark.

Likewise, a woman whose relationship status with her partner is the same since conception (there has not been a break-up or divorce, or there was no relationship in the first place) cannot claim a change in her circumstances. In Neelam Choudhary, the petitioner had alleged matrimonial discord to the point where she intended to file for divorce. Yet, she had to carry the pregnancy – which she alleged arose out of her husband’s refusal to use protection. In a later case before the same court, intention to divorce was considered, but the abortion was ultimately allowed based on the fact that there was a registered case of domestic violence.

Would better outcomes result from a standard based on “material circumstances” instead of CMC? The judgement describes material circumstances as those “situational, social, and financial circumstances of a woman or her family [that] may be relevant to her decision to carry the pregnancy to term” (paragraph 87). This would likely provide more space to accommodate the woman’s decisional autonomy (elaborated in the next section) than having to show a change: for instance, for women who are unemployed before and after conception, like X. However, “material circumstances” might still be used to require some external basis for wanting an abortion like financial insecurity rather than the woman’s internal wishes.

A pertinent question is whether the SC could take the “material circumstances” standard instead of CMC when Rule 3B(c) reads “change of marital status”? I answer in the affirmative, but the answer is complicated by the SC’s confusion over the framing of issues itself. Although the case pertained to including unmarried women within the scope of Rule 3B(c), and unmarried women were already included in all other clauses of Rule 3B, the SC frames the issue as “whether Rule 3B includes unmarried women, single women, or women without a partner under its ambit” (paragraph 30). This allows the SC to also study all the other clauses in detail in the section on ‘Construing Rule 3B’. It finds a common thread running through each category of women in Rule 3B: that she is in a circumstance that is unique and difficult, physically, mentally, socially or financially (paragraph 69). It then recognises that Rule 3B does not “enumerate all the potential changes that a woman’s material circumstances may undergo” and that “the benefit granted by Rule 3B must be understood as extending to all women who undergo a change of material circumstances” (paragraph 93), but explaining neither the decision to interpret Rule 3B as a whole, nor the leap from mere “circumstance” to a “change” thereof.

That said, the CMC phrasing, providing scope for the dynamic and complex nature of relationships, is likely to have better outcomes than for women whose intimate partner promises support but later reneges (although the relationship subsists) than a “change in relationship status” standard.

Right to Privacy and Compelling State Interest

From showing how judges may decide against the woman’s interest even with the new, broad standard, I now question why judges are vested with this power. When a woman insists she is not ready to bear a child, it seems contrary to logic that a bench of judges – that too all-male judges, like the High Court and SC benches in X v. NCT – can rule otherwise. Courts may assess stability of career or education as a ground to suggest capability for motherhood, instead of as interests to be protected against unwanted motherhood. As Gauri Pillai has identified, motherhood is presumed to be a woman’s natural state. This presumption is in stark contrast to how women see their own pregnancies: the United Nations Population Fund finds that nearly half of all pregnancies each year are unwanted.

Instead of broadening Rule 3B in response to an equality challenge, should abortions hinge on privacy? The right to privacy was held to be a fundamental right by the SC in Justice KS Puttaswamy v. Union of India: privacy was understood as including decisional autonomy, to make the “personal, intimate” choice relating to one’s reproduction (paragraphs 248, 298, 373, and 510). Puttaswamy and the July order in X v. NCT referred to cases that held that a woman’s right to reproductive autonomy (to procreate as well as to abstain from procreating) was crucial to her privacy and dignity and that a forcible loss of this right reduces the woman to a vehicle for procreation.

The “compelling state interest” in protecting the life of the foetus countervails in abortion cases. How have courts weighed this interest vis-à-vis the rights of the woman? The Bombay High Court in Siddhi Shelar v. State of Maharashtra (quoted in Sidra Sheikh v. State of Maharashtra) held that although compelling state interest was a “weighty consideration”: However, there can be no compelling State interest, in insisting upon continuance of pregnancy beyond 20 weeks where it would involve a grave injury to the mother’s physical or mental health. The scheme of the MTP Act, even otherwise, places the interests of the mother on a higher pedestal than the interests of the prospective child. This is based on the logic that the foetus cannot have independent extra uterine existence and the life of the mother who independently exists is entitled to greater consideration.

The judgement in Sidra that “mental health” was wider than “mental illness” and included the woman’s actual and foreseeable socioeconomic environment was relied on in XYZ v. State of Maharashtra where a woman was allowed to terminate her 26-week pregnancy arising out of consensual sex owing to mental health issues, although a medical board had found that she would not face grave injury to her mental health. While the reading in Sidra is helpful in that it recognises that being forced to carry an abortion against one’s will is in itself a mental health risk, thereby allowing all cases where the woman wishes to abort to pass the requirements up to 20 weeks, the Sidra, Siddhi and XYZ cases view forced pregnancies as a (mental) health risk and not as violation of privacy, representing a missed opportunity.

Gestational Age Limits

Is there – and should there be – an increased degree of state interest depending on the age of the foetus? In a study on the human rights impacts of abortion laws, the World Health Organization (WHO) noted that gestational age limits on abortions that lead to unwanted childbirth violate not only the right to health, privacy and equality (vis-à-vis those seeking an abortion at earlier stages), but also, interestingly, the right to be “free from cruel, inhuman and degrading treatment”. It recommends against all gestational age limits on abortions.

The WHO’s analysis does not consider the “human” rights impact on a foetus, or whether (and when) a foetus is a “person” with legal rights. In Canada, which prescribes no limit for abortions based on the will of the person, the unborn foetus is a person only if it is “born alive”: that is, the foetus in utero has no independent legal status but the child after birth has legal rights retroactively. Notably, bills calling for separate charges for injuring foetuses in crimes against pregnant women have failed since they would implicitly bestow legal personhood to a foetus and give way to challenges against the right to abort. In India, a petition by a pro-life organisation calling for all abortions to be criminalised except where the woman’s life is threatened was dismissed by the Kerala High Court and now lies at the SC. The petition, which claims a “right to life” for the foetus, does not explain, then, why the mother’s right to life should take priority over that of the foetus.

The question of determining “when” to accord legal personhood is complex: there is global diversity on gestational age limits, ranging from 8-week (Guyana), 24-week (Singapore), and 120-day (Maldives) marks and the infamous “heartbeat” bills in the United States with 6-week marks. In India, the Pratigya Campaign for Gender Equality and Safe Abortion calls for the 20-week limit to be increased to a 24-week limit for all cases and not only those that meet the requirements of Rule 3B. As Pillai notes, even if there is a compelling state interest, there is no other context where one person is required to offer bodily assistance to another (for example, to donate a kidney to one’s child).

Lastly, this compelling state interest in protecting the foetus can only be extended against an abortion, but not from being abandoned or given in adoption. The bizarre suggestion made by the Delhi High Court in X v. NCT explicates this: to deliver and immediately give the child up for adoption. There is a false equivalence between an infant to be given in adoption and an unborn foetus to be aborted that hides the physical toll of carrying pregnancies to term and the psychological toll on the mother upon being torn from the infant and having to declare that she is “surrendering” her child (in the language of the Adoption Regulations). Whether it is preferable to abort than to separate a child from his birth parent and place him in adoption agencies and the shame of having been “surrendered” until – if at all – he can find adoptive parents, raises deep ethical questions.

Conclusion

The CMC standard is a double-edged sword. While its breadth accommodates more women than a “change in relationship status”, a woman’s decisional autonomy is still restricted by the narrow interpretations judges may give to it.

That said, the specificity of the prayer and equality challenge before it in X v. NCT may not have permitted the SC to delve into criminalisation of abortions and legal personhood of a foetus and how it militates against the woman’s rights. However, the SC could have dealt with this narrow scope in two ways that do better for women’s rights than the current judgement: firstly, by simply recognising that these issues, along with that of preventing sex-selective abortions, deserve analysis but in a future, more appropriate case or from the legislature; and secondly, by choosing to frame the standard as simply “material circumstances” instead of a change in material circumstances.

Guest Post: Abortion and Equality – Building Upon the Supreme Court’s Judgment in X v NCT

[This is a guest post by Gauri Pillai.]


The Supreme Court’s decision in X v NCT Delhi has received much acclaim. At the minimum, it threw open the doors of India’s law on abortion to unmarried women who experience a change in relationship status, doing away with the archaic assumption that sexuality is (and ought to be) confined to the institution of marriage. At the same time, it was an ‘omnibus decision’, touching upon—though not fully resolving—a range of issues, of concern not just to India’s law on abortion but implicating a wider network of intersecting legal frameworks.

