Guest Post: Love, religion, and pre-marital sex – the Allahabad High Court on live-in relationships

[This is a guest post by Anshul Dalmia.]


In a recent judgment, a two-judge bench of the Allahabad High Court (“Court”), dismissed a writ petition of a major couple residing in a live-in relationship, who were seeking protection from harassment from their families, and encroachment on their personal liberty. The Court rejected the application on three major grounds, discussed below.  

Firstly, the Court stated that the binding precedent of the Supreme Court (“SC”) highlighted by the petitioners did not indicate that live-in relationships were promoted by the SC, since Indian law was traditionally biased in favor of marriage. The Court further stated that the SC was merely accepting a social reality and had no intention to alter the social fabric of the country. Moreover, the Court seized this opportunity to ‘create awareness in young minds’ regarding the ‘various legal hassles’ these kinds of partnerships could entail. Secondly, the Court observed that pre-marital sex was not recognized in Muslim law and the punishment for indulging in acts of fornication outside marriage is a hundred lashes and stoning to death. Lastly, the Court believed that invoking the writ jurisdiction for such a matter would be a wrong assumption of extraordinary power.

Through this post, I seek to critique this judgment on the grounds of non-consideration of contemporary precedent and complete ignorance towards the pro-liberty constitutional jurisprudence that has painstakingly been developed by the SC over the course of several years.

Disregard of precedent

At the outset, the Court refers to earlier decisions that have presumed live-in relationships to be “in the nature of” marriages. Further, it provides a reference to decisions wherein Courts have stepped in and protected the rights of people within such marriage arrangements. D Velusamy and Indra Sarma were cited, which provide the conditions for such a relationship to be considered to be a ‘relationship in the nature of marriage’ as per the Domestic Violence Act, 2005. Dhanu Lal and Vidhyadhar were cited, which allowed women to inherit property after the death of their live-in partner. It is surprising that with the presence of these in-built judicial safeguards, the Court believed that young minds needed to be educated regarding the ‘legal complications’ of live-in relationships. However, the Court’s tryst with the decisions of Lata Singh and S. Khushboo is of significant importance.

In Lata Singh, the SC had observed that a live-in heterosexual relationship between consenting adults did not amount to any offence. Moreover, the SC in S. Khushboo, building further jurisprudence, had categorically upheld that live-in relationships are not a statutory offence and consensual sexual relationships amongst adults outside marriage are not prohibited. The Court dismissed any reliance on S. Khushboo by stating that the decision has to be read solely in the context of the facts of the case.

There are several issues with such a position: first, even if S Khushboo was to be rejected, Lata Singh still remained a precedent clear enough to prevent the High Court from adopting such a formalistic approach; but in any event, the S Khushboo observation has been recently approved by the SC in X v. Principal Secretary, NCT of Delhi, (as quoted below) and could be very well considered a binding precedent.

The law must remain cognizant of the fact that changes in society have ushered in significant changes in family structures. In S. Khusboo v. Kanniammal, a three-judge Bench of this Court acknowledged that live-in relationships and pre-marital sex should not be associated with the lens of criminality.

Additionally, in Deepika Singh v. Central Administrative Tribunal, the SC upheld the legality of atypical family relationships such as ‘unmarried partnerships’ which could impliedly mean to indicate live-in set-ups:

Familial relationships may take the form of domestic, unmarried partnerships or queer relationships [..] Such atypical manifestations of the family unit are equally deserving not only of protection under law but also of the benefits available under social welfare legislation.

Hence, the Court’s observation that the SC did not promote such relationships is incorrect and incongruent with previous decisions. It was not the duty of the Court to impose moral observations vis-à-vis the ‘promotion’ of such arrangements by the SC. Rather, it had to discern the ‘legality and permissibility’ of such domestic partnerships. The recent jurisprudence as espoused in the cases of Deepika Singh and X, indicates the attempt made by the SC to recognize non-traditional manifestations of familial relationships. Denying the fundamental right of marriage and life along with not preserving the right to personal liberty on unsubstantiated grounds, indicate a clear abdication of constitutional responsibility by the Court.

Marriage Before Sex or Sex Before Marriage?

The Court while attempting to substantiate the logical analysis in its judgment, refers to provisions of the Quran and the extreme prohibition upon sexual intercourse before marriage. Additionally, any sexual, lustful, affectionate acts are to be severely punished. I contend that invoking of Islamic Law – whether correctly or incorrectly – in this case, is not justified, considering the facts. Firstly, it is apparent that the inter-faith couple would not permitted to marry under the Muslim Law since both need to profess Islam; the Court cannot assume that a conversion might take place for the Quaranic Law to be applicable. Secondly, the jurisprudence vis-à-vis pre-marital sex has conveniently been avoided by the Court here.

A three-judge bench of the SC in Shahin Jhahan v. Asokan K.M. held that:

Intimacies of marriage, including the choices which individuals make on whether or not to marry and on whom to marry, lie outside the control of the state. Courts as upholders of constitutional freedoms must safeguard these freedoms. The cohesion and stability of our society depend on our syncretic culture. The Constitution protects it. Courts are duty bound not to swerve from the path of upholding our pluralism and diversity as a nation. [..] Intimacies of marriage lie within a core zone of privacy, which is inviolable. The absolute right of an individual to choose a life partner is not in the least affected by matters of faith.

While the analysis of the Court regarding pre-marital sex may be considered to be an obiter dictum, it highlights the innate fear of the Courts to approve of such domestic relationships which impliedly allow an indulgence of sexual relationships before or outside the legal confines of a marriage. However, it is imperative to re-look and re-define domestic relationships and familial arrangements in the current paradigm. As correctly identified by the SC in Navtej Johar (as highlighted below), procreation is not the sole reason for companionship in today’s age.

With the passage of time and evolution of the society, procreation is not the only reason for which people choose to come together, have live-in relationships, perform coitus or even marry. They do so for a whole lot of reasons including emotional companionship. Homer Clark writes: But the fact is that the most significant function of marriage today seems to be that it furnishes emotional satisfactions to be found in no other relationships. For many people it is the refuge from the coldness and impersonality of contemporary existence.

Thus, the permissibility of pre-marital sex has already been adjudicated upon and there exists no reason for Courts to deny protection to live-in couples on the possibility of indulging in sexual intercourse outside valid marriage arrangements.

Writ Jurisdiction: Panacea to the Malady?

The writ jurisdiction with the High Court under Article 226 is extremely wide and bestows the Court with full plenitude of judicial power to enforce fundamental rights and prevent their illegal invasion. Here, the Court despite identifying that living together is a facet of the fundamental right to life as enshrined in Article 21, believed that assuming jurisdiction under Article 226 would be improper. Additionally, the Court refused to invoke this extra-ordinary power by stating that this ‘problem’ should be uprooted socially and not through the intervention of the Court. Further, only ‘real’ grievance of a live-in couple could be entertained wherein the couple ought to prove harassment beyond doubt. The harassment to be considered, should be to such an extent that there is a threat of life. In this case, the Court believed that the interfaith couple merely wanted their imprimatur on their relationship and were not seeking any protection of their relationship.

This analysis seems to be a major aberration from the factual matrix. Here, the complaint clearly indicates that the police were harassing the petitioners since they belonged to different religions, and were doing so on the pretext of the complaint of relatives. Imposing such a high standard for intervening in cases of a textbook-clear violation and encroachment of fundamental rights truly indicates a dereliction of duty and an abnegation of the Court’s constitutional power. One can only hope that this is swiftly set right, either on appeal (if the parties so choose), or in another case.

Breathing Life into Article 21: The Manipur High Court’s Order on Refugee Rights and Non-Refoulement

[Update: To no one’s surprise, the Supreme Court has stayed this judgment at the time of writing. [27.4.2022.] – Ed.]


Previously on this blog, we have discussed various issues arising out of the government’s attempts to deport Myanmarese refugees back to their country of origin, as well as the Supreme Court’s refusal to engage with the legal and humanitarian questions at stake. What the Supreme Court refused to do in Salimullah’s Case, however, the Manipur High Court did, today, in Nandita Haksar vs The State of Manipur: in its final judgment and order, the High Court – through Chief Justice Sanjay Kumar and Lanusungkum Jamir J. – held that the principle of non-refoulement was a part of Article 21 of the Indian Constitution, and that in light of that fact, seven Myanmarese refugees were to be allowed to travel to Delhi and claim refugee status before the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR).

Before discussing the High Court’s brief and illuminating thirteen-page order, it is worth noting the speed with which this case was decided. Notice to Union secretaries was issued on 17th of April, 2021; on 20th April 2021, while adjourning the case so that counsel could seek instructions, the High Court issued an interim order granting protection from deportation to the refugees, pending completion of the case. Arguments were concluded on 29th April 2021, and the High Court handed down a judgment on merits on the 3rd of May, 2021. This is exactly how it should be. Compare this, however, with the very similar writ petition pending before the Supreme Court concerning the deportation of Rohingya refugees, which was filed in 2017, and has not been decided in four years. Consider, further, the fact that during the pendency of that petition, the two benches of the Supreme Court – headed by Chief Justices Gogoi and Bobde respectively – passed interim orders allowing deportation to go ahead, even though the question regarding the constitutional rights of refugees was still open, and deportation would have rendered it infructuous for good. The Manipur High Court’s judicial conduct – both in its interim order and in its swift disposal of the case – thus stands in stark contrast to that of the Supreme Court.

There are five salient features underlying the High Court’s judgment. First, the High Court restated the basic principle that the protection of Articles 14 (equality before law) and 21 (right to life and personal liberty) is not limited to citizens, but extends to all individuals (paragraph 8).

Leading on from this, secondly, the High Court held – as had numerous other High Courts before it – that the principle of non-refoulement (i.e., “the right to freedom from expulsion from a territory in which [a refugee] seeks refuge or from forcible return to a country or a territory where he or she faces a threat to life or freedom because of race, religion, nationality, membership in a social group, or political opinion” (paragraph 9)) is part of Article 21 of the Constitution. This is particularly important: in a previous blog post, I asked what the purpose of an expanded interpretation of Article 21 – the crown jewel of the fundamental rights chapter – was, if it couldn’t be invoked to protect even bare life. As the Manipur High Court correctly noted, “the far-reaching and myriad protections afforded by Article 21 of our Constitution, as interpreted and adumbrated by our Supreme Court time and again, would indubitably encompass the right of non-refoulement…” (paragraph 9) Indeed, responding to the Additional Solicitor-General’s argument that the Foreigners Act and the Foreigners Order of 1948 mandated that “illegal entrants suffer for their consequences”, the High Court observed that “these arguments proceed on a rather narrow and parochial consideration of the larger issues that arise in this case.” (paragraph 12). In particular, the refugees:

fled the country of their origin under imminent threat to their lives and liberty. They aspire for relief under International Conventions that were put in place to offer protection and rehabilitation to refugees/asylum seekers. In such a situation, insisting that they first answer for admitted violations of our domestic laws, as a condition precedent for seeking ‘refugee’ status, would be palpably inhuman. (paragraph 12)

Thirdly, the High Court gave short shrift to two arguments that had – apparently – found favour to the Supreme Court. Responding to the argument that Article 19(1)(d) of the Constitution – which guaranteed the freedom to move and reside in any part of India – was available only to citizens, the High Court correctly observed that the issues at stake flowed from Article 21, and not Article 19 (paragraph 13). And furthermore, responding to government counsel’s argument that these refugees represented a “threat to the security of the country”, the High Court simply noted that “no material is produced in support of the same.” Indeed, a few of the refugees had already been granted UNHCR certification on an earlier occasion, and one of them had been granted an Indian visa, previously, Consequently, allegations of a security threat were “therefore purely speculative, born of a fertile imagination.” (paragraph 14) Once again, this is in stark contrast to the Supreme Court order in Salimullah’s Case, where the CJI Bobde-led bench not only appeared to believe that refugees were trying to claim Article 19(1)(d) rights (they were not), but also placed on record – without any scrutiny or investigation whatsoever – government’s counsel “serious” contention that there was a security threat. As we have discussed on many occasions before, in questions involving individual rights when the State attempts to cloak itself by invoking “national security”, almost always, a Court will not need to “supplant” executive wisdom with judicial fiat. Often, simply asking the State to justify its stand will reveal that there is little more than a set of bald statements being made before the Court, with no further evidence.

