Category Archives: Article 14

Personal Laws and the Constitution: Why the Tripal Talaq Bench should Overrule State of Bombay vs Narasu Appa Mali

(From this Thursday, a Constitution Bench of the Supreme Court will hear arguments about the constitutionality of the Muslim personal law practices of triple talaq, nikah halala, and polygamy. In this guest post, Praharsh Johorey argues that in doing so, the Court ought to overrule the long-standing precedent of State of Bombay vs Narasu Appa Mali, which exempts personal laws from constitutional scrutiny.)

On the 11th of May, the Supreme Court will begin hearing arguments on the petition concerning – among other things – the constitutionality of the Muslim divorce process commonly known as the ‘Triple Talaq’.

Before the Court, a number of interveners have canvassed a wide range of propositions. In this post, however, I shall focus on the specific issue of “instant Triple Talaq” (where a man can divorce his wife by unilaterally uttering the word “talaq” thrice in succession), and proceed on the assumption that such manner of divorce is illegal and unconstitutional. Now, in order to declare it unconstitutional, the Supreme Court can do one of two things. First, it can adopt a narrow approach in accordance with J. Krishna Iyer’s plea in A. Yousuf Rawther v. Sowramma, and hold that the instant Triple Talaq practice is not part of Muslim Personal Law and therefore excluded from the Muslim Personal Law (Shariat) Application Act, 1937. Second, it can take the broader approach, and subject all personal law to the test of Constitutional validity, and principally determine the constitutional validity of the practice. To take the broad approach, however, it will have to overrule a 1951 Bombay High Court judgement State of Bombay v. Narassu Appa Mali, which held that personal laws are not subject to the rights enumerated under Part III of the Constitution.

In this post, I will be dealing specifically with the Narasu judgement, and the need for the Supreme Court to overrule this deeply problematic constitutional pronouncement.

Narasu Appa Mali

The central question in Narasu related to the validity of the Bombay Prevention of Bigamous Hindu Marriages Act, 1946. The primary contention against the Act was that it was in breach of Articles 14 (Right to Equality) and Article 15 (Prohibition of Discrimination), because the law discriminated between a Hindu and a Muslim male with respect to their respective rights (or lack thereof) to engage in polygamy. Article 25 (Right to Freedom of Religion) was also argued, on grounds that this Act infringed with the right of Hindus to practice polygamy, which was argued as forming part of Hindu custom.

However, under the Constitution only a ‘law’ or a ‘law in force’ as defined in Article 13, which invalidates all laws that are in derogation of fundamental rights, can be subject to the rights under Part III. Therefore prior to examining the aforementioned contentions, the Court undertook to answer the more fundamental question of whether Personal Laws (such as the Act in question) are ‘laws’ or ‘laws in force’ under Article 13.

The Division Bench of C.J. Chagla and J. Ganjendragadkar unanimously answered in the negative, with both judges giving somewhat distinguishable reasoning for their decision. I will examine both separately.

Personal Laws as ‘Laws in Force’

Justice Gajendragadkar’s justification is based on a narrow interpretation of Article 13, stated in paragraphs 19 and 20 of his separate opinion:

‘The expression ‘laws in force’..refers to what may compendiously be described as statutory laws. There is no doubt that laws which are included in this expression must have been passed or made by a Legislature or other competent authority, and unless this test is satisfied it would not be legitimate to include in this expression the personal laws merely on the ground that they are administered by Courts in India. 

His argument thus proceeds on two grounds. First, that Article 13(1) only contemplates statutory laws, and second, that personal laws cannot be considered statutory law and are therefore outside the scope of Article 13.

Now, to understand the scope of ‘laws in force’ under Article 13(1), we must first look to Article 13(3)(b), which defines the term:

“… ‘laws in force’ includes laws passed or made by a Legislature or other competent authority in the territory of India before the commencement of this Constitution and not previously repealed, notwithstanding that any such law or any part thereof may not be then in operation either at all or in particular areas.”