Some of these issues are the following: the Court interpreted ‘grave injury to mental health’—a condition for abortion within the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act 1971 (MTPA)—broadly, going beyond mental illnesses to highlight the severe harm to mental health from being compelled to carry to term any unwanted pregnancy. The Court also identified the ‘chilling effect’ the criminalisation of abortion within the Indian Penal Code 1860 (IPC) places on the interpretation of the MTPA. Further, the Court suggested that rape, under the MTPA, includes marital rape, which is otherwise exempted from the IPC definition of ‘rape’. The Court also took steps towards diluting the requirement to mandatorily report child sexual offences under the Protection of Children from Sexual Offenses Act 2013, in light of its impact on adolescents’ access to abortion. The Court included within its definition of ‘woman’ persons other than cis-gender women who may also require access to safe abortions. Finally, the Court placed positive duties on the State to remove barriers restricting access to abortions. The Court thus took several crucial first steps in reimagining India’s law on abortion, laying the ground for future interventions on these themes. In this blog post, I make a case for where the Court could possibly go next.

The Court anchored its range of holdings, in part, within ‘core constitutional rights’. As the Court made clear, ‘certain constitutional values, such as the right to reproductive autonomy, the right to live a dignified life, the right to equality, and the right to privacy have animated our interpretation of the MTP Act and the MTP Rules’. The Court, then, drew out the constitutional conceptions of ‘decisional autonomy’, ‘privacy’, ‘dignity’ and ‘bodily integrity’, emphasising how these values require that women’s abortion decisions be both respected and facilitated.

Equality is a value that the Court mentioned in its initial framing. However, it receded somewhat in the Court’s later analysis. Of course, equality was front and centre in the Court’s holding that the distinction between married and unmarried women in accessing abortion is unconstitutional because it ‘promotes the stereotype…that only married women indulge in sexual intercourse’. However, do restrictive abortion laws (like the MTPA) raise broader equality concerns? Do they discriminate on ground of sex? These questions have not often been asked—and, as a result, answered—within constitutional accounts of abortion (or reproductive rights more generally) in India. X v NCT Delhi is no exception to this trend.

Here, I make a preliminary attempt to answer these questions. In Part I, I lay out the conception of equality which is capable of supporting a claim of discrimination in relation to abortion. In Part II, I detail how a discrimination law case can be built against India’s law on abortion and the key contributions of a discrimination law lens.

Part One: Conceptions of Equality

Broadly, there exist two competing conceptions of equality. Formal equality is modelled on the Aristotelian maxim to treat likes alike, meaning that dissimilar treatment of dissimilar classes fails to raise concerns of equality. Under a formal equality account, restrictive abortion laws do not discriminate on ground of sex. Pregnancy is seen as automatically rendering women different from men. As a result, treating women differently (by requiring them to carry a pregnancy to term) does not trigger a sex equality violation. Thus, formal equality’s search for sameness and exclusion of difference translates into an automatic rejection of claims of sex discrimination when they involve pregnancy. Moreover, all formal equality offers similar classes is identical treatment. It fails to recognise that sometimes differential treatment—for instance, workplace accommodations for pregnancy—is necessary to achieve equality. As a corollary, a law treating similar classes identically but having a disproportionate adverse impact on members of some groups falls outside the radar of formal equality. Thus, formal equality concerns itself with treatment under the law, or the law’s facial form, rather than its impact.

In contrast, substantive equality abandons sameness-difference as its operating paradigm. This comes from the recognition that formal equality is an impoverished account of equality, especially for members of disadvantaged groups. By dismissing claims of sex discrimination on the ground that the sexes are differently situated in matters of reproduction, formal equality ‘rationalizes differential treatment of the sexes as legitimate and as merely “reflecting” the fact of biological difference’. Under this model, refusing to hire a pregnant woman would thus not amount to sex discrimination because pregnant women are seen as different from men. Formal equality also easily maps onto existing social hierarchies, ‘ratifying rather than challenging them’: ‘the worse the inequality gets, the more disparate its social reality becomes, the less this legal approach can do about it, hence the more [it] operates to institutionalise it’. For instance, consider a rule promoting only full-time employees. The rule would disproportionately exclude women who often work part-time to balance paid work with their childcare responsibilities. Formal equality would, however, uphold the rule because it sees part-time employees as different from full-time employees when it comes to promotions, therein reinforcing existing social inequalities which hold women alone responsible for childcare.

Moving away from sameness-difference, substantive equality no longer asks whether women are similar to or different from men in assessing an equality claim. Instead, substantive equality’s central inquiry is whether the rule or practice in question perpetuates group-based disadvantage, in which case it falls foul of the equality guarantee. As a result, difference—here, pregnancy—no longer operates as a headwind to an equality claim. This crucial shift lays the ground for pregnant women to bring a claim of discrimination against a law which perpetuates their disadvantage. Substantive equality also recognises that identical treatment alone fails to guarantee equality. Treating men and women identically may, in some cases, have the effect of perpetuating women’s disadvantage. If so, substantive equality allows, or even requires, forms of differential treatment to redress disadvantage. Thus, substantive equality concerns itself with the impact of the law rather than its form.

India’s constitutional conception of equality is substantive, as has been acknowledged by the Supreme Court (see here and here). First, it centres disadvantage, rather than sameness-difference. We see this in the specific grounds listed under Articles 15(1) and 16(1)—sex, religion, caste—which have been sites of historical group-based disadvantage, representing ‘past ways in which people have been marginalized and oppressed’. We also see it in the explicit mention of disadvantaged groups under Articles 15(3), 15(4), and 16(4)—women, children, Scheduled Castes and Tribes. Second, it aims to redress these forms of historical disadvantage—eliminate ‘age-long disabilities and sufferings’, and abolish ‘social inequity, the social stigma and the social disabilities in our society’—to achieve ‘real equality’ amongst members of groups. Third, to achieve such ‘real equality’, it both prohibits certain forms of differential treatment—for instance, untouchability or exclusion from the public sphere—and allows other forms differential treatment—for instance, special provisions for women. Finally, it understands disadvantage multi-dimensionally, including stigma, denial of participation and socio-economic disadvantage on account of group membership.

In Part II of this blog, I apply this constitutional conception of equality to mount a discrimination law challenge against India’s law on abortion. For now, I consider a claim of sex discrimination, though a claim of intersectional discrimination may also be brought.

Part II: Bringing a Discrimination Law Lens to Abortion

Establishing a Discrimination Claim

From the constitutional core of substantive equality, in assessing if a law is discriminatory, India’s equality and non-discrimination guarantee asks:

[Does] the impugned Rule disproportionately [affect] a particular group? [Does] the law [have] the effect of reinforcing, perpetuating, or exacerbating disadvantage? Such disadvantage could be in the shape of: “[e]conomic exclusion or disadvantage, [s]ocial exclusion…[p]sychological harms…[p]hysical harms…[or] [p]olitical exclusion”, and must be viewed in light of any systemic or historical disadvantages faced by the claimant group.

Restrictions on abortion within the MTPA affect women as a group wholly, or pregnant women as a group disproportionately. They deny women reproductive decision-making by allowing access to abortion only when certain conditions are satisfied within specified time limits. Whether these conditions have been met is assessed by doctors (not women). The MTPA exists as an exception to the criminal prohibition on abortion within the IPC. As a result, doctors interpret the conditions within the MTPA narrowly, fearing the threat of criminal sanction, a factor the Court noted in its judgment.

The cumulative effect of India’s law on abortion is, then, to perpetuate or exacerbate women’s historical disadvantage along the different dimensions. Being denied an abortion often forces women to bring up a child within a patriarchal system where they bear unilateral responsibility for childcare, which is devalued within and outside the home. Due to their childcare responsibilities, women are excluded from the public sphere (say, from employment), or are required to work the ‘double day’, shaping the nature and extent of their participation outside the home. This leads to their economic exclusion, heightening their economic disadvantage. Further, the denial of reproductive decision-making within the MTPA is based on stereotypes about women as mothers and as incompetent decision-makers. The law on abortion, then, entrenches these stereotypes, influencing social perceptions about women as a group. Being denied abortions also harms women physically. As noted by the Court, it requires women to either carry the pregnancy to term—with its onerous physical responsibility—or approach unsafe, backstreet abortion providers. Either way, their physical health is adversely affected, in many cases threatening their life. Unsurprisingly, unsafe abortions are the third largest cause for maternal mortality in India. Denial of abortion, moreover, harms women psychologically. As the Court recognised, ‘any unwanted pregnancy…[has] a deleterious effect on mental health’ of the woman. These effects of the law also have to be viewed in light of women’s systematic, historical disadvantage. As was repeatedly recognised in the Constituent Assembly, ‘the average woman in this country has suffered now for centuries from inequalities heaped upon her by laws, customs and practices of people’. If so, a law like the law on abortion, which perpetuates centuries of inequalities experienced by women, would fall foul of the equality guarantee under a substantive conception of equality.