Fourthly, the High Court anchored its decision to precedent, noting both decisions of the Supreme Court concerning dignified treatment (under Article 21) to foreign nationals, as well as numerous Supreme Court and High Court decisions where refugees were allowed to travel to Delhi and apply to the UNHCR for refugee status, instead of being deported, or where deportation had been stayed pending determination of refugee status (para 16). Thus, not only did the High Court root its decision in constitutional principle, but made its reasoning watertight by grounding it entirely within the scope of existing precedent.

And finally, when government Counsel attempted to cite the order in Salimullah’s Case to make the High Court stay its hand, the Court correctly noted that not only was that an interim order that laid down no binding ratio, but also that concerns about “security threats”, which were amongst the putative bases in that order, did not apply to the present case (paragraph 18). The High Court, therefore, neither ignored the Supreme Court’s order, and nor did it slavishly follow it, but carefully distinguished it on the basis of established constitutional principle. Finally, the Court held:

On the above analysis, this Court finds it just and proper to extend protection under Article 21 of the Constitution to these seven Myanmarese persons and grant them safe passage to New Delhi to enable them to avail suitable protection from the UNHCR. Some of them seem to be in possession of their passports but in any event, their details and particulars have been noted by the Immigration authorities of our country. There shall accordingly be a direction to the FRRO at Imphal airport to immediately provide them with temporary identification cards to enable them to travel to New Delhi by air, if such identity proofs are necessary. The State and Central Governments shall facilitate their travel to New Delhi and shall not cause any obstruction. (paragraph 19)

For the reasons discussed above, the High Court’s judgment is entirely correct, both from the perspective of law, and from the perspective of humanity, and goes somewhat towards expressing the promise of Article 21 in all its richness. There is, perhaps, one point of critique: the High Court’s sharp distinction between “refugees” (who flee military or other kinds of persecution) and “migrants” (who leave for “economic” reasons) was not strictly necessary to its adjudication of the case, and is problematic: the refugee/migrant distinction has been extensively criticised, and there is, by now, an understanding of how economic violence is no less a form of violence than religious, political, or ethnic persecution. That said, the distinction appears to be a part of the contentions raised in the case, and is dealt with in a paragraph; one hopes, therefore, that when a court has an occasion to address these issues in greater detail, a more nuanced approach will be taken.

While in the ordinary course of things the Manipur High Court’s judgment would be seen as a re-affirmation of basic principles, the Supreme Court’s two interim orders (see above) have necessarily compelled many of us to re-examine what we considered to be “basic”, especially with respect to Article 21 of the Indian Constitution. It is from that perspective that the Manipur High Court’s judgment is remarkable, and stands out as an example of judicial courage.

Coronavirus and the Constitution – IX: Three Curious Bail Orders

On the 3rd of April, a Supreme Court bench of L. Nageswara Rao and Deepak Gupta JJ, passed a brief order directing “interim stay of the directions in paragraph 15 and 16 of the order dated 31.03.2020 in S.B.Criminal Miscellaneous Second Bail Application No.17767 of 2019.” The case arose out of the High Court of Rajasthan – and extraordinarily – involved the High Court (through its Registry) appealing to the Supreme Court against an order passed by its own judge

What warranted this bizarre situation? On 31st March, a single judge of the Rajasthan High Court passed an order effectively holding that bail applications and applications of suspension of sentence could not be heard during the lockdown period, as they did not constitute “extremely urgent matters.” The Single Judge noted that (a) sending notice via police personnel (in cases of bail applications under the SC/ST Act) would increase the risk of Covid-19 spreading; (b) as public transport had been shut down, police personnel could not be expected to use their private vehicles to serve notice; (c) the complainants would find it difficult to engage lawyers if they wanted to oppose bail; (d) bail orders would have to be sent to the courts below, and sureties would have to appear; consequently, according to the Court, “the release of one accused or convict shall risk the life of many and would adversely affect the measures taken by the State for complete lockdown.” Noting further that on a report from the Director-General it was clear that there was no “overcrowding” in prisons and that there were regular medical check-ups, the Court directed that no bail or suspension of sentence matters be listed until the withdrawal of the lockdown.

Now, it is important to note that by directing that no bail or suspension of sentence matters could be listed for hearing before the lockdown ends, what the Single Judge effectively did was to judicially suspend Article 21 of the Constitution for the class of under-trials and convicts within the State of Rajasthan. Note that, after the passage of the 44th Amendment, this is something that not even the government is allowed to do, even if it formally declares an Emergency (which, in this case, it hasn’t). Interestingly, there are some very direct parallels between the Single Judge’s order and the judgment in ADM Jabalpur: in ADM Jabalpur a specific argument had been made that the suspension of the remedy of habeas corpus during the Emergency amounted to the effective erasure of Article 21, since without a remedy, there was no question of the right being in existence. Justice Beg dismissed the argument on the sophistic basis that the right remained in existence, and it was only the ability to enforce it that had been kept in abeyance. ADM Jabalpur stands overruled, but – as we have seen too often in the recent past – its underlying logic has not gone anywhere.

While the Supreme Court – as noted above – (mercifully) stayed this grossly illegal order, on the very same day, a Single Judge of the Bombay High Court passed a similar order, citing similar reasons in order to refuse to entertain a bail application until the end of the lockdown period. Indeed, he went even further, noting that the “mere fact that the accused is undergoing either pre-trial or post-trial detention, does not warrant entertainment of the regular bail application on the occasion of Lockdown declared by the State.” The Court went on to hold that an individual released on bail might infect other people in his or her attempts to get back home, and thereby defeat the purpose of the lockdown and of social distancing.

Both the Rajasthan and the Bombay High Courts, in essence, cited administrative difficulties in enforcing bail orders to justify refusing to hear bail applications altogether, during the lockdown period. As I have indicated above, these orders are wholly illegal, as they amount to a judicial suspension of Article 21 rights. They also reflect a deeply distorted judicial approach to fundamental rights: the Bombay High Court openly declared that the “mere fact” that an individual was in detention (and thereby deprived of liberty) was not a serious enough reason for “urgency”; thus, for all the sermonising that the Higher Courts engage in when it comes to Articles 14, 19, and 21 being the “golden triangle” of the Constitution, when it comes to the crunch, it is bail applications that are the first to be consigned to the scrap heap as collateral damage during the lock-down, on grounds of administrative difficulties (indeed, if transport for “essential services” is permitted during the lockdown, does not the enforcement of constitutional rights count as an “essential service”?) . The Higher Courts have also, over the years, expanded the scope of “life and personal liberty” to include all manner of things; but when it comes to the heart of that constitutional article – actual physical bodily liberty, the stark, literal difference between being in jail and being free – the courts now turn around and tell us, effectively: “no big deal.”

As I had mentioned in a previous post, during the course of South Africa’s 21-day lockdown, Chief Justice Mogoeng issued a Directive specifying that subordinate courts would remain open for urgent matters including “bail applications and appeals or matters relating to violations of liberty, domestic violence, maintenance and matters involving children.” It is interesting to note that in CJ Mogoeng’s Directive, bail applications come first in an inclusive definition of what might constitute an “urgent matter”. I would respectfully suggest that a clarification from the Supreme Court on similar lines would go a long way towards ensuring that issues of personal liberty are not tossed aside during the lock-down period.

Such a clarification would also – it is hoped – prevent orders of the kind issued by the Bombay High Court today, where bail granted by a lower Court was stayed (one wonders, if bail matters themselves are not “extremely urgent”, how an application to stay a bail order is, but be that as it may). The Sessions Court had granted bail to two IL&FS directors on the basis of their advanced age, and the threat of Covid-19. One of the arguments made by the State before the High Court, it appears, was that the State High-Powered Committee had only recommended the release of offenders who were facing sentences of below seven years (which these two directors were not). However, surely the fact that offenders of a certain category should be granted automatic bail does not preclude a Court from applying its own mind and allowing a bail application in other cases! In other words, it appears that the fact that the Supreme Court and the High Powered Committee have recommended the release of a certain category of offenders because of Covid-19, that is now being made the basis of arguments that the Courts should automatically refuse bail to offenders who fall outside that category. This, it hardly needs to be said, is a very dangerous path for the law to take.

Worldwide, the outbreak of Covid-19 has triggered serious thinking and reflection about many of the social practices that we take for granted, including modern society’s obsession with incarceration, and our overflowing prison populations. It would be a pity indeed if the response of our courts was, instead, an even lesser regard for personal liberty, and an even more cavalier attitude towards the intersection of pandemics and mass incarceration.

The Constitutional Challenge to the Transgender Act

On 5th December, the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Act came into force. As is well-known, the Act – that had been in the pipeline for four years – was passed over sustained protests and objections by the trans and intersex community. Among other things, critiques of the Trans Bill (as it then was) focused upon its inadequate definitions, its reification of the gender binary, its failure to recognise different forms of sexual identity, the denial of the right to self-determination, its non-recognition of chosen families, the absence of affirmative action provisions, and so on.

Unsurprisingly, therefore, the Act has swiftly been challenged before the Supreme Court, by Assam’s first trans judge (Swati Bidhan Baruah). This post briefly examines the principal grounds of challenge. These can broadly be categorised into (a) the self-determination challenge (Article 21); (b) the equality challenge (Article 14); (c) the non-discrimination challenge (Article 14); (d) the affirmative action challenge (Article 16); and (e) the positive obligations challenge (Article 21).

The Self-Determination Challenge

Section 4 of the Act guarantees to transgender persons the “right to be recognised as such, in accordance with the provisions of this Act.” Section 5, however, stipulates that such recognition will be contingent upon application to a District Magistrate, “in such form and manner, and accompanied with such documents, as may be prescribed.” Section 6 requires the Magistrate to issue a “certificate of identity” following “such procedure … as may be prescribed.” It is only upon such recognition that the transgender person shall have the right to their “self-perceived gender identity” (Section 4(2)).