Respectfully, J. Gajendragadkar’s interpretation is in direct conflict with the wording of 13(3)(b), as it employs the term ‘includes’ in the definition of the term ‘laws in force’, thereby broadening its scope. J. Agarwal, in P. Kasilingam v. PSG College of Technology states that the word ‘includes’ enlarges the meaning of the expression defined so as to comprehend not only such things as they signify according to their natural import, but also the things as the clause says they shall include. More recently, J. Jain in Bharat Cooperative Bank (Mumbai) v. Employees Union agreed with the dictum of Kasilingam, by holding that ‘includes’ makes the definition enumerative, in that the term defined will retain its ordinary meaning but its scope will be extended to bring within it matters, which in its ordinary meaning may or may not comprise.

Applying this to the interpretation of the definition of ‘laws in force’ under Article 13(3)(b), the ‘ordinary’ or ‘natural’ import of the term must be given effect to. As per its dictionary meaning, a ‘law in force’ is any principle to which parties are legally bound, and which can be relied upon by a Court to resolve disputes. Interestingly, J. Gajendragadkar’s attributes all of these facets to ‘personal law’ in India, stating:

‘There can be no doubt that the personal laws are in force in a general sense; they are in fact administered by the Courts in India in matters falling within their purview.’ However, the expression ‘ laws in force’ is, in my opinion, used in Article 13(1) not in that general sense.’

It remains unclear what specific import he sought for the term ‘general’ to have in this context, and no clear reasoning as to why he resultantly narrows the scope of Article 13. This interpretation is plainly not supported by the enumerative wording of Article 13(3)(b), and it is his own characterisation of personal laws that places it well within the scope of the ordinary meaning of ‘laws in force’.

Even if one were to accept the contention that Article 13(1) is limited only to statutory pronouncements, for the Narasu dictum to withstand scrutiny, it must be established that there exists a clear distinction between ‘law’ under Article 13 and personal laws. To this end, J. Gajendragadkar states:

It is well-known that the personal laws do not derive their validity on the ground that they have been passed or made by a Legislature or other competent authority in the territory of India. The foundational sources of both the Hindu and the Mahomedan laws are their respective scriptural texts.

‘…the duty of a Judge who is under the obligation to administer Hindu law is not so much to inquire whether a disputed doctrine is fairly deducible from the earliest authorities, as to ascertain whether it has been received by the particular school which governs the district with which he has to deal. In fact, the different schools and sub-schools of Hindu law which are recognised by our Courts are distinguished solely on the ground of the different texts to which they owe allegiance.’

This argument proceeds on the contention that personal laws are based upon an untrammelled application of the scriptural texts ‘to which they owe their allegiance.’ However, this reasoning ignores the significant role played by the Judiciary and the Legislature in moulding religious texts in light of modern constitutional principles – which have in several instances been accepted by the schools that are responsible for their application. As a result, the High Court’s singular premise for excluding personal laws from Article 13 is unfounded.

The Evolution of Personal Law in India

‘We ought not to be guided by Hindu law, which is a new introduction of our own.’

  • Mountstuart Elphinstone,

This contention can be demonstrated through an examination of how personal law came to be defined by religious practice in the colonial era. The British administration took upon itself the duty of both defining and adjudicating personal law, which required that it determine which practices would constitute law, and which would simply have social force. (Sturman, 2012) For this purpose, Courts, the Privy Council in particular, developed a three-step test to determine what constituted religious custom – that any principle must be ancient, invariable and supported by clear evidence. This made the establishment of any custom invariably difficult, leading to the greater homogenisation and enforcement of Brahmanical law by Courts, irrespective of the diverse religious leanings of parties to a dispute. (Sturman) The British insistence on ‘clarity, certainty and definitiveness’ was alien to Hindu and Islamic traditions, whose traditions and custom were ‘not of a nature to bear the strict criteria imposed by British lawyers.’ (Galanter, 1968) The establishment of the High Courts in India in 1864 also rendered null the position of ‘law officers’, like Shastris and Maulvis, who were responsible for offering textual interpretations and opinions pertaining to personal law.