Contributions of a Discrimination Law Lens

What changes, when a discrimination law lens is introduced to assess a violation of reproductive rights? At the outset, discrimination law immediately locates the individual within the group(s) to which she belongs, identifying that ‘it is the individual’s group membership [which] is the terrain upon which social disabilities operate’. Discrimination law, then, recognises that restricting abortion denies reproductive decision-making to women: a group which has a history of disadvantage emerging from, amongst other things, meanings attached to their reproductive ability. Seen against this history, restricting abortion is not simply an act which severely harms the individual woman’s decisional autonomy, dignity and bodily integrity, as the Court identifies in X v NCT Delhi. Rather it is also an act which forms a part of an abiding historical pattern, often occurring because of group membership. That is, in being denied abortion, the woman is harmed not only as an individual but also as a member of a group, in turn cementing the group’s overall disadvantage.

This perspective heightens the extent of constitutional rights violations the Court already identifies. That it is women to whom decisional autonomy, dignity and bodily integrity are being denied magnifies the harm from such denial, making it that much more egregious. On this point, consider Dorothy Roberts’ account of the  prosecution of pregnant women addicted to drugs in the United States, many of whom are black. Roberts powerfully argues:

The harm caused by the prosecution of crack addicted mothers is not simply the incursion of each individual crack addict’s decision-making; it is perpetuation of a degraded image that affects the status of an entire race. The devaluation of a poor black addict’s decision to bear a child is tied to the dominant society’s disregard for the motherhood of all black women. The diminished value placed on black motherhood, in turn, is a badge of racial inferiority worn by all black people.

A discrimination law lens, thus, shines light on the relationship between ‘the dehumanization of the individual and [the] subordination of the group’. The Court’s judgment saw the denial of the abortion decision as dehumanising the individual woman, taking away her ability, as a ‘self-governing’ individual, to make ‘intimate decisions’ on reproduction. However, it did not adequately appreciate that such denial was happening to an individual woman because she was a woman, with such independent acts of denial affecting not just the individual woman but also women as a whole group. The Court did hint at such a perspective, in its observation that reproduction is both ‘biological’ and ‘political’:

it is biological since physical bodies reproduce, and it is political since the decision on whether to reproduce or not is not solely a private matter. This decision is intimately linked to wider political, social, and economic structures. A woman’s role and status in family, and society generally, is often tied to childbearing and ensuring the continuation of successive generations.

Here, we see nascent inflections of a discrimination law lens: that reproduction means (or, rather, has come to mean) something different for women. The next step, then, would be to interrogate the implications of this recognition for the legal regulation of abortion in India: what is truly at stake, from a constitutional perspective, when women are denied an abortion?

Moving on, the discrimination law lens also presents redressing of group-based disadvantage as a site for State action. This has two significant implications in the abortion context. First, the law often considers—as is now the case in India—State interest in protecting the foetus as placing ‘reasonable restrictions’ on women’s right to abortion. It is important to note that the Supreme Court in X v NCT Delhi did not introduce foetal interests as a restriction on abortion. Instead, in several places the Court saw the woman as the ‘ultimate decision-maker’ on abortion. However, it did not address whether this meant that no restrictions could be imposed on abortion (including those in light of foetal interests), leaving the question open for future courts. In fact, a petition challenging the constitutionality of the MTPA for violating foetal right to life has already been filed before the Supreme Court.

In asking if restricting abortion is necessary to protect foetuses, the discrimination law lens highlights that abortions are often necessitated by group-based disadvantage. For instance, in India, the most common factors motivating abortions are inadequate access to contraception and violence against women and girls leading to unwanted pregnancies, and the absence of State or familial support in childcare. These factors represent ways in which women experience disadvantage as women. They do not know about, cannot afford or are unable to insist on the use of temporary contraception. They are raped by strangers and acquaintances (including members of their families). And they bear unilateral responsibilities for childcare. So understood, redressing group-based disadvantage presents an alternate site for State action to reduce the need for abortion and thus protect foetuses. In fact,

there is a wealth of evidence that suggests that a concern for protecting [foetal] life can be more effectively pursued through policies that attack the incidence of unwanted pregnancy (for example, through improving the quality of sex education and contraceptive provision, and making motherhood a more realistic possibility for women struggling to balance childcare alongside other commitments).

If so, State insistence on restricting abortion as the means to protect foetuses is the State resorting to the more convenient option of ‘promoting the welfare of the unborn only when it can use women’s bodies and lives to realise the potential of unborn life’. This, the discrimination law lens would argue, is patently contrary to the constitutional commitment under the ‘equality code’.

Second, in X v NCT Delhi, the Supreme Court clearly recognised that respecting women’s abortion decisions requires the State not only to abstain from interfering in decision-making but also to facilitate decision-making through positive duties. What is less clear is the scope of these positive duties. The Supreme Court listed a few duties: disseminating information about abortion, improving affordability of the procedure, and preventing discriminatory treatment amongst doctors. Each of these duties seeks to redress specific forms of group-based disadvantage: illiteracy amongst women causing lack of awareness about abortions; poor women’s inability to access abortion due to high costs; and the tendency amongst medical professionals to mistreat lower caste women. A discrimination law lens, then, systematises this exercise. It identifies the full spectrum of group-based disadvantage, shaping the abortion decision at different stages: in necessitating abortion, in placing barriers to accessing abortion and in hampering quality of care while availing the abortion procedure. Such identification, in turn, presents sites for State action. Of course, this does not imply that courts ought to simply order such State action, ignoring concerns about institutional incompetence and democratic illegitimacy of courts in adjudicating on the State’s positive duties. A more appropriate course of action would be for courts to initiate a process of deliberation with the State and those affected, within the bounds of a human rights framework, an approach proposed (and adopted) by the Supreme Court recently. In any case, irrespective of how the positive duties are enforced, a discrimination law lens, at the minimum, would influence what the positive duties ought to be.

As the Supreme Court’s decision in X v NCT Delhi opens new constitutional avenues in India’s quest for reproductive justice, it presents an apt moment to pause, and consider, all that can be gained in bringing a discrimination law lens to abortion.

The ConCast: Episode 4 (5 August 2022)

In Episode 4 of the ConCast, I spoke to Gauri Pillai about abortion laws and the legal landscape of reproductive rights in India. We discussed the recent High Court and Supreme Court orders relating to a twenty-four-week pregnant woman’s petition for an abortion, the history, design, structure, and implementation of the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act, the origin of “medical boards”, and what a progressive abortion/reproductive rights law might look like.

The Podcast is available to listen below, and also on Podbean, Google Podcasts, Apple Podcasts, and Spotify.

References:

Section 312, Indian Penal Code, 1860 [“IPC”].

Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act, 1971 [“MTPA”.

Medical Termination of Pregnancy (Amendment) Act, 2021.

Medical Termination of Pregnancy (Amendment) Rules, 2021.


Ms X vs Government of NCT of Delhi (High Court order).

Ms X vs Government of NCT of Delhi (Supreme Court order).

Gauri Pillai, “Two Courts, Two Conclusions: Abortion Law in India.”


Suchita Srivastava vs Chandigarh Administration.

Nand Kishor Sharma vs Union of India.

High Court On Its Own Motion vs State of Maharashtra.

Aparna Chandra, Mrinal Satish, Shreya Shree & Mini Saxena, “Legal Barriers to Accessing Safe Abortion Services in India: A Fact Finding Study.”


R vs Morgentaler (Canadian Supreme Court).

Guest Post: Two Courts, Two Conclusions: Abortion Law in India

[This is a guest post by Gauri Pillai.]


On 15 July 2022, the Delhi High Court, in Ms X v The Principal Secretary of Health and Family Welfare Department Government of NCT of Delhi (‘Ms X’), denied an unmarried woman permission to terminate her unwanted pregnancy at 23 weeks under Section 3 of the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act, 1971. A week later, through an ad-interim order, the Supreme Court allowed the woman’s appeal against the Delhi High Court’s order, permitting termination as long as a Medical Board confirms that abortion is medically safe for the pregnant woman. In this post, I discuss both these orders, which differ not just in their outcomes but also their reading of the law, and the factors they take into account in decision-making. But first, I briefly set out the legislative framework governing abortion in India.