The petition challenges Sections 4 to 6 on the basis that making self-identification “subject to certification by the State” is unconstitutional. It relies primarily upon two judgments of the Supreme Court: NALSA v Union of India and Puttaswamy (I) v Union of India. In NALSA, the Supreme Court held that the right to gender identity was protected under Articles 19 and 21 of the Constitution. Puttaswamy held that the right to privacy protected the freedom to take intimate decisions regarding personhood and autonomy, decisions that brooked minimum interference from the State. The petition argues that certification process violates both rulings. It also violates the the proportionality standard laid down in Puttasawamy, by being neither suitable, nor necessary, for giving effect to the principle of self-identification.

Now of course, the State may argue in response that if it is to come out with schemes and policies to support the transgender community, some form of State-sanctioned ID is indispensable, as that will be the basis on which beneficiaries will be identified. In order to counter this argument on its own terms, the self-determination challenge may need to be supplemented with an excessive delegation challenge: Sections 4 to 6 make no mention of whether the Magistrate has any discretion to reject an application to be recognised as a trans person – and if so – what the scope of that discretion is. In compliance with NALSA and Puttaswamy, it would follow that the Magistrate has no substantive discretion in this regard, and the only documentation that can be required – at the highest – is a self-attested affidavit (anything more onerous would violate the principle of self-determination and self-identification). However, the Act is silent on that, leaving any such determination to rules “as may be prescribed” (see Section 22). As the matter concerns the fundamental rights of the transgender community, this clearly is an issue that cannot be “delegated” to the rule-making power of the executive.

The petition also challenges Section 7 of the Act, which provides that once a certificate of identity has been issued, and the transgender person wants to then change their gender, that is permissible only on submission of a certificate by the Chief Medical Officer of the institution where the applicant has undergone surgery. Here, again, the application must be made to the District Magistrate, who will then issue a “revised” certificate. As the petition correctly points out, this introduces a certification requirement specifically upon gender-affirming surgeries.

The Equality Challenge

Sections 4 to 7 are also challenged on the touchstone of equality. The first – straightforward – argument is that the Act imposes burdens upon transgender individuals (certification) that it does not upon non-trans individuals. While being straightforward, the argument is nonetheless a very important one, because it challenges the long-held assumption underlying our legal institutions, namely, that being cisgender is the “norm”, while being transgender is the “exception” (which, therefore, requires something additional to “prove”, such as a certification requirement). The assumptions, of course, run much deeper than merely in our legal institutions: the social norm of “assigning” a gender at birth is based on the assumption that there exists a “natural” gender that one is born into, and a transgender person is someone whose gender identity does not “match” that assignation (see, e.g., Section 2(k) of the Act, which defines “transgender person.”

As Albie Sachs pointed out once, however, the purpose of a Constitution is to transform “misfortunes to be endured” into “injustices to be remedied”. In recent judgments such as Johar, the Supreme Court has also engaged with how our unthinking affirmation of sedimented norms has the effect of entrenching and perpetuating existing patterns of discrimination. And if we take seriously NALSA‘s affirmation that gender identity is a fundamental choice protected by Articles 19 and 21, it is clear that at least as far as the Constitution goes, cis- and trans-identities are to be treated on an equal footing.

Now of course, the State may once again argue that Sections 4 to 6 are not about identity, but merely about setting out a form of identification that can then be utilised to determine beneficiaries for welfare schemes. Such an argument, however, is belied by the wording of Section 4(2), which states clearly that it is only after recognition under the provisions of the Act, that a transgender person shall have the right to their “self-perceived identity”. In other words, therefore, the Act makes identity conditional upon identificationinstead of the other way round (which is what was prescribed in NALSA). It should therefore be evident that the scheme of Sections 4 through 7 is constitutionally flawed.

The Non-Discrimination Challenge

Section 3 of the Act sets out the non-discrimination provisions; it prohibits discrimination against transgender individuals in various domains, such as provision of services, education, healthcare, housing etc. Strangely, however, the Act provides no penalty – or remedy – for breach of these provisions. As the Petition correctly points out, a right without a remedy is meaningless – and, indeed, is not a right at all. This argument is buttressed by the fact that two of the crucial “horizontal rights” provisions in the Constitution itself – Articles 17 (“untouchability”) and Article 23 (“forced labour”) specifically envisage that laws will be implemented to make breaches punishable. Thus, the Constitution understands that where you impose obligations upon private individuals to behave in certain (non-discriminatory) ways against other private individuals, there must exist an enforcement mechanism to make those obligations meaningful.

A second set of challenges flows from Section 18 of the Act, which prescribes punishment of upto two years imprisonment for a series of offences against transgender individuals, such as forced labour, denial of access to public spaces, abuse, and so on. As the petition points out, similar offences in other contexts (such as bonded labour in general, or rape) have much more severe penalties, in order to achieve deterrence. As the transgender community is already particularly vulnerable to these forms of coercion and violence, it is outrightly discriminatory to make the punishment lighter under this Act. The petition also impugns this Section on grounds of vagueness and arbitrariness.

The Affirmative Action Challenge

In NALSA, the Supreme Court made it clear that the transgender community was to be treated as a “socially and educationally backward class”, for the purpose of availing of reservation schemes under Articles 15 and 16 of the Constitution. Predictably, the government never acted on this, and under the Act, there is no mention of affirmative action.

Does the Act, therefore, breach Articles 15 and 16? The petition argues that it does, as reservation is a “facet of equality.” In other words – to explain further – once it is established that the transgender community is not on an equal footing with others, there exists a right to affirmative action under Articles 15 and 16, as the very meaning of substantive equality will be defeated by maintaining an unequal status quo.

Such an argument would flow naturally from the judgment of the Supreme Court in N.M. Thomas, where it was indeed held that reservations are a “facet” of equality (and not exceptions to it). In other words, reservations under Article 16(4) are specific manifestations of the right to equality of opportunity under Article 16(1). Continuing with this logic, reservations – then – are not simply something the government may do, but indeed, is obligated to do after identifying relevant sections of society that stand in need of them (the “power plus duty” reading of Article 16, that we have discussed before on this blog). And in NALSA, the Court did a part of the government’s job by identifying the transgender community as a beneficiary class; bringing them under Article 16, then, is a necessary consequence.

While I agree with this argument as a matter of constitutional logic, it is also important to note that the pitch has been muddied somewhat in recent years, and the promise of N.M. Thomas has never entirely been fulfilled. The Court has refused to affirmatively hold that Article 16 imposes both a power and a duty upon the government, and the government itself filed clarification petitions on this point after NALSA. It is quite likely, therefore, that the government will resist the demand for affirmative action, and the Court will have to issue a ruling on whether NALSA was correct on this point (I believe it was).

The Positive Obligations Challenge

The final set of grounds hold that the beneficial provisions of the Act are insufficient to realise the fundamental rights of the transgender community. Section 15, for example, speaks of an insurance scheme, which – the petition argues – is insufficient to guarantee the right to health. This argument will test the limits to which the Court is prepared to go when it comes to enforcing positive obligations upon the government; to what extent will the Court be willing to substitute its judgment for the government’s on which measures are adequate to address positive obligations such as the right to health?

One way of framing the issue might be that had no legislation existed, and a challenge had been filed, then the Court could well have reprised its judgment in Vishaka, and laid down guidelines to fill in the legislative vacuum. While I retain my skepticism about what the Court did in Vishaka, one principle that flows from that judgment is that even in the case of positive obligations, there exist clear and judicially manageable standards, often drawn from principles of international law. Therefore, if there is an Act, the Court can certainly examine whether its implementational measures adequately provide for the effective fulfilment of a positive right (such as the right to health), or whether they fall short; and if they fall demonstrably short, to fashion an appropriate remedy.

Conclusion 

Swati Bidhan Baruah’s petition raises a series of crucial constitutional questions about the Transgender Act. As I have shown above, while some of the challenges are straightforward, others are more subtle and nuanced – and will require the Court, in particular, to engage with some of the more progressive stands of its jurisprudence in recent years. Such an engagement, however, also presents an opportunity – an opportunity to cement and even build upon that progressive jurisprudence, in the domain of social rights.

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.

The Supreme Court on Mandatory Voice Samples – II: The Rise of the Executive Court

[Editorial Note: Justice is an indivisible concept. We cannot, therefore, discuss contemporary Supreme Court judgments without also acknowledging the Court’s failure – at an institutional level – to do justice in the case involving sexual harassment allegations against the Chief Justice. This editorial caveat will remain in place for all future posts on this blog dealing with the Supreme Court, until there is a material change in circumstances.]


In the previous post, Abhinav Sekhri highlighted some of the flaws with the Supreme Court’s judgment on the mandatory taking of voice samples from an accused party. In this post, I want to build upon Sekhri’s arguments, and make two further points.

To start with, in order to prevent misunderstanding, let us get a few basic points out of the way. The debate before the Court wasn’t so much about whether the compelled taking of voice samples would violate the guarantee against self-incrimination under Article 20(3) of the Constitution. The two disagreeing judges who referred the case to this three-judge bench did not disagree on that point, and most of the High Courts did not either. After Kathi Kalu, indeed, it would be difficult (although not impossible) to argue that the taking of voice samples is hit by the Article 20(3) bar.

Nor was the case about whether compelled voice samples violated the fundamental right to privacy. After Puttaswamy, this would be an interesting legal question to analyse, but it was not the question that the Court was called upon to answer. No: what the case was about was whether there existed a statutory basis upon which voice samples could be taken without consent. It was this question that the Court answered in the negative, and then went on to “fill the gap” by using Article 142, and allowing for it anyway.

Why does this matter? It matters because this background is key to understanding just how flawed – and how dangerous – paragraph 24 of the Court’s judgment is. Paragraph 24 states:

Would a judicial order compelling a person to give a sample of his voice violate the fundamental right to privacy under Article 20(3) of the Constitution, is the next question. The issue is interesting and debatable but not having been argued before us it will suffice to note that in view of the opinion rendered by this Court in Modern Dental College and Research Centre and others vs. State of Madhya Pradesh and others, Gobind vs. State of Madhya Pradesh and another and the Nine Judge’s Bench of this Court in K.S. Puttaswamy and another vs. Union of India and others the fundamental right to privacy cannot be construed as absolute and but must bow down to compelling public interest. We refrain from any further discussion and consider it appropriate not to record any further observation on an issue not specifically raised before us.

There is a lot to unpack in this paragraph. The first thing to note is that this is a rank sleight of hand. The reason why Puttaswamy and privacy was not raised before the Court was that there was no reason for it to be raised! As I mentioned above, the questions before the 2012 Bench – where the two judges disagreed – were two-fold: whether the taking of voice samples was hit by the Article 20(3) bar, and if not, whether it was affirmatively authorised by any provision in the Code of Criminal Procedure. The two judges agreed that 20(3) did not apply, and disagreed on whether statute applied. Now, if the Supreme Court intended to override the absence of statutory authorisation by invoking Article 142, it would have to – necessarily – examine first whether there existed any other statutory or constitutional bar that would prevent it from doing so (because recall that Article 142 cannot be applied contrary to statute or the Constitution). In other words, therefore, in applying Article 142, the Court could not simply dodge the privacy question by saying that it was “not specifically raised before us.” That excuse went out of the window the moment Article 142 came in through the back door.