This process also replaced the idea that socio-religious polities were based on changing beliefs and faith with the authority instead granted to objective experts, like Courts, to identify fixed beliefs determined at the time of the origins of such polity. For example, the Aga Khan case (High Court of Bombay, 1866), treated the Khoja community as Muslim and the Pushtimargis as Hindu instead of them being considered as independent polities within these larger faiths. The consequence of this was clear – polities that previously determined their own idea of the religious traditions in which they engaged were now subjected to the Western conception of Hindu and Islamic law. (Shodan, 2001)

Therefore, the idea that religious/personal law exists as it was written in the Smriti or the Quran ignores the intricate systems of ‘contractual governance’ within religious sects that enabled them to re-interpret text in light of changing societal norms. By taking away the ability of these local collective structures to make decisions for themselves, these structures were compelled to surrender all decision-making, concerning personal law, among other things, to the Imperial government which made decisions in light of international or a collective mode of logic – vastly different from the ones followed at the local level. The movement to bring the local community into the public sphere was thus not an organic one, and was done for the sole purpose of making them more amenable to coexistence with societal and religious norms defined by the British. Thus, J. Gajendragadkar’s notion of a clean and inextricable link between religious texts and personal law is deeply ahistorical and largely a colonial construct, as it denies entirely the crucial role played by customary law at the local level in developing this law, and subsequently shaping its application.

We can now turn to C.J. Chagla’s conception of the scope of law under Article 13, and where personal laws may be placed in this spectrum.

‘Expressio Unius Exclusio Alterius’ under the Constitution

It was argued before the bench that personal law can even be considered as ‘custom or usage having the force of law’ under the definition of law under Article 13(3)(a). J. Chagla dismisses this contention:

‘.Custom or usage is deviation from personal law and not personal law itself. The law recognises certain institutions which are not in accordance with religious texts or are even opposed to them because they have been sanctified by custom or usage, but the difference between personal law and custom or usage is clear and unambiguous.’

Evidence of this difference, J. Chagla argues, can be found in the inclusion of various provisions in the Constitution that relate to state regulation of personal law, such as Article 17 (Abolition of untouchability), Article 25 (Freedom of Religion) and Article 372 (Power to Adapt and Modify laws); the implication being that the drafters did not intend to subject personal laws to Constitutional provisions, because otherwise it would be ‘unnecessary to specifically provide for them.’

This reasoning is flawed for a number of reasons. His distinction between custom and personal law is, in my opinion, based on a misguided reading of the Constitution. This can be proven through an examination of the very basis of the argument, the principle of expressio unius exclusio alterius, i.e. the expression of one excludes the other, and its present application.

This principle is used sparingly as a tool of interpretation, being described as a ‘dangerous master’ because the conditions in which it can be conclusively applied remain unclear. Guidance is provided by the Calcutta High Court in Union of India v. BC Nawn, which held that primary purpose of this principle is when a provision in a statute expressly mentions one or more particulars, but does not mention some others, then those others not mentioned are taken to have been excluded from the provision. J. Chagla stretches the application of this principle far beyond this contemplation to encompass all provisions of the Constitution – holding in effect that any Constitutional declaration specifically relating to personal law is further evidence of its exclusion as a ‘law’ under 13(3)(a). This reading cannot be reconciled with the actual wording of Article 13, because it does not define ‘law’ or ‘laws in force’ in an exhaustive manner, with the broad import of the word ‘including’ in the definition of both terms exemplifying the intent of the drafters not to subject them to restrictive tools like the exclusio principle. It should not be said, as a result, that Articles relating to personal law under the Constitution occupy a field independent of Article 13.