Legal Background

The legal regulation of abortion in India began with criminalisation. The Indian Penal Code 1860 (‘IPC’) declared criminal voluntarily causing a woman with child to miscarry, unless done in good faith for saving the life of the woman. It brought within the scope of the law both the person causing the miscarriage, and the woman herself. Predictably, criminalisation did not eliminate the need for abortions and only compelled women to seek abortions in unsafe settings from unskilled practitioners, causing death. To quell the rising mortality rate, the State introduced the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act (‘MTPA’) in 1971, conditionally legalising certain categories of abortions, and exempting them from criminal sanction.

The MTPA allows termination up to an outer limit of 20 weeks. Termination is permitted only when continuation of pregnancy would cause grave injury to the physical or mental health of the pregnant woman, or where there is substantial risk that the foetus, if born, would suffer from such physical or mental abnormalities so as to be seriously handicapped. The 1971 Act was amended in April 2021. As per the amended law, the limit of 20 weeks has been extended to 24 weeks—as long as the above conditions are met—for certain categories of women, as specified in the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Rules 2003, amended in October 2021. Rule 3B lists the following categories: (a) survivors of sexual assault or rape or incest; (b) minors; (c) change of marital status during the ongoing pregnancy (widowhood and divorce); (d) women with physical disabilities (e) mentally ill women including mental retardation; (f) the foetal malformation that has substantial risk of being incompatible with life or if the child is born it may suffer from such physical or mental abnormalities to be seriously handicapped; and (g) women with pregnancy in humanitarian settings or disaster or emergency situations as may be declared by the Government. An assessment as to whether the conditions specified are met is carried out by one medical professional for termination before 20 weeks and two medical professionals for termination between 20 and 24 weeks.

Inclusion of Unmarried Women

An immediate question before both the Delhi High Court and the Supreme Court in Ms X was whether an unmarried woman with a unwanted pregnancy at 23 weeks fell within the ambit of Rule 3B. The Delhi High Court adopted a literal interpretation, holding that since the rule did explicitly not specify unmarried women (unlike, say, widows or divorcees), it did not extend to the petitioner. The Supreme Court, in contrast, deviated from this ‘unduly restrictive’ interpretation, and adopted a purposive reading of the MTPA, making four crucial observations.

First, the Court held that the listed categories of widows and divorcees were simply illustrative of the broader category of change in marital status; they did not exhaust it. This implied that other instances of change in relationship status would also fall within the ambit of the rule. In this case, the petitioner, who was in a consensual relationship, sought termination because she was deserted by her partner: in other words, she decided to terminate her pregnancy due to a change in relationship status, accounted for by Rule 3B. Second, the Court noted that the 2021 amendment to the MTPA modified Section 3 to extend it to unmarried women. Section 3 states that a grave injury to mental health justifying termination can be presumed if pregnancy is on account of failure of contraception. While the 1971 Act saw such failure of contraception as occurring only between a ‘ married woman and her husband’, the 2021 Amendments extend it to ‘any woman and her partner’. This, the Court held, clearly indicated legislative intent to bring pregnancies outside marriage within the reach of the MTPA. Third, the Court observed that the MTPA recognises the ‘reproductive choice of a woman and her bodily integrity and autonomy. Both these rights embody the notion that a choice must inhere in a woman on whether or not to bear a child’. In light of this underlying purpose, denying the petitioner the choice of termination simply because she is unmarried, the Court remarked, would be at odds with the spirit of the MTPA. Finally, the Court held that live-in relationships have previously been recognised by the Supreme Court, which has refused to impose subjective notions of social mortality through the law to ‘unduly interfere with the domain of personal autonomy’. Drawing the four arguments together, the Supreme Court allowed the unmarried petitioner to terminate her unwanted pregnancy.

This is certainly a crucial development in Indian abortion law. The exclusion of unmarried women from Rule 3B speaks to the law’s questionable elevation of marriage as the only form of relationship that deserves legal recognition, on the basis of which certain groups of women are denied an essential form of healthcare (access to abortion). The exclusion also cements the patriarchal assumption that women ought to express their sexuality only within the institution of marriage. Women who experience a change in marital status (on account of death of their partner or divorce) are thus seen as deserving of the law’s sympathy, while women who engage in sex outside of a marital relationship are punished through withholding their right to access an abortion. In reading Rule 3B and Section 3 to include unmarried women, the Supreme Court rightly refuses to perpetuate these assumptions.

Ignoring the Body

Beyond the Delhi High Court’s restrictive reading of Rule 3B, the High Court also shockingly minimised—to the extent of ignoring—the bodily impact of pregnancy. During the hearing the Court told the petitioner that ‘hardly 12 weeks’ were left to carry the pregnancy to term, after which she could give up the child for adoption. When the petitioner remained firm in her decision to terminate the pregnancy, the Court responded by offering to pay for childbirth in a good hospital. All the petitioner then had to do, the Court’s observations implied, was to carry the pregnancy to term for the remaining 12 weeks. Is that not a reasonable ask, the Court appeared to entreat, to ensure that the foetus survives? In refusing termination, the Court in essence concluded that it was, indeed, a reasonable ask.

However, in arriving at this conclusion, the Court completely disregarded the impact of an unwanted pregnancy on the body of the pregnant women. Pregnancy involves ‘all the body systems, displacing body parts, depleting the body of its necessary elements and changing its chemical balance’. As has been noted within the literature, it increases blood volume by 50%, stroke volume of the heart by 35% and renal function by 50-60%. It decreases lung volume by 20% and the respiratory rate by 15% (2-3 breaths per minute). The pituitary gland enlarges 135% and the production of growth hormones increases dramatically. A whole new organ, the placenta, is generated by the body. The excess progesterone produced by the placenta can cause fluid retention, increase in blood pressure, weight gain and inability to sleep. The size and position of the heart and the uterus change, the latter displacing and compressing other organs in the gastro-intestinal tract. The resulting pressure may affect the circulation of blood, sometimes causing irreversible varicose veins, haemorrhoids and disabling thrombophlebitis. The interference with the gastro-intestinal tract can also cause constipation. The displacement of the urinary tract can result in urinary tract infections. The weight of the uterus can create sacroiliac strain, backache and pressure on the cervical spine, potentially resulting in numbness, tingling, and proprioceptive acuity reduction in the hands. Metabolically, the pregnant woman is in an accelerated stage of starvation due to the nutritional demands of a growing foetus. Increase in oestrogen levels can cause nausea and vomiting in the first four months, resulting in dehydration, extreme fatigue, headaches, confusion, fainting, low blood pressure, rapid heart rate, and anxiety or depression. Childbirth frequently damages the pelvic organs which might then require corrective surgery. Bladder control may be permanently lost.

Notably, these are the biological indications of a medically ‘normal’ pregnancy. Complications during pregnancy could result in a worsening of these conditions or an exacerbation of pre-existing health conditions such as asthma, high-blood pressure or thyroid disease. When the pregnancy is desired, the pregnant woman willingly assumes this demanding physical responsibility. However, when the pregnancy is unwanted, these significant biological changes are externally imposed, and their cost undervalued (or ignored), motivated by the ‘latent assumption’ that ‘motherhood is women’s ‘normal’ condition’, rendering state actors ‘oblivious to the life-consuming consequences of forcing women to perform its work…[A] legislature may not decide that it is reasonable to save unborn life by compelling pregnancy ‘but for’ the archaic or stereotypic assumptions about women it holds’.

The strength of the stereotype is heightened when we acknowledge that in no other context does the law demand that one individual offer bodily assistance to another. As some authors note, the law does not mandate that one jump into a river to save a child from drowning. Closer to the context of pregnancy, the law does not require that a parent run into a burning house to rescue a child, or compel a parent to donate a kidney to a child who needs a kidney even for one day, forget 12 weeks (see here, here and here). Of course, a parent might willingly go into a burning house or donate a kidney to save her child, just like a pregnant woman, who desires the pregnancy, willingly provides her body to nurture the foetus. However, at issue here is an unwanted pregnancy, not a wanted one. Despite refusing to impose a similar responsibility in other analogous contexts, the law on abortion expects pregnant women to protect the foetus in this manner, indicating the role of underlying assumptions about women as mothers.