In other words, the Court would have it both ways. Expand the scope of the case, of its own accord, to issues that were never in the frame, and then dodge an examination of those issues by claiming they were never argued. The only possible reaction to this sleight of hand begins at 30 seconds of this video:

Consequently, it was not enough for the Court to give us the boilerplate phrase of “privacy is not absolute and must bow down to compelling public interest.” Nobody has ever made the claim that privacy is “absolute”, and the Court gets no brownie points for tearing down that little straw-man for the umpteenth time.

But there is a deeper problem with paragraph 24, which would preclude the above discussion from even happening in the first place. And that is – as Sekhri pointed out in his post – the established position that the word “law” under Articles 19 and 21 does not include judicial orders. This point has been discussed at some length before, and I summarise it here: our constitutional scheme envisages a two-step process before an infringement of rights can be justified. First, there must exist State-enacted law that, prima facie, is found to infringe a right. And secondly, upon a challenge, a Court must review that law to check whether it is a reasonable restriction upon the fundamental right – and strike it down, if not. The point of this two-step process is to ensure that rights are adequately safeguarded, and that the supreme deliberative and elected body – Parliament – must take the first decision in that regard. For very good reason, therefore, the Constitution does not grant power to the Courts to infringe rights of their own accord.

The implication of this, therefore, is that it was not for the Court to say that privacy was not absolute, and would have to bow down to compelling public interest. That analysis, in the first instance, would be Parliament’s to make when deciding whether or not to amend the CrPC – and for the Court to review if Parliament’s assessment was challenged. The moment that it was found that the use of Article 142 would prima facie violate privacy – which it undoubtedly does – there was no question of the Court using Article 142 powers. That – as Sekhri pointed out – is the lesson of Kharak Singh and every other case after it, until Rupa Ashok Hurra.

This brings me to my second, broader point. The Supreme Court’s judgment reflects perhaps most starkly a phenomenon that we can label as the “Executive Court.” What began as the Supreme Court stepping in to fill a vacuum left by an inactive Executive, is now transforming into the Supreme Court becoming indistinguishable from the Executive. Instead of the rule of law, protection of rights, precedent, the separation of powers, and judicial reasoning (all hallmarks of a constitutional court) guiding its decisions, the executive logic of an undefined, larger “public interest” (that only the Court knows), which is to be achieved by tossing aside all other constraints that may stand in the way, has come to dominate important cases (the NRC is perhaps the starkest example of this). So: Parliament has made no provision for the taking of voice samples, and without Parliament’s approval, executive agencies cannot act? No problem – the Court will step in and sanctify those actions judicially. This, for obvious reasons, is dangerous in many respects.

In the present case, this is revealed most starkly by the Court’s repeated invocation of the mantra, “procedure should be the handmaiden of justice.” As Sekhri pointed out in his post, this is yet another sleight of hand: the Court effectively borrowed this phrase from the context of civil litigation – conducted between parties of equal standing – and applied it to criminal litigation, where procedural safeguards are literally all that stand between the individual and the unchecked might of the State. The fact that the Court viewed procedural safeguards as impediments to achieving “true justice” is the clearest statement yet of how indistinguishable it seems to have become from the Executive.

Perhaps the Court should have dug a little deeper into its own history. Had it done so, it would have found another, telling quote: “the history of personal liberty,” wrote a certain Justice Hans Raj Khanna, in a certain well-known dissent, “is largely the history of insistence upon procedure.”

The Aadhaar Judgment and the Constitution – I: Doctrinal Inconsistencies and a Constitutionalism of Convenience

(In the previous post, we began a four-part series examining the factual claims that are at the heart of the Majority judgment in Aadhaar. Parallel to that, we shall also be running a series on the legal arguments relied on by the Majority. This is the first post in that series, on the substantive aspects. In subsequent posts, we shall examine the issue of the money bill, and the standards of review employed by the Court.)

The Aadhaar Judgment – as we have noticed – relies heavily upon certain factual assumptions to arrive at its conclusions. Surprisingly for a constitutional judgment, law and doctrine takes a relative backseat. To the extent that it does, however, rely on legal doctrines, these too must be subjected to careful scrutiny.

Proportionality, Burdens, and the Strange Disappearance of Facts 

The overarching legal standard – as discussed previously – is that of proportionality. The Majority – correctly – holds that the Aadhaar programme, and the provisions of the Aadhaar Act, must be tested on the touchstone of proportionality. However, as I pointed out in the first post, the Majority’s articulation of the proportionality standard is far from satisfactory. After noticing how different jurisdictions apply the proportionality standard in slightly different ways, the Majority – without any justification whatsoever – adopts the South African constitutional scholar’s David Bilchitz’s formulation of the test. I have the utmost respect for the scholarship of Professor Bilchitz, but this will not do. As Seervai pointed out a few decades ago, while critiquing the uncritical reliance of the 1980s Court on John Rawls’ theory of justice, it is imperative for the Court to explain why David Bilchitz’s articulation of proportionality is the relevant to the Indian Constitution; what about the Constitution’s text, structure, and our judicial precedent is so Bilchitz-ian? There is no explanation forthcoming.

Be that as it may. The importance of Bilchitz’s formulation, the Court tells us, is that with respect to the “necessity” prong of the proportionality standard, it strikes a middle ground between two extremes: by insisting on a rigorous scrutiny of the possible alternatives to the impugned measure, it requires the State to justify that its chosen measure actually infringes rights to the minimal extent. At the same time, it doesn’t allow the Court to substitute its policy preferences for that of the Parliament, by striking down a measure on the basis that some alternative might be more desirable or beneficial.

Now, what are the exact parameters of the Bilchitz approach to proportionality? The Majority extracts them at paragraph 124:

First, a range of possible alternatives to the measure employed by the Government must be identified. Secondly, the effectiveness of these measures must be determined individually; the test here is not whether each respective measure realises the governmental objective to the same extent, but rather whether it realises it in a ‘real and substantial manner’. Thirdly, the impact of the respective measures on the right at stake must be determined. Finally, an overall judgment must be made as to whether in light of the findings of the previous steps, there exists an alternative which is preferable. (paragraph 124)

The underlined parts of the Majority’s test (which, incidentally, is a rough paraphrasal of Bilchitz actually says, and which I shall come to shortly) demonstrate that the proportionality standard is a heavily fact-oriented enquiry. Now, in the context of the Aadhaar challenge (specific to Section 7 and the Aadhaar Act), what were the facts that were necessary to the proportionality enquiry? The first set of crucial facts would, naturally, pertain to how “effective” Aadhaar-Based Biometric Authentication [“ABBA”] was at plugging welfare leakages (the stated goal of the Aadhaar Act). The second set of facts would pertain to the alternatives to ABBA, and how effective they were towards achieving the same goal. The Court would then examine the extent to which these alternative measures were more protective of individual rights, and then come to a conclusion about whether the necessity standard (qua Bilchitz) had actually been satisfied: that is, all things considered, had the Government selected the least restrictive alternative to achieve its goal.

What did the Majority say with respect to the first set of facts? The answer is at paragraph 72:

But the argument based on alleged inaccurate claims of savings by the Authority/Union of India in respect of certain programmes, like saving of USD 11 billion per annum due to the Aadhaar project, as well as savings in the implementation of the MGNREGA scheme, LPG subsidy, PDS savings need not detain us for long. Such rebuttals raised by the petitioners may have relevance insofar as working of the Act is concerned. That by itself cannot be a ground to invalidate the statute. (paragraph 72)

This astonishing paragraph shows that either the Majority completely failed to understand the test that Bilchitz actually proposes or, having understood it, simply refused to apply it correctly. The “inaccurate claims of savings” – on which reams of evidence were presented to the Court – were not about the “working of the act”; rather, they were about the “effectiveness” of the measure (ABBA), and therefore, qua Bilchitz, an absolutely critical component of the necessity standard. To remove any doubt, here is what Bilchitz actually says in the article that the Majority paraphrased:

A judgement must be made whether the government measure is the best of all feasible alternatives, considering both the degree to which it realises the government objective and the degree of impact upon fundamental rights (‘the comparative component’). [Bilchitz, “Necessity and Proportionality” in Reasoning Rights 61 (Hart 2014)].

The arguments of the Petitioners was precisely that Aadhaar failed the necessity standard because it did not realise the government objective to the extent that the invasion of rights was justified, once you considered the background context and the availability of alternatives; and the evidence for this was that the Government’s primary justification – welfare savings – was simply not borne out, either by the facts, or by the logic of what constitutes leakage (identity fraud, quantity fraud, and eligibility fraud, with ABBA – at best – being able to tackle only the first). In a judgment absolutely riddled with factual assumptions, however, in this area – where facts were crucial – the Majority refused to look at them.

Now, how did the Majority deal with the second important component of the necessity standard – that of alternatives? We come to paragraph 280:

The manner in which malpractices have been committed in the past leaves us to hold that apart from the system of unique identity in Aadhaar and authentication of the real beneficiaries, there is no alternative measure with lesser degree of limitation which can achieve the same purpose. In fact, on repeated query by this Court, even the petitioners could not suggest any such method. (paragraph 280)

As I have said in my first post, with the greatest of respect, this is not only false, but demonstrably false. First, it is on the record. Consider paragraph 97 of the written submissions of Mr. K.V. Viswanathan:

It is the State’s burden to show that Aadhaar is both necessary and proportionate, i.e. there exist no other alternatives that could have achieved their stated goals, using a less intrusive method [See Peck v UK, (2003) ECHR 44, ¶¶76-87 and Modern Dental College & Research Centre v State of MP, (2016) 7 SCC 353, ¶¶60-65]. As a matter of fact, there exist less-invasive alternatives such as Smart Cards and social audits that have been included in sec. 12 of the NFSA and can help reduce diversion/leakages. In fact, these Smart Cards (using hologram, RFID chip, or OTP) have helped eliminate barriers of distance or location to avail entitlements, such as in Chhattisgarh.38 Other alternatives such as food coupons, digitisation of records, doorstep delivery, SMS alerts, social audits, and toll-free helplines have also helped. 39 For instance, the Tamil Nadu PDS system is run using smart cards and electronic POS Machines and is in the process of replacing its 1.89 crore ration cards with smart cards, at a cost of over Rs 300 crores. 40 The very fact that the State has not examined such alternatives itself is enough to show that they have not discharged their burden under Art. 21. The fact that alternatives exist, and that the stated purposes can be achieved without invading privacy, further fortifies the submissions of the Petitioners herein.”* [internal footnotes omitted]

But secondly – and even more importantly – it is acknowledged by Justice Bhushan in his concurrence! Here is what Bhushan J. says:

At this juncture, we may also notice one submission raised by the petitioners that Aadhaar Act could have devised a less intrusive measure/means. It was suggested that for identity purpose, the Government could have devised issuance of a smart card, which may have contained a biometric information and retain it in the card itself, which would not have begged the question of sharing or transfer of the data. We have to examine the Aadhaar Act as it exists. It is not the Court’s arena to enter into the issue as to debate on any alternative mechanism, which according to the petitioners would have been better. (paragraph 191)

The absurdity is evident. The Majority adopts a standard of proportionality that requires it to consider alternatives, but states that no alternatives have been proposed. Justice Bhushan acknowledges that alternatives have been proposed, but says that constitutional standard does not allow him to consider them. This, surely, is enough to demonstrate that this judgment sinks under the weight of its own contradictions.