This underlying logic of this principle is made weaker in light of its problematic implications. Take for example Article 23, which establishes a right against discrimination on grounds of religion, caste or class. As per J. Chagla’s reasoning, the inclusion of a specific right against caste-discrimination would signify its exclusion from the scope of Article 14, which establishes a right to equality. However, this is apparently untrue, with the Supreme Court holding in a catena of decisions that certain provisions in the Constitution must be read together, due to the broad wording of certain provisions under Part III, and the ‘abundant caution’ of the drafters lead to the inclusion of certain provisions. A relevant example is that of the inclusion of Article 13 itself. C.J. Kania in his decision in A.K Gopalan v. State of Madras wrote that even in the absence of Article 13(1) and (2), Courts would still have the authority to strike down unconstitutional enactments; but the drafters still included Article 13. This inclusion, he argues, demonstrates the exercise of ‘abundant caution’ by the Constitutional drafters to ensure that all prospective laws and laws already in force were immediately invalidated, irrespective of subsequent litigation. Similarly, the inclusion of Article 17, which criminalises untouchability, can be said to have been included on similar grounds, to enable the State to impose adequate sanction upon those engaging in the practice, without having to wait for its declaration as being ultra vires.

Conclusion

Therefore, one would hope that the Supreme Court recognises this, and overrules Narasu, in light of both its incorrect reading of Article 13, as well as the ahistorical understanding of the distinction between personal law and ‘laws in force’ as recognised under the Constitution. Only if the Court undertakes such an exercise can we move beyond the current trend of judicial ‘cherry-picking’ in relation to what religious doctrines are and are not in fact personal law, and principally examine the legal validity of these principles in light of Part III. Here’s to hoping.

 

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Filed under Article 14, Article 15 (general), Equality, Non-discrimination, Personal Law

The Constitutional Challenge to Aadhaar/PAN – III: The Petitioners’ Rejoinder and the Issues before the Court

In the last two posts, we examined the case of the Petitioners and that of the Union of India before the Supreme Court in the constitutional challenge to S. 139AA of the IT Act. In this post, we shall conclude by discussing the Petitioners’ rejoinder, and outlining the issues that the Court must adjudicate.

Mr Shyam Divan’s Rejoinder

On Article 14 and the Collision Between the Aadhaar Act and S. 139AA

Mr Divan argued that the entire case rested upon the Attorney-General’s argument that S. 7 of the Aadhaar Act was virtually mandatory – an argument, he stated, he had heard for the first time during these proceedings. Mr Divan contended that the only way in which the Attorney-General had managed to reconcile the Aadhaar Act and S. 139AA was by arguing that S. 7 was mandatory. If that argument failed, then the entire edifice would crumble, and S. 139AA would have to be struck down.

Mr Divan argued that the entire scheme of the Aadhaar Act made it clear that it was voluntary. This was evident from the Statement of Objects and Reasons, from Section 3, which stipulated that “every resident shall be entitled” to an Aadhaar number. It was also evident from S. 3(2), which required the enrolling agency to inform the individual about the manner in which the information would be used and S. 8(2)(a), which required requesting entities to “obtain consent” . And S.7 only permitted the Government to make Aadhaar mandatory as a condition for receiving subsidies which were financed out of the Consolidated Fund of India. Mr Divan argued that the Attorney-General’s reliance on S. 57 was incorrect, because S. 57 clearly stated that it was subject to the rest of the Aadhaar Act. No coercive measures were contemplated by the Act. Furthermore, the voluntariness of Aadhaar was also evident from the enrolling form, which specified consent; from the UIDAI’s own website, which used the phrases “entitled to voluntarily obtain an Aadhaar number“, and “any person may choose to use Aadhaar“; and from the UIDAI’s advertisements.

Aadhaar, therefore, was a voluntary scheme. What flowed from this, according to Mr Divan, was that a legislative scheme which divided people into two categories – those who choose to have an Aadhaar, and those who don’t – and then burdened the latter category, was discriminatory on the face of it. And this was precisely what S. 139AA did. By dividing taxpayers into those who had freely chosen to get an Aadhaar number, and those who hadn’t, and by forcibly requiring the latter to get an Aadhaar, S. 139AA violated Article 14 because its very objective was discriminatory. Mr Divan argued that the petition should succeed on this count alone.