The Delhi High Court, in its order or during the hearing, made no reference to this demanding, one-of-a-kind physical responsibility imposed on women. The bodily cost borne by women in carrying to term an unwanted pregnancy was thus not just undervalued by the Court, but outrightly ignored. The Supreme Court’s order offered some respite, by emphasising women’s right to bodily integrity. However, even the Supreme Court did not acknowledge the sheer extent of the bodily demand made on women. Forcing a woman to carry to term an unwanted pregnancy is not just a question about her body being used against her will, but also about how her body is being used, and the magnitude of the ask being made of her. Without explicitly recognising the immense bodily responsibility that pregnancy is, especially when it is unwanted, the cost to women from compelling pregnancy will always be diluted (or worse, disregarded).

Growing Prominence of Foetal Interests

The Delhi High Court’s observations during the hearing also speak to another worrying trend: the growing prominence of foetal interests in India’s regulation of abortion. The Court repeatedly stated that allowing termination at 23 weeks would ‘virtually amount to killing the child’. In so observing, the Court seems to view the 23-week old foetus as a child (presumably with a right to life). This is contrary to the earlier Supreme Court decision in Suchitra Srivastava, which views the foetus only as a ‘prospective child’, and the Bombay High Court decision in High Court on its Own Motion where the Court held that ‘an unborn foetus is not an entity with human rights… A child when born and takes first breath, is a human entity’. Even parliamentary debates on the MTPA make clear that the foetus, under Indian law, is not seen as an unborn child. Though two members of the Parliament in 1971 and one member in 2020 opposed the MTPA on the basis that abortion is ‘virtually murder’ and a ‘crime against humanity’, their objections were rejected, pointing out that ‘there is no violation of [the right to life] in any manner’. The Delhi High Court decision, then, is inconsonant with precedent and legislative intent in India.

The Supreme Court’s order, in contrast, speaks a different language. In assessing whether the termination ought to be permitted or not, the Supreme Court does not refer to the foetus. While that is certainly a position the law can take—that the foetus ought to be irrelevant in determining the permissibility of abortion—that conclusion has to be reasoned, especially in light of the earlier Supreme Court decision in Suchitra Srivastava which takes the foetus’ status as a prospective child into account as a ‘reasonable limitation’ on the right to abortion. It is therefore important for the Supreme Court in Ms X to set out a principled basis for its stance, failing which it risks contributing to doctrinal confusion on the role of the State interest in preserving the potential life of the foetus in limiting the abortion right; it remains to be seen whether this will happen when the case is finally considered on merits. On this point, instead of silence, a more helpful response would be for courts to ask, and to hold the State accountable for answering with evidence, several key questions: Is the potential life of the foetus a legitimate aim which the State can pursue? Even if it is, are restrictive abortion laws suitable in achieving the aim? Are such laws necessary to protect foetal potentiality? Going forward, the answers to these questions will be central in determining the shape of the law on abortion in India.

Notes from a Foreign Field: Developing Indirect Discrimination – Bringing Fraser to India [Guest Post]

[This is a guest post by Gauri Pillai.]


Article 15(1) prohibits the State from discriminating against any citizen ‘on grounds only of religion, race, caste, sex, place of birth or any of them’. The Supreme Court, in the now infamous Nergesh Meerza, read Article 15(1) to mean that discrimination should not be made ‘only and only on the ground of sex’ but could be made ‘on the ground of sex coupled with other considerations.’ On the one hand, the ‘on ground only of…sex’ test functions to bring in a requirement of intention to discriminate. The presence of a reason for discrimination—say, to protect women—operates as an ‘other consideration’, bringing the rule outside the scope of the non-discrimination guarantee, even if the effect of the rule is to disadvantage women (see here). Discrimination in thus understood to mean intentional, individual acts of prejudice tied to the ‘moral blameworthiness’ of actors. There is no recognition that ‘such prejudices are frequently embedded in the structure of society’, the ‘unquestioned norms, habits, and symbols in the assumptions underlying institutional rules and the collective consequences of following those rules’: in other words the ‘everyday practices of a well-intentioned society’, beyond the conscious coercive actions of a ‘tyrannical power’ alone.  On the other hand, the ‘on ground only of…sex’ test excludes indirect discrimination. Facially neutral rules having an adverse effect on members of a specific group would amount to ‘other considerations’ beyond the listed ground, thus placing such rules outside the reach of Article 15(1) (see here).

However, the Supreme Court trilogy in Sabarimala, Joseph Shine and Navtej Johar offers an alternate reading of the non-discrimination guarantee. First, the scope of Article 15(1) was extended to ‘institutional and systemic discrimination against disadvantaged groups’, thereby tackling ‘structures of oppression and domination’ excluding members of these groups from full and equal social, economic, political and cultural participation (Chandrachud J., concurring opinion, Sabarimala, paragraph 117 and Joseph Shine, paragraph 38). Thus, there was a shift towards understanding discrimination in a structural sense. Second, the central enquiry under Article 15(1) was no longer the intention of the discriminator. Rather, the ‘primary enquiry to be undertaken by the Court’ was whether a rule, in form or effect, ‘contributes to the subordination of a disadvantaged group of individuals’ (Chandrachud J., concurring opinion, Joseph Shine, paragraph 38). Finally, the ‘on ground only of…sex’ test was dismissed as a ‘formalistic interpretation’ of Article 15(1), because it failed to recognise the ‘true operation’ of discrimination (Chandrachud J., concurring opinion, Navtej Johar, paragraph 36). Instead of relying on the formal basis of classification—the listed ground ‘plus’ the facially neutral criterion—Article 15(1) was reoriented to focus on the effect a facially neutral rule. In other words, indirect discrimination was recognised, and brought within the scope of the non-discrimination guarantee.

Despite the steps forward, several questions still remain unanswered. How does the recognition of discrimination as a structural phenomenon affect the doctrinal functioning of the non-discrimination guarantee? What is the test for indirect discrimination? How should courts assess the impact of a rule? What forms of impact are relevant? What kind of evidence is suitable and necessary for such impact assessment? Answers to these questions are crucial to enable Courts to apply these concepts going forward. In their absence, these ideas could remain at the level of rhetoric, without translation into doctrine. In this post, I present the recent decision by the Supreme Court of Canada in Fraser v Canada—interpreting the non-discrimination guarantee under Section 15 of the Canadian Charter—as offering clear responses to these questions, and thus providing normative and doctrinal guidance for India. However, before I get into discussing the case, it is important to interrogate briefly why a decision from Canada is relevant for constitutional jurisprudence in India: why should India listen to Canada?

Canada offers a helpful comparative because the constitutional function of the non-discrimination guarantees in the Canadian Charter and the Indian Constitution bear significant similarities. As the Court recognises in Fraser, ‘the root of s. 15  is our awareness that certain groups have been historically discriminated against, and that the perpetuation of such discrimination should be curtailed’ (paragraph 77). An identical commitment underlies Article 15, the object of which has been identified as guaranteeing protection to ‘those citizens who had suffered historical disadvantage’ by removing their ‘age-long disabilities and sufferings’. This is reinforced by the placement of Article 15 within the ‘equality code’, consisting of Article 16, which permits the State to treat members of disadvantaged groups differently through reservations, offering them ‘real and effective’ equal opportunity for employment; Article 17, which abolishes untouchability to free Dalits from ‘perpetual subjugation and despair’, ‘social inequity, social stigma and social disabilities’; and Article 18 which prohibits an Indian citizen from accepting titles in order to dismantle social hierarchy, or the perceived superiority of some over the other.

Having set out the similarities in the constitutional vision underlying the non-discrimination guarantees in India and Canada, I now turn to Fraser. In 1997, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (‘RCMP’) introduced a job-sharing program to provide its members an alternative to taking leave without pay. Under the program, two or three RCMP members could split the duties and responsibilities of one full-time position, allowing each participant to work fewer hours than a full‑time employee. The petitioners, three female employees of the RCMP, enrolled in the job‑sharing program along with 137 other members. Most participants were women, and they cited unilateral responsibilities for childcare as their reason for joining the program. Ms. Fraser described feeling ‘overwhelmed’ as she tried to balance work and family; Ms. Pilgrim felt like she was ‘on a treadmill’; and Ms. Fox recounted the experience as ‘hell on earth’ (paragraph 7). The RCMP introduced a rule deeming the job-sharing position part-time work for which participants could not receive full-time pension credit. This policy was challenged by the petitioners as having a disproportionate, adverse impact on women, thus violating their right to non-discrimination under Section 15.