As a final point, it is important to note that even if the Petitioners had not suggested any alternatives, the Majority makes no mention of where the burden of proof lies. This is contrary to Justice Chandrachud’s dissent, where it is made clear that because it is the State that is infringing rights, the State bears the burden of showing that there exist no alternatives that could satisfy the State goal.

On proportionality, therefore – which is the heart of the judgment as far as the law goes – this is what the Majority does. It adopts a standard without explaining why. It then either misunderstands or misapplies that very standard that it has chosen to adopt. It erases the two most crucial components of that standard, and then finds that Aadhaar is proportionate all along. No wonder, then, that the necessity prong – which is the most involved and detailed aspect of the proportionality standard – is effectively reduced to one paragraph of “analysis.” Indeed, given how the Majority essentially smuggles its conclusions into its premises, it is difficult to imagine how it could ever have held that Aadhaar was not proportionate.

Reasonable Expectation of Privacy

A large part of the Majority’s reasoning is based on the presumption that the privacy interests in the Aadhaar challenge are of a weak, or attenuated nature. To establish this, the Majority applies the “reasonable expectation of privacy” standard, borrowing it from Puttaswamy. The Majority notes that this standard has its genesis in US law, and cites the judgment in Katz for the proposition that there are two components of the test:

“The first was whether the individual, by his conduct has exhibited an actual (subjective expectation of privacy), and the second, whether the subjective expectation is one that the society is prepared to recognize as reasonable. This was also followed in Smith v. Marlyand.” (paragraph 290)

Unfortunately, however, the Majority gets its wires badly crossed. The American “reasonable expectation of privacy” standard – which sets great store by what “society” perceives to be reasonable – was not the standard that was adopted in Puttaswamy (indeed, Nariman J., in his concurring opinion, categorically rejected it). Here is what was adopted in Puttaswamy:

Privacy at a subjective level is a reflection of those areas where an individual desire to be left alone. On an objective plane, privacy is defined by those constitutional values which shape the content of the protected zone where the individual ought to be left alone. (Puttaswamy plurality, paragraph 169)

Puttaswamy, therefore, abandoned the American view of “objective expectation of privacy” as determined by what society considers to be private, and pegged its colours to the mast of the Constitution. The Majority in Aadhaar appears not to have grasped this point, because it assumes that the American standard is the standard incorporated into Indian law. And it appears to apply this standard as well: it holds that demographic information is already demanded by multiple other Acts, and that “core biometric information” is “minimal” and is also asked for by the State while issuing driving licenses and so on. In other words, the Majority’s analysis can be summed up as follows: the information that Aadhaar asks for is also asked by the State in other contexts, and therefore, the privacy interest is minimal. However, this is exactly the discredited American approach to privacy (which has been in the process of being quietly abandoned in the country of its birth).

Unsurprisingly, it is Justice Chandrachud in his dissent who applies the correct standard (unsurprising because it was he who authored the Puttaswamy plurality), and notes that because the information collected pertains to the body, it is intimate enough to attract a high privacy interest. The distinction is important, because it is the Majority’s devaluation of the privacy interest in demographic and biometric information that allows it to hold that the “balancing” prong of the proportionality standard (balance between the State goal and the degree of invasion of rights) is justified. Indeed, the Majority appears to believe that because of the low privacy interests in demographic and biometric information, there is no invasion at the stage of collection at all!

… the issue is not of taking the aforesaid information for the purpose of enrolling in Aadhaar and for authentication. It is the storage and retention of this data, whenever authentication takes place, about which the concerns are raised by the petitioners. The fears expressed by the petitioners are that with the storage and retention of such data, profile of the persons can be created which is susceptible to misuse. (paragraph 296)

At a previous point in its judgment as well, the Majority claims that the Petitioners have no problem with collection of information, only with its storage and retention (leading to the threat of surveillance). Once again – and I do not say this lightly – this is demonstrably false, and false from the record. Multiple counsel – lead by Mr. Shyam Divan – argued that forcible collection of biometric and demographic information violates bodily and informational privacy. Section II of the Written Submissions of Mr. K.V. Viswanathan (linked above) is titled “COLLECTION OF IDENTITY INFORMATION UNDER THE AADHAAR ACT [SEC. 3, 4(3), 7 & ALLIED SECTIONS AND REGULATIONS] VIOLATES ART. 14 AND ART. 21.” Here is a sample paragraph:

The inviolability of the human body rests upon two deeper premises: (a) the idea that every individual ought to be treated as an end in herself (and not as a means to an end), and (b) that there is an intrinsic value in an individual determining how and in what manner to use her body. Thus, the inviolability of the body does not become salient only in extreme situations like torture, forced sterilisations, and forced labour, but also in situations that appear innocuous, or at least, do not seem to present a tangible or expressible harm. The core issue then, is not whether an identifiable physical harm to the body can be pointed out, but whether the individual’s decision about how to use her body is taken over by another entity (in this case the State), who decides for her instead. (paragraph 18)

This too, forms part of the arguments of Chandrachud J.’s dissenting opinion, where he notes that collecting information from people without any reasonable suspicion, but on the presumption that they might one day commit identity fraud, is per se disproportionate.

It is, of course, the Majority’s prerogative whether or not finds these arguments persuasive. But it is not the Majority’s prerogative to invert reality and claim that something that was argued in open Court was never actually argued.

The Return of the Minuscule Minority, and Issues of Evidence

A significant set of arguments before the Court focused on exclusion. It was argued that ABBA, by its very nature, was exclusionary: the fallible nature of biometric authentication, its impact upon vulnerable sections of society (such as manual labourers  with worn-out fingers and the disabled), its impact in the context of ground realities in rural India with regular internet outages, and its propensity to set up a new class of middlemen (the PoS machine operators) all ended up excluding the very beneficiaries that it was meant to include. This, it was argued, was a violation of Article 21, and in its disproportionate impact, a violation of Article 14. To substantiate this claim, detailed affidavits, as well as scholarly articles, were placed before the Majority.

The Majority’s response is at paragraph 317:

In fairness to the petitioners, it is worth mentioning that they have referred to the research carried out by some individuals and even NGOs which have been relied upon to demonstrate that there are number of instances leading to the exclusion i.e. the benefits are allegedly denied on the ground of failure of authentication. The respondents have refuted such studies. These become disputed question of facts. It will be difficult to invalidate provisions of Parliamentary legislations on the basis of such material, more particularly, when their credence has not been tested. (paragraph 317)

And:

When it is serving much larger purpose by reaching hundreds of millions of deserving persons, it cannot be crucified on the unproven plea of exclusion of some. (para 319)

There are a few things I want to point out here. First – yet again – the Court has engaged in a selective account of the Petitioners’ arguments. It was not simply “research” done by NGOs and individuals, but the fact that it was placed before the Court on affidavit. Secondly – and more importantly – let us examine the Court’s approach. The Court says that these have become “disputed questions of fact” whose “credence has not been tested.” But for a large part of its judgment, this same Majority takes as gospel, points raised by the Chairperson of UIDAI in a power-point presentation made before the Court which was not even placed on affidavit! The Majority’s entire case on the functioning of the CIDR and the safeguards with respect to authentication and storage is drawn from this power-point presentation.

The legal double-standard here is breathtaking: the Court gives more evidentiary credence to a power-point presentation that has no legal sanctity as evidence, while ignoring evidence placed before it on affidavit, on the basis that it has become a “disputed question of fact”! And, as a side note, it’s worthwhile to note that if this will henceforth be the evidentiary standard applied by the Court, pretty much all of PIL will be thrown into a garbage bin (except for those PILs where the petitioners have the foresight of preparing PPTs).

Thirdly, it is difficult to find words to comment on the Court’s “unproven plea of the exclusion of some.” To me, it brings back memories of another, notorious line: “the so-called rights of the minuscule minority.” That ghost was evidently “exorcised” in Puttaswamy. Someone, it seems, forgot to inform the Majority.

Fourthly – and relatedly – the Majority goes on to record the Attorney-General’s statement that nobody will be excluded in case of an authentication failure, and notices that there is a circular to that effect. This, once again, mixes up legal standards. To understand why, consider the following observation in Shreya Singhal v Union of India:

The possibility of abuse of a statute otherwise valid does not impart to it any element of invalidity. The converse must also follow that a statute which is otherwise invalid as being unreasonable cannot be saved by its being administered in a reasonable manner. (paragraph 95)

This is a well-established proposition. Now note that the challenge to Section 7 was a challenge to its constitutionality, on the basis that it would have a disproportionate impact upon the most vulnerable, and that by design, it would serve to exclude people from accessing their basic entitlements (partly because of its nature, and partly due to prevailing conditions in India, such as internet penetration, possibility of machine failure etc.). Instead of meeting the objection at the level of the statute, the Majority instead relies upon the AG’s statement, and a circular! Once again, this is an inversion of the correct constitutional standard: a promise that the law will be implemented fairly is taken as a defence of its constitutionality.

Once again, it is the dissenting opinion of Chandrachud J., that gets this right. Chandrachud J. correctly notes that as long as the risk of exclusion is embedded into the design of the Act, it cannot be made mandatory; that is, before ABBA can be imposed as mandatory, it must first be guaranteed that, in the normal course of its operation, it will not exclude people and bar them from their Article 14 and 21 rights.

This is, of course, in stark contrast to the Majority, which appears to believe that the dictum “you cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs” also applies to fundamental rights. That, indeed, appears to be the upshot of the Majority’s view that as the Act is operated, “loopholes” will be plugged; the fact that those “loopholes” are actually about the denial of fundamental rights appears to make no difference; it is, ultimately, the same kind of callous disdain for fundamental rights that was so evident in the Koushal judgment.

Conclusion

There are other legal errors in the Majority judgment, which we may attempt to point out in a future post. For now, I want to say that on three absolutely critical points – proportionality, privacy, and exclusion – the Majority judgment is grossly erroneous. On proportionality, the Majority plucks out a standard without justifying it, applies it wrongly to boot, and wishes away inconvenient facts. On privacy, the Majority misunderstands Puttaswamy, and applies the incorrect standard. And on exclusion, the Majority applies double standards in its appreciation of evidence, mixes up a constitutional challenge with fair implementation, and winds up sounding like a rewind of Koushal v Naz. For all these reasons, and on these points, the Majority judgment needs to be reconsidered.