Compelled Speech 

Mr Divan clarified that his point about compelled speech was simply that, by parting with her biometric details and iris scan – the most personal of all information about oneself – the individual was being compelled to “speak” – and that too, not to the State, but to private enrolling agencies. Mr Divan conceded that there might be different considerations if the State was doing the collecting itself; but how, he asked, could the State compel the individual to “speak” to another individual with whom they did not wish to have any interaction? Reading out the list of private enrollers, Mr Divan argued that the entire architecture of Aadhaar – which required me to go and provide my most sensitive information not to the State, but to “Pankaj Shah of Bits and Bytes Co.” violated Article 19(1)(a).

Bodily Integrity, Compelling State Interest, Narrow Tailoring 

The Union of India’s entire argument – Mr Divan stated – essentially boiled down to “what’s the big deal about this? Other laws require you to part with personal information too.” To this, he responded that there could be laws which infringed bodily integrity in order to protect and preserve life: this is why there were laws mandating helmets and seatbelts. Likewise, there could be laws stipulating narrowly-tailored exceptions to the right, in service of a compelling State interest, such as passports (where an urgent need might arise to identify a person in case of an accident abroad). That, however, was a far cry from a centralised database, which – according to the Union’s own affidavit – involved seeding of information. This was also what distinguished Aadhaar from a provision such as S. 32A of the Registration Act. The Registration Act required you to give your fingerprints, but that was for your benefit and was only on the document; it did not go into a centralised database, with all the accompanying possibilities of misuse and data theft. Similarly, the Census Act accorded a very high degree of protection to census information: inspection of census registered, for instance, was prohibited. What this showed was that when the coercive power of the State is used to invade bodily integrity, there must be a consequently high degree of protection – something which Aadhaar, with the possibility of seeding, did not have.

Furthermore, Mr Divan argued, the State had failed to make out a compelling interest. The argument about “giving people an identity” was flawed, because 99.97% of Aadhaar applicants already had pre-existing identity documents. The logic of duplication was also flawed, because official information showed the presence of 1,69,000 duplicate Aadhaar numbers. Consequently, the large-sale infringement of bodily integrity in this case could not be sustained by the goal the State was trying to achieve.

Competence and Deference 

Mr Divan reiterated his argument that under the constitutional scheme, there was an implied limitation upon the State’s power to legislate when it came to the human body: only narrowly-tailored infringements, in service of a compelling interest, were permitted. Wholesale taking of biometric details and iris scans, and storing them in a centralised database for the purposes of seeding was neither narrowly-tailored, nor in service of a compelling interest. Mr Divan also pointed  out that this case had raised serious questions pertaining to the violation of Articles 14, 19, and 21 of the Constitution. Consequently, the Court ought not to follow its usual policy in dealing with “fiscal statutes”, and defer to legislative wisdom; although 139AA was a tax amendment, its nature was anything but purely fiscal.

Mr Divan concluded by arguing that the Union’s three-pronged case – that there was no right to privacy, that fingerprinting and iris scans were no more intrusive than a photograph, and that Aadhaar was mandatory – if accepted, would overturn the entire relationship between the individual and the State, concentrating great power in the hands of the latter at the expense of the former. That would result in a tremendous compromise of civil liberties. He would urge the Court to strike down S. 139AA.

Mr Datar’s Rejoinder

Legislative Overruling of Judicial Orders

Mr Datar argued that before the Supreme Court, the Union of India had always reiterated that Aadhaar was voluntary. On 11th August 2015, and then again on 15th October 2015, the Supreme Court itself had stated that Aadhaar could not be made mandatory. Now, it was open to Parliament to legislate in a way that took away the basis of these orders. Parliament, for instance, could simply stipulate, in a law, that henceforth, every individual was obligated to obtain an Aadhaar Number. However, Parliament had not done that. Parliament had simply enacted S. 139AA, which made it mandatory to quote an Aadhaar number while filing Income Tax returns. That did not amount to taking away the basis of the Supreme Court orders. Mr Datar took the example of a case in Bangalore, where notwithstanding building regulations prohibiting a height of more than 80m, a person had built up to 100m. The case was taken to Court, and he lost. However, before his building could be demolished, the Regulation was changed to make the legal height 110m, and applicable retrospectively, from the time that construction had commenced. That, argued Mr Datar, was an instance of how the basis of a judgment could be altered, and that was the only way known to law in which the Parliament or Executive could overcome a contrary court order. Similarly, in the Supreme Court’s recent judgment banning liquor within a specified distance from highways, some states had responded by denotifying their highways, and turning them into ordinary roads. That was permissible, because it removed the basis of the Court’s judgment; however, those states could not simply have said, “notwithstanding the Supreme Court judgment, alcohol will continue to be sold in these shops.” S. 139AA effectively amounted to state action of the latter kind.