The Court began by identifying the shift away from a ‘fault-based’ conception of discrimination towards an ‘effects‑based model which critically examines systems, structures, and their impact on disadvantaged groups’. The shift, the Court observed, was premised on the recognition that discrimination is ‘frequently a product of continuing to do things the way they have always been done’ rather than an intentional, prejudicial act by an individual actor (paragraph 31). In other words, the Court identified discrimination as structural, in general. The Court then set out how parenting is structured socially in Canada. Citing evidence, the Court observed that the public sphere, including the workspace, continues to be built on the male norm, and requires an ‘unencumbered worker’ with no responsibilities of care. At the same time, the private sphere, including the home, continues to be built on the labour of women who unilaterally undertake a major share of parental responsibilities (paragraph 104). In other words, the gendered division of labour, a product of inequality between the sexes, is systemically built into the ‘everyday practices’ of Canadian society. While this recognition is significant in and of itself, how did it influence the claim under the non-discrimination guarantee?

The lower courts rejected the discrimination claim holding that while most employees who lost out on pension benefits due to job-sharing were women, the loss occurred due to the ‘choice’ of the petitioners to job-share. The Supreme Court in Fraser however used the understanding of discrimination as structural—in general and in the specific context of parenting—to contest this notion of ‘choice’. The Court observed that choice should not be assessed as against an ‘autonomous, self-interested and self-determined individual’. Rather, a ‘contextual account of choice’, taking into account the ‘social and economic environments’ in which choices play out is necessary. The Court then applied this contextual understanding of ‘choice’ to women’s decision to job-share. The Court argued that the decision to job-share is far from an ‘unencumbered choice’. Against the structurally unequal institution of parenting, the only available option for women—‘euphemistically labelled choice’—is to opt for forms of accommodation like job-sharing, which are associated with lower wages, fewer benefits, fewer promotional opportunities, and minimal or no retirement pensions. If so, penalising them for this ‘choice’ by denying them pension benefits both punishes them for inequality, and perpetuates such inequality by exacerbating women’s socio-economic disadvantage, and entrenching stereotypes about women as ‘bad employees’ who ‘do not merit or want more responsible, higher‑paying jobs because they will inevitably prioritize family over work’. Thus, the Court highlighted the ‘flaws of over-emphasising choice’ in the Section 15 enquiry: ‘by invoking the “choice” to job‑share as a basis for rejecting the s. 15(1)  claim, the [lower courts] removed the “challenged inequality from scrutiny, effectively taking it off the radar screen so as to circumvent examination of the equality issues at stake”’ (paragraphs 88-92).

This does not imply that in the absence of inequality, women would never opt to job share and spend time with their children. The Court in fact recognised this by holding that ‘differential treatment can be discriminatory even if it is based on choices made by the affected individual or group’. This is because discriminating on ground of certain choices—like the decision to parent—violates human dignity and is thus inherently discriminatory, independent of inequality (paragraphs 86-86). Thus, the decision to parent was implicitly recognised as valuable by the Court, and job-sharing was seen as facilitating the decision by removing the disadvantage associated with it in the employment sphere. However, the Court did not develop this line of reasoning, as it mapped onto a claim of discrimination on ground of parental status which did not need to be pursued in light of the gender discrimination claim (paragraph 114).   

In assessing ‘choice’ in light of the structurally unequal institution of parenting, the Court also recognised the reason why it was women who primarily made the ‘choice’ to job-share:

[a] number of structural conditions push people towards their choices, with the result that certain choices may be made more often by people with particular “personal characteristics”. This is a key feature of systemic inequality—it develops not out of direct statutory discrimination, but rather out of the operation of institutions which may seem neutral at first glance (paragraph 90).

This then brought the Court to the issue on indirect discrimination. It also normatively grounded the recognition of indirect discrimination as a necessary response to the interaction between seemingly neutral rules and prevalent structural inequality. Indirect discrimination, the Court held, occurs when ‘a seemingly neutral law has a disproportionate impact on members of groups protected on the basis of an enumerated or analogous ground…Instead of explicitly singling out those who are in the protected groups for differential treatment, the law indirectly places them at a disadvantage’ (paragraph 30). The Court then set out a two-stage doctrinal test for assessing indirect discrimination.

At the first stage, the Court would enquire whether a rule, in effect, creates a distinction on the basis of a protected ground by having a ‘disproportionate impact’ on members of a group within the ground. The Court discussed the nature of evidence that could be used to prove this claim. On the one hand, evidence providing the ‘full context of the claimant group’s situation’ would be useful to demonstrate that ‘membership in the claimant group is associated with certain characteristics that have disadvantaged members of the group’. However, the Court was careful to note that evidence on issues which predominantly affect certain groups may be under‑documented. As a result, claimants may have to rely more heavily on their own evidence or evidence from other members of their group, rather than on government reports, academic studies or expert testimony. On the other hand, evidence—including statistical evidence—about the outcome of the rule, or a substantially similar one, in practice could offer ‘concrete proof that members of protected groups are being disproportionately impacted’. The Court clarified that there is no universal threshold on what level of statistical disparity is necessary to demonstrate that there is a ‘disproportionate impact’. Declining to craft rigid rules, the Court held that it would vary depending on the case. The Court also noted that both kinds of evidence are not always required: ‘in some cases, evidence about a group will show such a strong association with certain traits—such as pregnancy with gender—that the disproportionate impact on members of that group will be apparent and immediate’ (paragraphs 50-72).

Once the petitioner establishes that the rule, in effect, creates a distinction on the basis of the protected ground, the second stage of the enquiry starts. At this stage, the Court asks whether:

the law has the effect of reinforcing, perpetuating, or exacerbating disadvantage…The goal is to examine the impact of the harm caused to the affected group. The harm may include “[e]conomic exclusion or disadvantage, [s]ocial exclusion…[p]sychological harms…[p]hysical harms…[or] [p]olitical exclusion”, and must be viewed in light of any systemic or historical disadvantages faced by the claimant group (paragraph 76).

Thus, a focus on impact or effect of the rule is built into both stages of the test: first to determine whether the rule draws a distinction on the basis of a protected ground, and second to assess whether the distinction perpetuates disadvantage and is thus discriminatory. Applying the test to the case at hand, the Court held that the rule denying full pension benefits to job-shares, though facially neutral, had a ‘disproportionate impact’ on women. The Court relied on statistics—from 2010‑2014, all RCMP members availing job-share were women, and most of them cited childcare as their reason for doing so—and other evidence—commission reports, academic work and judicial decisions—’about the disadvantages women face as a group in balancing professional and domestic work… because of their largely singular responsibility for domestic work.’ This evidence, the Court held, established the ‘clear association between gender and fewer or less stable working hours’, and proved that the rule drew a distinction in effect between men and women, satisfying the first stage (paragraphs 97-106). Coming to the second stage, the Court held that the denial of pension benefits to women exacerbates women’s historical disadvantage. It impacts them socio-economically, with evidence suggesting that the feminisation of poverty is linked to the disparities in pension policies. At the same time, it also entrenches ‘a long‑standing source of disadvantage to women: gender biases within pension plans, which have historically been designed for middle and upper‑income full‑time employees with long service, typically male’. In other words, it retains the ‘male pattern of employment’, continuing to construct the public sphere around the male norm. In light of these ‘far‑reaching normative, political and tangible economic implications’ of the rule, it was held to perpetuate women’s disadvantage, and thus discriminate against women (paragraphs 107-113).

Thus Fraser demonstrates, with great clarity, how understanding discrimination as a structural phenomenon translates into the functioning of non-discrimination guarantee. It allows the Court to resist the rhetoric of ‘choice’ which can be used to subvert claims of discrimination. It also offers a compelling normative grounding for the recognition of indirect discrimination. Fraser further lays out a cogent two-stage test for establishing indirect discrimination, indicates the forms of impact that are relevant and describes the nature of evidence which can be used to prove such impact. It therefore provides clear normative and doctrinal guidance to India in developing the constitutional jurisprudence on indirect discrimination.

Guest Post: The Abortion Petition – Some Key Questions

(This is a guest post by Gauri Pillai.)


This post examines the recent writ petition filed in the Supreme Court of India, challenging the constitutionality of certain provisions of the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act, 1971 (‘Act’). The Act permits termination up to a period of 20 weeks. It requires the approval of one medical professionals for termination prior to 12 weeks, and two medical professionals for termination between 12 and 20 weeks. Termination is permitted only when continuation of pregnancy would cause grave injury to the physical or mental health of the pregnant woman, or where there is substantial risk that the fetus, if born, would suffer from such physical or mental abnormalities so as to be seriously handicapped (Section 3(2)). If the pregnancy is caused due to rape, or failure of contraceptive device used by a ‘married woman or her husband’, it is presumed that there is grave injury to the mental health of the woman (Explanation, Section 3(2)). Beyond 20 weeks, the Act permits termination only if ‘immediately necessary to save the life’ of the pregnant woman (Section 5).