But what really stands out is how the Majority repeatedly claims – falsely – that certain arguments were never raised or never made, and attributes positions to the Petitioners that they never held. And to top that is its Janus-faced approach: it employs factual assumptions at some places, while wishing away facts at other places; it uses one approach to evidence at one place, and then changes that approach midway through the judgment; it borrows constitutional standards, but then fudges their application.

This is a constitutionalism of convenience, not of principle.

The Supreme Court Decriminalises Adultery

Today, in Joseph Shine v Union of India, a Constitution Bench of the Supreme Court struck down Section 497 of the Indian Penal Code, and decriminalised adultery. As we have discussed before on this blog, this was not a difficult case. The asymmetric nature of the provision – which punishes only the male participant, and that too only on the instance of the husband, and also not if the husband has “consented” or “connived” with respect to the act – is clearly based upon gendered stereotypes that view women as the property of their husbands, and also, as sexually submissive, liable to be “seduced” by men at any moment. Once that fact is clearly understood, there is precious little that can be said to defend the provision under the Constitution.

The four concurring opinions proceed along expected lines. They hold that the asymmetric character of the provision is indeed grounded upon ideas of gender subordination, is therefore “manifestly arbitrary”, and fails the test of Article 14 of the Constitution (and also puts paid to the State’s argument that the provision is necessary for preserving marriages). This would, of course, leave the door open for the legislature to recriminalise adultery through a gender-neutral provision. The Court, however, closes that door as well, noting that criminalisation of what is essentially a private matter – with no broader societal interest – would be an infringement of privacy. These two findings together mean that adultery is gone from the statute books – and will stay gone.

Equality and Non-Discrimination 

In addition to these – expected – lines of reasoning, there are certain interesting aspects on the issues of equality and discrimination in the concurring opinions of Justices Chandrachud and Malhotra, which carry forward the views that they had expressed last month in Navtej Johar v Union of India (the 377 judgment). Justice Chandrachud, for example, reiterates his argument that Article 14 analysis must go beyond the traditional classification test, and focus on substantive disadvantage:

Justness postulates equality. In consonance with constitutional morality, substantive equality is “directed at eliminating individual, institutional and systemic discrimination against disadvantaged groups which effectively undermines their full and equal social, economic, political and cultural participation in society.” To move away from a formalistic notion of equality which disregards social realities, the Court must take into account the impact of the rule or provision in the lives of citizens. The primary enquiry to be undertaken by the Court towards the realisation of substantive equality is to determine whether the provision contributes to the subordination of a disadvantaged group of individuals. (para 38)

It is important that this argument is made not in the context of Article 15(1), but Article 14. Framing Article 14 in the language of disadvantage means that the five groups that are not mentioned in Article 15(1) (sex, race, caste, religion, place of birth), but are nonetheless analogous to those groups by also representing sites of structural or institutional disadvantage (such, as for instance, disabled persons), are entitled to a more searching and rigorous scrutiny under Article 14, than the traditional (deferential) rational classification standard.

Chandrachud J. then goes beyond Article 14, and tests the adultery provision on grounds of Article 15(1) (non-discrimination on the basis of sex) as well. Advancing his Navtej Johar framework of analysis – which combined a contextual  approach to understanding the effect of the law on the one hand, with an interpretation of Article 15 that prohibits distinctions based on class stereotypes on the other – Chandrachud J. finds that the adultery provision discriminates on grounds of sex, as it is founded in stereotypes about women’s sexual agency, and gender roles within the family. As part of this analysis, he makes some important remarks about the public/private divide in constitutionalism: this is because, in order to engage in a stereotype-based analysis of the adultery provision, one must necessarily apply constitutional norms to and within the family structure, normally thought of as part of the “private sphere.” This leads him to make the following important observation:

Control over women’s sexuality is the key patriarchal assumption that underlies family and marriage  In remedying injustices, the Court cannot shy away from delving into the ‘personal’, and as a consequence, the ‘public’. It becomes imperative for us to intervene when structures of injustice and persecution deeply entrenched in patriarchy are destructive of constitutional freedom. But, in adjudicating on the rights of women, the Court is not taking on a paternalistic role and “granting” rights. (paragraphs 51 – 52)

And, subsequently:

It is the duty of this Court to break these stereotypes and promote a society which regards women as equal citizens in all spheres of life- irrespective of whether these spheres may be regarded as ‘public’ or ‘private’ …  While there has been a considerable degree of reform in the formal legal system, there is an aspect of women’s lives where their subordination has historically been considered beyond reproach or remedy. That aspect is the family. Marriage is a significant social institution where this subordination is pronounced, with entrenched structures of patriarchy and romantic paternalism shackling women into a less than equal existence …  Constitutional protections and freedoms permeate every aspect of a citizen’s life – the delineation of private or public spheres become irrelevant as far as the enforcement of constitutional rights is concerned. Therefore, even the intimate personal sphere of marital relations is not exempt from constitutional scrutiny. The enforcement of forced female fidelity by curtailing sexual autonomy is an affront to the fundamental right to dignity and equality. (paragraphs 62 – 63, 67).

The interrogation of the public/private divide is, of course, a significant part of the longer-term project of transformative constitutionalism; here, however, it has two immediate implications. By holding that the family structure and the institution of marriage are not immune from constitutional scrutiny, Chandrachud J.’s concurrence casts a shadow over two provisions, both of which have been discussed before on this blog: the marital rape exception under the Indian Penal Code, and restitution of conjugal rights (Section 9 of the Hindu Marriage Act). The defence to the first is invariably the “preservation of the institution of marriage”, while the latter was, actually, upheld on the basis that “cold constitutional law” could not be introduced into the warmth of the home. Both these justifications are now invalid: what Chandrachud J.’s opinion clarifies is that the autonomy of a social institution (whether the institution of marriage, or the home) is always subordinate to individual right to autonomy, exercised within that institution. Or, to put it another way, the Constitution exists to democratise private relationships, breakdown inequalities and hierarchies within those relationships, and ensure individual dignity and freedom not simply against the State, but also against social institutions and structures.

Justice Malhotra also carries forward her reasoning in Navtej Johar. On Article 14, she holds that as the historical foundation of the adultery provision was, indisputably, in the premise that women were chattels, the classification that it draws (between who is aggrieved and who isn’t, and who can sue and who can’t) is vitiated by an illegitimate constitutional purpose. Therefore, while the classification may be intelligible, and there may exist a rational nexus with a goal, that goal itself (in this case, the subordination of women) is ruled out by the Constitution:

Hence, the offence of adultery was treated as an injury to the husband, since it was considered to be a “theft‟ of his property, for which he could proceed to prosecute the offender. The said classification is no longer relevant or valid, and cannot withstand the test of Article 14, and hence is liable to be struck down on this ground alone. (paragraph 12.2)

This is an important step forward in centering the “illegitimate purpose” prong of the classification test under Article 14.

One last point: when adultery was upheld in 1954, it was upheld on the basis of Article 15(3) of the Constitution, which allows for “special provisions” to be made for women and children. Not punishing women for adultery was held to be a “special provision” for their benefit. All four opinions make it clear, however, that Article 15(3) cannot be pushed into service where the entire rationale of the law is discriminatory against women. Justice Malhotra articulates the point most clearly:

The true purpose of affirmative action is to uplift women and empower them in socio-economic spheres. A legislation which takes away the rights of women to prosecute cannot be termed as “beneficial legislation.” (para 14)

Treating Article 15(3) as an affirmative action provision (even though the language is broader) is, to my mind, an important step forward in articulating a clear and principles interpretation of this clause. Of course, as the example of President v Hugo shows us, this is not always as easy an enquiry as the adultery case allows. Often, disadvantage and stereotypes are bound up together, because stereotyping is the prelude to disadvantage. When you are trying to remedy disadvantage, then, sometimes you need to take stereotypes as your bases to do so. How the Court negotiates this, of course, is a question for the future.

Two Objections 

Two quibbles. The first is procedural. In 1954, the constitutional validity of the adultery provision was upheld by a five-judge bench. The present bench was bound by that. The Chief Justice and Chandrachud J. are both aware of this, and try to get around it. The Chief Justice argues that that case was on the “narrow point” of Article 15(3), while Chandrachud J. argues that it was on the distinguishable point of the woman not being made an abettor. I am unconvinced. Here is the first line of Yusuf Abdul Aziz:

The question in this case is whether section 497 of the Indian Penal Code contravenes articles 14 and 15 of the Constitution.

 

15(3) or no 15(3), abettor or no abettor, you can’t get clearer than this. The case was about a constitutional challenge to Section 497, and the constitutional challenge was rejected. Maybe there is a case that Article 21 was not raised, and that therefore, a five-judge bench could rule on that. I do think, however, that if Yusuf Abdul Aziz was to be overruled on the grounds of Article 14 and 15, a seven-judge bench needed to be constituted.

Secondly, at one point in his judgment, Nariman J. notes that Hindus never had the concept of divorce, because marriage was considered a sacrament. This is, with respect, historically inaccurate. It is true that among caste Hindus, divorce was an anathema; divorce, however, was frequent and accepted among lower castes, and this is a fact that has been recorded in multiple works of social and cultural history. It does, however, raise some interesting questions about what exactly do we talk about when we talk about transformative constitutionalism. As Karl Klare noted in the famous article that began it all, transformative constitutionalism is not simply about how you interpret the Constitution, but also about how law is taught and discussed. One important part of that is to focus more closely on the sources (both historical and otherwise) that are relied upon in judgments: for example, it is notable that, in a case of gender equality under the Indian Constitution, the first footnote in the Chief Justice’s opinion refers to John Stuart Mill, a British and white man, who lived in the 19th century. Transformative constitutionalism, I feel, must also deepen the sources that it relies upon – otherwise, we’ll still be decriminalising adultery while also making sweeping statements that are both incorrect and result in historical erasure, about the nature of marriage and divorce “among the Hindus.”

The Aadhaar Judgment: A Dissent for the Ages

“Constitutional guarantees cannot be subject to the vicissitudes of technology.” (Chandrachud J., dissenting, paragraph 269)

As we discussed in the last post, the Majority judgment in the Aadhaar Case is premised upon a series of factual assumptions, which are either unsubstantiated, or lifted from a Power-Point presentation given by the UIDAI Chairperson in the Court. The Majority agrees, for instance, that profiling is bad, and surveillance unconstitutional – but finds, on fact, that the Aadhaar framework does not permit either. The Majority agrees that data minimisation is a constitutional principle, but finds, on fact, that Aadhaar does collect minimal data. And the Majority agrees that the legal standard is that of proportionality, but finds that because of its “uniqueness”, biometric authentication successfully targets deserving beneficiaries, and that therefore, is proportionate.

For this reason, while reading Justice Chandrachud’s dissenting opinion, there is a sense that the two judgments disagree not only on legal standards (which they do), but also, on something far more basic: they disagree about the very state of the world within which Aadhaar operates.