The Challenge 

The Act, the petition argues, imposes a severe restriction on women’s right to ‘reproductive choice’, that is, ‘the right to choose whether to conceive and carry pregnancy to its full term or to terminate, [which lies] at the core of one’s privacy, dignity, personal autonomy, bodily integrity, self-determination and right to health, recognised by Article 21 of the Constitution’. This is because termination, even within the first trimester, is permitted only upon fulfilling certain conditions, set out above; termination on account of fetal abnormality is allowed only up to 20 weeks; and finally, termination beyond 20 weeks is restricted to instances ‘immediately necessary’ to save the ‘life’ of the pregnant woman.

By critiquing these restrictions for being excessive, harsh and disproportionate, the petition mounts a challenge to the Act under Article 21. However, I argue, the petition does not interrogate, and dislodge, the assumptions that lie behind these restrictions. Instead, it takes these assumptions as given and works within them, to argue for more expansive rights.

The Presumption of Motherhood

The Act is premised on two fundamental assumptions.

First, the Act views women primarily as mothers, and pregnancy as natural and inevitable. This is indicated by provisions of the Act which allow abortions only under exceptional, adverse circumstances, suggesting that the default option for women is to continue with their pregnancy. It could be argued that women’s right to an abortion is restricted to exceptional situations in order to balance the interests of the woman against interests of the fetus. If so, the present framing of the Act implies that in exceptional, adverse circumstances, the interests of the woman take precedence over that of the fetus. However, in the absence of such circumstances, the interests of the fetus override that of the woman.

This framing assumes one of two things (or both): (a) in the absence of exceptional circumstances, women are happy to continue their pregnancy; and/or (b) in the absence of exceptional circumstances, women should be expected to continue their pregnancy. In case of (a), it is assumed that there would be no harm to women’s interests because women, under ordinary circumstances, would want to continue their pregnancy (and be mothers). For instance, in the landmark decision of Suchitra Srivastava v Chandigarh Administration, the Supreme Court observed, ‘the termination of pregnancy has never been recognised as a normal recourse for expecting mothers’. Since there is no harm to women’s interests, fetal interests are given priority. In case of (b), it is assumed that the harm to women’s interests from continuation is lesser than the harm to fetal interests from termination. This is premised on the assumption that even if the individual woman does not desire the pregnancy, pregnancy is natural and inevitable, something all women go through. Therefore, in the absence of exceptional circumstances, the harm from continuation of an unwanted pregnancy is minimal. As a result, in these circumstances, the harm to women’s interests from continuation of pregnancy is considered to be lesser than the harm to fetal interests from termination. Thus, the Act starts from a position where women are seen first and foremost as mothers, and pregnancy as natural, inevitable, and desired by all women. This assumption then influences the assessment of harm and balancing of interests carried out by the Act. This is not to say that no other considerations influence the balancing, but to highlight that the current framing of the Act suggests that presumptions regarding women’s role as mothers is one such consideration.

The petition appears to resist this narrative by asking for abortion on demand within the first trimester. However, a close reading of the petition reveals that the reason behind this claim is not the recognition that it is ‘normal’ for women not to be mothers, and opt for termination. Instead, the claim is made because the health risk to women from continuation of pregnancy is more than the health risk accompanying termination during the first trimester. Thus, even in asking for abortion on demand within the first trimester, the petition fails to dislodge the gendered assumption underlying the Act which views women as mothers, and pregnancy as natural and inevitable; instead, it merely works to expand the instances of termination permitted within this narrative.

A Strand in a Gendered Web

Second, the Act views abortion as an ordinary medical procedure, with no larger social import. This is obvious in the very title of the Act, which refers to ‘medical termination of pregnancy’, rather than ‘abortion’; the Statement of Reasons or Objects of the Act which describes abortions as ‘health measures’ to alleviate ‘danger to the life or risk to the physical or mental health of the woman’, and prevent ‘wastage’ of her life; the predominance given by the Act to the opinion of medical professionals, viewing them as co-decisionmakers along with the women; and, the reliance placed by courts on the decisions of Medical Boards—set up to weigh the risk of continuation of pregnancy against the medical risk of termination—in allowing abortions beyond 20 weeks, under Section 5 (see here, here and here). Women’s decisions to undergo an abortion are overridden if the Medical Board opines that the continuation of pregnancy is ‘less hazardous’ than termination at that stage (see here). Thus, the medical risk of termination becomes the primary consideration while making a decision under the Act.

This tendency to prioritise the medical risk of termination over other considerations, including the woman’s choice, is evident in the petition as well. For instance, the petition constructs the right under Article 21 in the following terms: ‘Where the termination of pregnancy itself does not involve risk to the physical life of the woman, her right to choice…[has] to be respected’. Similarly, as mentioned above, the petition argues for abortion on demand within the first trimester only because ‘there is no dispute [that] the risks involved when pregnancy is carried to full term far outweigh the minimal and negligible risks involved when pregnancy is terminated in the first trimester. Keeping this in view, the State cannot make any law restricting the right of the woman seeking abortion’ during the first trimester. In this sense, the petition follows the Act in viewing abortion primarily as a medical procedure, by respecting women’s choice only when medical opinion favours it.

However, this understanding of abortion is reductive, and ignores that at the centre of abortion lies a group of persons—women—who have been historically oppressed on account of their reproductive ability. The fact that women can reproduce is translated into the essentialist, universal assumption that women must. These gendered expectations, however, do not end at the moment of birth. Women are not only expected to bear children but also assume primary responsibility for their care. This largely unilateral responsibility of child-care has confined women to the domestic sphere, and maintained the distinction, and the hierarchy, between the public and private spheres. Motherhood and paid employment are constructed as incompatible. Several empirical studies demonstrate that the presence of young children in the house is associated with lower female workforce participation in India, with women quitting work after childbirth (see here and here). At the same time, childcare—women’s contribution in the home—has a low status in society. Though ‘reproduction entails incredible liabilities and workload, [it] is still considered to be of lesser value compared to men’s engagement in production that yields market value’. In this sense, pregnancy is not an isolated nine-month episode in the life of a woman; it is instead located within gendered structures of power, which require women to bear children and raise them, compelling them to sacrifice other opportunities they value, while, at the same time, devaluing their labour. Articles 14 and 15 provide constitutional grounding to this perspective on pregnancy. However, the role of these provisions is outside the scope of the specific argument being made by this post, and is thus not developed.

Against this context, abortion cannot be viewed as just another medical procedure. Instead, it should be seen as allowing women to take back control over their bodies and lives—control they have been historically denied, and on the basis of which they have been disadvantaged. This recognition is absent within the petition, which argues for permitting women to undergo termination only as long as there is no threat to their life or health. In this manner, the petition places abortion on the same page as other medical procedures, where the opinion of the medical professional is given overriding priority. Through this, women seeking abortions are seen merely as patients seeking medical care, stripping away the gendered social context of reproduction in India.

Thus, the Act is deficient because it is premised on two underlying assumptions: women as mothers, and abortion as an ordinary medical procedure. The petition, in challenging the Act as restrictive and unconstitutional, does not dislodge these assumptions, and shift abortion outside these narratives. Instead, it retains the framing offered by these assumptions, and therefore constructs a limited right to medical termination of pregnancy. This might be an intentional strategy, to ensure that the claim has a greater chance of being accepted by the court. However, it is important to question whether in making this concession and failing to interrogate these assumptions, the petition, even if granted, will result in real and effective reproductive control for women.

The Remedy

The remedies sought by the petition include striking down as unconstitutional Section 3(2)(a) to the extent it makes termination during the first trimester conditional; Section 3(2)(b) to the extent that it imposes a 20 week limit on termination in case of grave mental or physical injury to the woman, or fetal abnormality; and, Section 5 to the extent that termination beyond 20 weeks is permitted only when ‘immediately necessary’ to save the ‘life’ of the pregnant woman. If the approach I propose is adopted, and the fundamental assumptions underlying the Act are challenged, certain remedies—such as abortion on demand within the first trimester—would remain the same. Others could, however, differ. If the balancing exercise does not start with viewing women as mothers, and pregnancy as natural and inevitable, then the balance struck between the woman’s and fetal interests could change. Similarly, if abortion is not viewed as an ordinary medical procedure, a case could be made for why the choice of a woman who wishes to undergo termination even after being informed of the risk to health or life needs to be respected. These would change the very structure of the Act, by questioning the imposition of conditions and time limits. However, even if the specific remedies do not change, by challenging the assumptions underlying the Act, the petition, if accepted, could shift the discourse on abortion, and set us on the path towards meaningful reproductive choice for women.