Why does this matter? It matters because Judges are entitled to declare the law – and indeed, bring it into being by declaring it – but facts have an independent existence. For example, one may take sides on whether the Majority or Justice Chandrachud is correct in holding that Section 59 of the Aadhaar Act validates past action, while acknowledging that the Majority – by virtue of being the Majority – has laid down the law. However, if the Majority and Justice Chandrachud disagree on the uniqueness of biometrics, or on the existence of exclusion, then – quite simply – one of them is right, and the other one is wrong. And if the Majority is wrong on facts, then serious questions must be asked about the sustainability of that judgment.

Overarching Assumption: The Uniqueness of Biometrics

As we saw, the factual foundation of the Majority Judgment is that biometrics are unique. This foundation is at the heart of the Majority’s decision to uphold Section 7, as well as the mandatory Aadhaar-PAN linkage. And it is with this foundational assumption that Chandrachud J. takes issue. In paragraph 132, he notes that “errors will inevitably occur” (with biometric use). In paragraph 150, he puts the point in a stronger way: “The uniqueness of a fingerprint in forensic science remains an assumption without watertight proof.” Unlike the Majority, he then goes on to substantiate this claim, citing scholarly books (Fn. 154 & para 260) and the text of the Aadhaar Act itself, which envisages updation of biometrics. This becomes crucial in the latter part of the judgment dealing with exclusion, where (as we shall see) both authentication failures and the existence of false positives and false negatives are a crucial reason for his finding of unconstitutionality.

This foundational factual disagreement between the Majority and Justice Chandrachud is important – and virtually determinative – to the outcome of the case. Recall that the Majority elects to pitch its case very high: not merely that a biometric database is good or efficient, but that it is flawless: i.e., there cannot be duplicates. The Majority does this because it makes the rest of the case very easy. If Aadhaar is truly unique, then ipso facto, it efficiently targets beneficiaries (and so, Section 7 is upheld) as well as fake PAN Cards (and so, S. 139AA is upheld); and furthermore, “unproven” stories of exclusion cannot be taken seriously (and, in any event, are being dealt with by a Circular). There is no need to engage in a messy proportionality analysis about whether biometric authentication actually accomplishes what the State claims it does, and whether it is indeed the least restrictive way of accomplishing it. However, by stark contrast, Chandrachud J.’s finding that biometrics can be erroneous – as we shall see – opens his judgment up to a large number of issues: do errors disproportionately affect the most vulnerable? Shouldn’t failure be forestalled, rather than compensated? And so on.

Surveillance

Here again, Chandrachud J.’s disagreement with the Majority starts in factual analysis. Chandrachud J. notes that profiling and surveillance is possible under the existing Aadhaar framework. This is because, in his view, according to Regulation 17, requesting entitles can store biometric information for a temporary period (paragraph 126), that through the IP address, meta data can be used to track location and profile (para 227), that there is the access third-party vendors to the database, and – most crucially – that linking of databases can take place:

The risks which the use of Aadhaar “for any purpose” carries is that when it is linked with different databases (managed by the State or by private entities), the Aadhaar number becomes the central unifying feature that connects the cell phone with geo-location data, one’s presence and movement with a bank account and income tax returns, food and lifestyle consumption with medical records. This starts a “causal link” between information which was usually unconnected and was considered trivial. Thus, linking Aadhaar with different databases carries the potential of being profiled into a system, which could be used for commercial purposes. It also carries the capability of influencing the behavioural patterns of individuals, by affecting their privacy and liberty. Profiling individuals could be used to create co-relations between human lives, which are generally unconnected. (paragraph 244)

In addition:

When Aadhaar is seeded into every database, it becomes a bridge across discreet data silos, which allows anyone with access to this information to re-construct a profile of an individual’s life. It must be noted while Section 2(k) of the Aadhaar Act excludes storage of individual information related to race, religion, caste, tribe, ethnicity, language, income or medical history into CIDR, the mandatory linking of Aadhaar with various schemes allows the same result in effect. For instance, when an individual from a particular caste engaged in manual scavenging is rescued and in order to take benefit of rehabilitation schemes, she/he has to link the Aadhaar number with the scheme, the effect is that a profile as that of a person engaged in manual scavenging is created in the scheme database. The stigma of being a manual scavenger gets permanently fixed to her/his identity. What the Aadhaar Act seeks to exclude specifically is done in effect by the mandatory linking of Aadhaar numbers with different databases, under cover of the delivery of benefits and services. (paragraph 247)

On every point, therefore, there is a direct factual clash between the Majority and Chandrachud J. Recall that the Majority categorically says that merging of data silos cannot happen, that that is a fundamental reason why profiling and surveillance is impossible. Chandrachud J., on the other hand, makes it clear that the seeding of Aadhaar across databases serves to break the silos. As I had pointed out above, this is not a matter of different legal interpretation, with the Majority’s view being “correct” simply because it is the Majority. Here, one of them is right and one of them is wrong.

Privacy

Chandrachud J.’s disagreement with the Majority on this is legal in character. Recall that the Majority undertakes the proportionality test by diminishing our privacy interest in our bodily characteristics, and devaluing the importance of biometric details (fingerprints or iris scans). By contrast, Chandrachud J. holds that it our privacy interests in our biometric details is high: both from an informational self-determination point of view, as well as from a bodily integrity and physical safety point of view (paragraph 125). In particular, Chandrachud J. avoids two pitfalls that the Majority falls into: that is, mixing up “minimal information (collected)” with “minimal interference with privacy”, and applying the American “reasonable expectation” standard. Ultimately, however, the difference is one of framing: the Majority uses the fact that biometric details are given frequently and for a multiplicity of purposes, to argue that we don’t have a heightened privacy interest in them. For Chandrachud J., however, that is irrelevant: what is relevant is that a “carefully designed” biometric system may nonetheless preserve privacy (such as, for instance, ensuring anonymity), and that therefore, that is the standard we must measure Aadhaar against. (paragraph 127) And within this framework, he finds that the absence of consent within the Act, the extent of information disclosed, the expansive scope of the term “biometrics”, the burden placed upon the individual to update her own biometrics, and lack of access to the record, cumulatively constitute a serious infringement of privacy.

Section 7 and Proportionality 

Chandrachud J. accepts that the Aadhaar Act – and Section 7 – are designed to fulfil a “legitimate State purpose” – that is, making the welfare delivery system better and more effective. For him, however, the Programme fails on the proportionality prong. As he observes:

The test of proportionality stipulates that the nature and extent of the State’s interference with the exercise of a right (in this case, the rights to privacy, dignity, choice, and access to basic entitlements) must be proportionate to the goal it seeks to achieve (in this case, purported plugging of welfare leakage and better targeting). (para 198)

This paragraph reflects three crucial differences in the way that the Majority and Justice Chandrachud approach proportionality in this case. First – as we have seen above – the Majority holds that the invasion of privacy and dignity is minimal (and it doesn’t even consider the issue of choice), thus guaranteeing a very low threshold of justification to the State. Secondly, having made the assumption that biometric authentication is flawless, the Majority cannot – and does not – admit that its use can actually impede access to basic entitlements. In the Majority’s approach, therefore, the question of entitlements comes on the other side of the justificatory ledger (i.e., the State promoting access to entitlements through Aadhaar). And thirdly, the factual assumption of accurate targeting and improvement of welfare delivery drive the Majority into a pre-decided “balancing” between minimal impairment of privacy and significant plugging of welfare leaks. Chandrachud J., however, remains more circumspect: he carefully notes that the plugging of welfare leakage and better targeting is only “purported.”

The word “purported” informs Chandrachud J.’s proportionality analysis. As he notes, this is not a domain where the Court has to be excessively deferential to the State’s assertions. This is especially true because a nation-wide biometric programme is not merely one of those initiatives that applies to a one-time transaction. Rather:

… by collecting identity information, the Aadhaar program treats every citizen as a potential criminal without even requiring the State to draw a reasonable belief that a citizen might be perpetrating a crime or an identity fraud. When the State is not required to have a reasonable belief and judicial determination to this effect, a program like Aadhaar, which infringes on the justifiable expectations of privacy of citizens flowing from the Constitution, is completely disproportionate to the objective sought to be achieved by the State. (paragraph 217)

In this context, the lack of verification mechanisms by UIDAU, no proper exemption handling process (if authentication fails), the lack of accountability mechanism with respect to the UIDAI (para 235), the absence of an overarching regulatory framework, and the vague and unbridled nature of Section 7, which allows it to interpreted in an open-ended way, without checking whether each separate use violates the proportionality standard (paragraph 248), all militate against a finding of proportionality. And the position is sealed when Chandrachud J. observes that:  “the state has failed to demonstrate that a less intrusive measure other than biometric authentication will not subserve its purposes.”

This time as well, the difference between the Majority and the Dissent is purely legal: recall that the Majority had argued that the Petitioners had failed to demonstrate an alternative; Chandrachud J., however, reverses the legal burden: it is for the State to demonstrate that there is no feasible alternative, since it is the State, after all, that is infringing my rights. As should be obvious, in cases where there is no evidence on other side, this finding of burden changes everything.

The Argument from Inequality

Chandrachud J’s acknowledgment that biometric authentication is error-strewn (something that the Majority refuses to acknowledge) leads him to study the exclusion issue carefully (which the Majority dismisses in a line). Exclusion is directly linked with discrimination, because – as he notes – “exclusion as a consequence of biometric devices has a disproportionate impact on the lives of the marginalized and poor.” (para 253) He deals in some detail with the work of Virgnia Eubanks, who – using the concept of the “digital poorhouse” – has demonstrated that the discriminatory effects of technological solutions are inevitably visited upon the most vulnerable. Consequently, Chandrachud J. holds that “the fate of individuals cannot be left to the vulnerabilities of technological algorithms or devices.” (para 262).

He then substantiates this by looking at the Economic Survey of 2016-17, government reports involving pilot projects in Andhra Pradesh, and at the work of grassroots scholars such as Jean Dreze and Reetika Khera, to show that the exclusion percentages have been substantial (paragraphs 263 – 268).  Now recall that the Majority dealt with this issue in a line, noting that the Attorney-General had a made a statement that people would be allowed to use another identification, and that there was also a Circular providing for this. In a following post, I will explain quite how bizarre this approach is, which upholds an unconstitutional statute on the basis of a promise to interpret it fairly; for now, however, Chandrachud J. has an answer himself, when he notes:

Technological error would result in authentication failures. The concerns raised by UIDAI ought to have been resolved before the implementation of the Aadhaar project. Poor connectivity in rural India was a major concern. The majority of the Indian population lives in rural areas. Even a small percentage of error results in a population of crores being affected. Denial of subsidies and benefits to them due to the infirmities of biometric technology is a threat to good governance and social parity. (paragraph 262)

This is a crucial observation. What Chandrachud J. is saying is that once it is established that exclusions will occur – leading to deprivation of rights – then the State bears the burden of first resolving these issues before rolling out the project. Once again, the contrast with the Majority could not be starker. The Majority notes that Aadhaar is an ongoing project, and “glitches” must be ironed out as they present themselves. To this, Chandrachud J. replies: “you cannot be ironing out the glitches when Articles 14 and 21 are at stake.” In other words, people – especially the most vulnerable – cannot be used as experimental subjects for improving the efficiency of technology, as that would violate every constitutional principle in the book:

No failure rate in the provision of social welfare benefits can be regarded as acceptable. Basic entitlements in matters such as foodgrain, can brook no error. To deny food is to lead a family to destitution, malnutrition and even death. (paragraph 263)

There is, of course, a bitter irony here. In the passive euthanasia judgment, it was the Chief Justice who had first articulated this principle, when he asked whether the individual was to be turned into some kind of a guinea pig for an experiment. Unfortunately, it would take only a few months for him to forget, and it would be left to a dissenting opinion to remember.