Guest Post: Navtej Johar v Union of India – On Intersectionality (We’re not quite there yet)

(This is a guest post by Gauri Pillai).

The theory of intersectionality, within feminist jurisprudence, views individual identity as arising from an interaction of several grounds, such as caste, sex, disability, age, religion, race, sexual orientation etc. Originating in the context of understanding the identities of Black women as being shaped by both gender and race, the theory recognises that women are not a monolith, facing a single form of oppression; instead their multiple social identities interact, resulting in unique forms of marginalisation. Intersectional discrimination therefore signifies discrimination suffered on the basis of more than one personal characteristic. Such discrimination is not merely a sum or overlap of discriminatory treatment experienced due to individual grounds, but is instead characterised by a “uniqueness and sharedness” arising from the intersection of the various grounds. For instance, a Dalit woman with disabilities shares experiences of discrimination with persons with disabilities, Dalit individuals and other women. However, she also faces a distinctive form of discrimination due to the interaction of her multiple identities, which is more than a mere combination of discrimination on account of disability, caste and sex/ gender.

Article 15(1) of the Constitution of India reads, “The State shall not discriminate against any citizen on grounds only of religion, race, caste, sex, place of birth or any of them”. In interpretation of this provision, courts have placed emphasis on the word “only” to imply that only discrimination on a single ground is suspect under Article 15, thus excluding intersectional discrimination from its scope. For instance, the Calcutta High Court in Mahadeb v Dr BB Sen held, “The impugned law must be shown to discriminate because of sex alone. If other factors in addition to sex come into play in making the discriminatory law, then such discrimination does not, in my judgment, come within the provision of Article 15(1) of the Constitution”. In Dattatraya Motiram v State of Bombay, the Bombay High Court accepted a form of discriminatory treatment as constitutionally valid, arguing, “If there is a discrimination in favour of a particular sex, that discrimination would be permissible provided it is not only on the ground of sex, or, in other words, the classification on the ground of sex is permissible provided that classification is the result of other considerations”. This trend was confirmed in Air India v Nergesh Meerza, where the Supreme Court stated, “[W]hat Articles 15(1) and 16(2) prohibit is that discrimination should not be made only and only on the ground of sex. These Articles of the Constitution do not prohibit the State from making discrimination on the ground of sex coupled with other considerations.

However, previously on this blog, Shreya Atrey has argued that this misinterprets the meaning of the word “only”. Relying on the placement of this word within the text of Article 15(1), which says “on grounds only of” rather than “only on grounds of”, Atrey points out that the word “only” refers to the inappropriateness of certain personal characteristics or grounds being relied on as the basis of discrimination, and does not indicate the requirement of single-ground claims. Further, interpreting “only” to permit solely claims invoking a single ground of discrimination is a partial reading of Article 15(1), omitting to taking into account the phrase “or any of them” which would allow claims to be made under several grounds.

Justice Chandrachud’s concurring opinion in Navtej Singh Johar v. Union of India dismisses the reliance placed on “only” by cases like Nergesh Meerza as a “formalistic interpretation of Article 15” which would render the “constitutional guarantee against discrimination meaningless” [Chandrachud J., 36]. Though Chandrachud J. does not offer a reinterpretation of the text, as suggested by Atrey, the Court does state that discrimination based on “sex and another ground (‘sex plus’)” would fall within the ambit of Article 15 [Chandrachud J., 36].

This seems to indicate clear judicial approval for the theory of intersectionality. However, Chandrachud J. bases his observations on the need for recognising intersectional discrimination under Article 15(1) on a critique of Nergesh Meerza, holding that the approach adopted by the court in the case was incorrect since it failed to adopt an “intersectional understanding of how discrimination operates” [Chandrachud J., 41]. A close reading of Nergesh Meerza, on the other hand, shows that the case concerned discrimination solely on ground of sex. Nergesh Meerza involved a challenge to certain provisions of the Air India Employee Service Regulations, which created significant disparity between male and female crew with respect to service conditions. The Supreme Court, relying on these very differences in service conditions between men and women, dismissed the claim under Article 15(1), stating the discrimination was on ground of “sex coupled with other considerations”. The Court however failed to question the basis on which these “other considerations” were differentially allotted. As Bhatia argues, especially after finding that the nature of work performed by male and female members was similar, the Court should have held that the initial classification, relying on which these “other considerations” were decided, was based on sex. As pointed out by the female crewmembers in Nergesh Meerza, “the real discrimination was on the basis of sex which was sought to be smoke screened by giving a halo of circumstances other than sex”.

Thus, the dictum of the Supreme Court in Nergesh Meerza was certainly incorrect. However this was not due to a failure to account for intersectional identities of women. Rather, it was because the Court did not recognise that the constitution of the separate cadres and fixing of differential service conditions were themselves based on sex, such that the “other considerations” which the Court declared, when coupled with sex, excluded the claim from the scope of Article 15, were products of sex discrimination. Nergesh Meerza is thus not an example for a “sex plus” claim of discrimination; instead it is a case of sex discrimination where the Court omitted to consider that the “other considerations” were also incidents on discrimination on ground of sex.

The Supreme Court, in Navtej Johar, reversed this trend by stating that if the “other considerations” being relied on are stereotypical understandings of the notions of sex, or factors which have a disparate impact on the members of one sex, these cases would not be distinguishable from discrimination solely on ground of sex. For instance, citing Anuj Garg v. Union of India, the Court pointed out that stereotypes regarding socially ascribed gender roles cannot be used as plus factors to argue that discrimination was not only on ground of sex [Chandrachud J., 41]. Similarly, a rule that only people six feet or more in height would be employed in the army cannot be excluded from the ambit of Article 15(1) as being based on sex and height, since height is often an incident of sex, and classification on the basis of height would have a “disproportionate impact” on women [Chandrachud J., 36]. In this manner, the Chandrachud J. in Navtej Johar deviated from the dictum in Nergesh Meerza, where the Court adopted a formalistic interpretation of sex discrimination as a facial classification between men and women, relegating the other manifestations of sex discrimination to “other considerations”.

To this extent, the approach of the Court in Navtej Johar (through the opinion of Chandrachud J.) represents a welcome shift in the interpretation of “only” under Article 15(1). Atrey argues that the technical interpretation of “only” relied on so far by courts excludes both a contextual and an intersectional analysis of discrimination. By going beyond cases of facial classification between men and women to include other manifestations of sex discrimination- such as the use of stereotypes- the Court in Navtej Johar places sex discrimination within the existing socio-political context by including within the ambit of Article 15(1) the gendered aspects of sex discrimination. In this way, the Court brings in a contextual lens to the analysis of discrimination under Article 15. However, the examples relied on by the Court, as identified above, are incidents of discrimination on ground of sex, rather than intersection of sex with other grounds such as race, disability, age etc. This implies that the Court in Navtej Johar did not go the entire way in recognising intersectional discrimination, despite references to the intersectional nature of sex discrimination [Chandrachud J., 36, 41].

Adopting a more holistic view of sex discrimination, as the Chandrachud J. has done in Navtej Johar, is different from acknowledging the unique forms of oppression created by the intersection of multiple identities, of which sex is only one. For instance, in Shayara Bano v Union of India, the claim of discrimination was brought by Muslim women. Though the decision of the Supreme Court in the case has been critiqued (here and here) for failing to account for intersectional discrimination, the case illustrates how multiple grounds- sex and religion- interact to create a distinctive form of disadvantage. Shayaro Bano is thus an example of a claim of intersectional discrimination; Nergesh Meerza is not. The Supreme Court in Navtej Johar appears to have conclusively established a contextual approach towards analysing claims of discrimination under Article 15(1) by rejecting the interpretation of “only” presented in cases like Nergesh Meerza. However, whether an intersectional lens, which would not just allow but also recognise the distinctiveness of a claim invoking multiple grounds under Article 15(1), has been adopted remains to be seen.

In sum, Justice Chandrachud’s judgment in Navtej Johar recognises the concept of contextual discrimination and acknowledges the concept of intersectional discrimination; however, his actual reasoning is limited to the former. For a judgment that incorporates the concept of intersectional discrimination within the framework of Article 15(1), we may have to wait a little longer.

(The writer has recently completed her BCL degree from the University of Oxford.)