A Dissent for the Ages: Individual, State, Identity 

Justice Chandrachud’s dissenting judgment recognises what the Aadhaar case was truly about: it was the first time in its history that the Court was called upon to answer serious questions about the interface between technology, the relationship between individual and State, and the Indian Constitution. The judgment is shot through with a keen awareness of this fact. Indeed, in paragraph 3, Chandrachud J. notes that “our decision must address the dialogue between technology and power.”

These are not careless words. The Aadhaar case was all about the relationship between the individual and the State, and how technology was altering – and even potentially inverting – that relationship. It was about how power worked itself through technology, through algorithms, becoming the arbiter of peoples’ rights and entitlements. And it was, at its heart, a question about what our Constitution had to say about that.

This is something that the Majority, in its techno-utopian celebration of greater efficiency and unique identification, misses entirely: the other side of the story, the contrapuntal notes. It is the side that comes across with particular clarity at various points in the dissenting opinion: when Chandrachud J. discusses how unique data sets can lead to “perpetuating of pre-existing inequalities” (paragraph 10), or when he refuses to play-off civil rights and socio-economic rights against one another, or in his attention to how biometric systems are “most aggressively” tried out with welfare recipients (paragraph 120). And it comes across most vividly in a brief discussion about identification and identity, an issue that plagued the hearings throughout. Consider, for example, the dissent’s discussion of how the concepts of “identity” and “identification” are being merged with the advent and technology (and compare, once again, with the Majority’s celebration of a “unique identity”):

Identity includes the right to determine the forms through which identity is expressed and the right not to be identified. That concept is now “flipped” so that identification through identifiers becomes the only form of identity in the time of database governance. This involves a radical transformation in the position of the individual. (para 185)

A finding that immediately leads to the following conclusion:

The submission which has been urged on behalf of the petitioners is that an individual entitled to the protection of the freedoms and liberties guaranteed by Part III of the Constitution must have the ability to assert a choice of the means of identification for proving identity. Requiring an individual to prove identity on the basis of one mode alone will, it is submitted, violate the right of self-determination and free choice. (para 185)

In other words, in an age when identification has subsumed identity, the individual must be granted a choice in the means by which she elects to “identify” herself to the State. It is a simple enough concept, but radical in its application.

They say that Minerva’s Owl takes flight at dusk. And so, you may well ask: what is the point of this dissent, when the Supreme Court spent six years busily allowing Aadhaar to become a fait accompli, and then legitimised it through a Majority opinion anyway? To that, perhaps, there is only one answer: the great cases are always 4 – 1 in favour of the State.

Until the 1 is resurrected. And becomes the pathway for a future that is still struggling to be born.

(The writer assisted Mr. K.V. Viswanathan, senior counsel for one of the Petitioners challenging Aadhaar).

Guest Post: Navtej Johar v Union of India – Key Highlights

(This is a guest post by Dr. Abhinav Chandrachud.)

Much has already been written and said about the recent landmark decision of the Supreme Court in Navtej Singh Johar v. Union of India, where a bench of five judges of the Supreme Court partially struck down Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code (IPC), which made “carnal intercourse against the order of nature” a criminal offence. Four separate judgments were delivered by the court, by Chief Justice Misra (supported by Khanwilkar J), and Justices Nariman, Chandrachud and Malhotra. Though the conclusions arrived at were the same, some of the reasoning was different. For example, Justice Nariman held that there is no presumption of constitutionality for pre-Constitution laws [Nariman J, paragraph 90], Justice Chandrachud rejected [Chandrachud J, paragraph 36] the “sex plus” test laid down in Air India v. Nergesh Mirza, (1981) 4 SCC 335, while the other judges didn’t dwell much on these subjects. This post therefore focuses on some of the key highlights of the reasoning of the majority in the case. All paragraph number references are from the original judgments published on the website of the Supreme Court of India.

What is “natural”?

Section 377 of the IPC bears the heading “unnatural offences” and it penalizes carnal intercourse which is against the order of “nature”. Some of the judges therefore asked themselves what was meant by the word “natural”. Chief Justice Misra and Justice Malhotra held that a person’s sexual orientation itself is natural [Misra CJ, paragraphs 4, 109; Malhotra J, paragraph 13.1]. Relying on scholars like Zaid Al Baset and Shamnad Basheer, Justice Chandrachud wrote that there are shortcomings in the conceptual categories of “natural” and “unnatural”, that the idea of the “natural” was manufactured by a majoritarian suppression of the history of the prevalence of sexual minorities, that merely because something is natural does not mean that it is desirable (e.g., death), and just because something is unnatural (e.g., a heart transplant) doesn’t mean that it ought to be criminal [Chandrachud J, paragraphs 28-29].

Constitutional Morality:

One of the central themes of the court’s decision in Johar is that the aim of the Constitution is to transform society, not to entrench and preserve the pre-existing values of the majority. In other words, though a majority of people in India may be heterosexuals, though the prevalent “social morality” in India might even dictate sexual intercourse only between a man and a woman, it is “constitutional morality” which must prevail [See, Misra CJ, paragraphs 110, 119; Nariman J, paragraphs 80-81; Chandrachud J, paragraphs 3, 24, 141]. Ambedkar himself had said that “our people have yet to learn” the “sentiment” of “constitutional morality” [Chandrachud J, paragraph 141].

In West Virginia State Board of Education v. Barnette, 319 U.S. 624 (1943), Justice Jackson of the U.S. Supreme Court famously wrote, “Compulsory unification of opinion achieves only the unanimity of the graveyard.” In passages reminiscent of these words, the Johar court found: “Any attempt to push and shove a homogeneous, uniform, consistent and a standardised philosophy throughout the society would violate the principle of constitutional morality.” [Misra CJ, paragraph 116]; And: “Democratic as it is, our Constitution does not demand conformity. Nor does it contemplate the mainstreaming of culture. It nurtures dissent as the safety valve for societal conflict. Our ability to recognise others who are different is a sign of our own evolution.” [Chandrachud J, paragraph 5].

The Miniscule Minority:

In Suresh Kumar Koushal v. Naz Foundation, (2014) 1 SCC 1, the Supreme Court had previously upheld Section 377 of the IPC because only “a miniscule fraction of the country’s population”, according to the court, belonged to the LGBTQI community. This argument was rejected by the court in Johar [Misra CJ, paragraphs 115, 120, 169; Nariman J, paragraph 95; Chandrachud J, paragraph 55; Malhotra J, paragraph 19(ii)]. The number of people asserting a fundamental right, said Chief Justice Misra, is “meaningless; like zero on the left side of any number.”

Unreasonable Classification:

Section 377 of the IPC was partially struck down by the court on the ground that it violates the rights to equality, free speech, and life under Articles 14, 19(1)(a) and 21 of the Constitution. Two tests were applied to determine whether the provision fell foul of Article 14 – the old classification test, and the new manifest arbitrariness test.

Under the classification test, a law falls foul of Article 14 if it either classifies people into categories without applying an intelligible differentia, or if the object sought to be achieved by the law doesn’t bear any rational nexus with the intelligible differentia. Applying this test, Chief Justice Misra found that the object of Section 377 (“to protect women and children from being subjected to carnal intercourse”), did not bear a reasonable nexus with the classification of persons into those who have carnal intercourse against the order of nature and those who don’t [Misra CJ, paragraph 237]. Justice Chandrachud, on the other hand, held that it was “difficult to locate any intelligible differentia between indeterminate terms such as ‘natural’ and ‘unnatural’” [Chandrachud J, paragraph 29]. Justice Malhotra held that “Where a legislation discriminates on the basis of an intrinsic and core trait of an individual, it cannot form a reasonable classification based on an intelligible differentia.” [Malhotra J, paragraph 14.3]

Manifest Arbitrariness:

All the judges found that Section 377 was manifestly arbitrary [Misra CJ, paragraph 239, Nariman J, paragraph 82; Chandrachud J, paragraph 29; Malhotra J, paragraph 14.9]. The following were among the reasons given by the court in support of this conclusion: (i) Section 377 does not distinguish between consensual and non-consensual sexual intercourse among competent adults; (ii) it fails to recognize that such sexual intercourse is not harmful to society; (iii) it inflicts a stigma on members of the LGBTQI community; (iv) modern psychiatric studies have shown that members of the LGBTQI community are not persons suffering from mental disorders; (v) Section 377 inflicts life imprisonment, which is disproportionate; (vi) it is rooted in the belief that the sole aim of sexual intercourse is procreation; (vi) it discriminates on the basis of sexual orientation, over which a person has “little or no choice”; (vii) the phrase “carnal intercourse against the order of nature” is too open ended and vague to be in a penal provision; (viii) after the 2013 amendment to the IPC, some consensual sexual acts between heterosexual adults would no longer be considered rape under Section 375, though they would still fall foul of Section 377 [Misra CJ, paragraph 220; Nariman J, paragraph 94; Chandrachud J, paragraph 31 (at pp. 39-41)].

Articles 19(1)(a) and 21:

The court found that Section 377 violates the right of members of the LGBTQI community to dignity, identity, and privacy, all covered under Article 21 of the Constitution [Misra CJ, paragraphs 143, 229; Nariman J, paragraph 83; Chandrachud J, paragraphs 51 (at p. 66), 58; Malhotra J, paragraphs 13.1, 14.5, 16]. Two judges found that it violates the right to health, because the criminalization of homosexual intercourse makes members of the LGBTQI community hesitate to seek medical advice and that they are therefore more susceptible to sexually transmitted diseases [Chandrachud J, paragraphs 76, 83, 84, 87, 92; Malhotra J, paragraph 16.3]. The court also found that Section 377 violates the right to the freedom of expression under Article 19(1)(a) [Misra CJ, paragraphs 245, 247; Malhotra J, paragraph 17].

Partially Struck Down:

However, Section 377 of the IPC has not entirely been struck down. It still covers bestiality and non-consensual intercourse [See: Misra CJ, paragraphs 252, 253 (xvii), Nariman J, paragraph 97; Chandrachud J, paragraphs 7, 156(i)]. Since the court struck down the provision as far as it applies to consenting adults, the provision still presumably applies to consensual sexual intercourse among minors of the same gender. Under Section 375 of the IPC, as amended in 2013, even consensual sexual intercourse among heterosexual minors, if the girl is under 18 years of age, is considered to be rape.

(The writer is an advocate at the Bombay High Court)