Justice Sikri pointed out that what was unique about this case was that the Court’s earlier orders had been passed when Aadhaar was merely an executive scheme, and no law existed. So could it be said that the orders even applied to a law in the first place? Mr Datar responded by saying that in view of Ram Jawaya Kapoor’s Case, the executive and legislative powers of the State were co-extensive. Consequently, whether the original orders applied to an executive scheme, or to a law, the point remained that they could only be overcome through the specific mechanism outlined above. Justice Sikri and Mr Datar agreed that the Court was dealing with this kind of a situation for the first time in its history, and would have to lay down the law on the basis of first principles. Justice Sikri then asked what the “basis” of the earlier Court orders was, that the Parliament could have legislated to take away. Mr Datar responded that the basis was that since the validity of Aadhaar was yet to be tested on the constitutional anvil, in the meantime it could not be made mandatory for anything but a specified number of services. Consequently, the only way of removing this basis was to pass an Act that stated “Parliament may make Aadhaar mandatory…” Mr Arghya Sengupta interjected to state that S. 7 of the Aadhaar Act did this already. Mr. Datar replied that S. 7 did nothing of the sort.

Legislative Dichotomy

Mr Datar then pointed out that S. 139AA of the Aadhaar Act did not contain a non-obstante clause (“notwithstanding anything contained in any other law for the time being in force…). In the absence of a non-obstante clause, there was a clear collision – or a dichotomy – between the Aadhaar Act and S. 139AA, a dichotomy that could be resolved only by striking down S. 139AA. Once Parliament had passed a law which made Aadhaar a right – it could not then pass a contrary law that made Aadhaar its jural opposite –  a duty without a non-obstante clause. Mr Datar read out numerous parliamentary statements – including one by Mr Jaitley – to demonstrate that at its core, Aadhaar was meant to be voluntary, and also pointed to the utter lack of debate in Parliament before passing S. 139AA.

Article 14

Mr Datar argued once again that the State had entirely failed to make out a rational nexus between making Aadhaar compulsory for individual taxpayers, and its stated goal(s) of preventing duplication, preventing black money, and preventing terrorism. He pointed out that only 0.4% of PAN Cards had been found to be duplicate, and that these figures from 2006. In response to Mr Sengupta’s interjection that this was only 0.4% of a very small sample, Mr Datar responded that that was exactly the point of statistical sampling. He observed there was no data after 2006, and asked on what basis the State had decided to take such a huge step – of mandatory Aadhaar – without analysing data, or sending the matter for consideration by a Parliamentary committee. The reason for the discrepancy between the number of PAN Cards and the number of taxpayers was simply that, after 1998, PAN began to be used for a wide number of transactions that had nothing to do with tax. Consequently, the Union had failed to discharge its burden under Article 14 that there existed a rational nexus between making individuals quote their Aadhaar numbers while filing tax returns, and checking duplication, tax evasion, or black money.

Mr Datar also addressed the Attorney-General’s arguments under FATCA, arguing that FATCA had nothing to do with Aadhaar numbers at all. Mr Arghya Sengupta interjected, saying that FATCA required handing over PAN numbers to US authorities, and that it would be embarrassing if duplicate PANs were handed over. Mr Datar pointed out that this had nothing to do with rational nexus under Article 14.

Article 19(1)(g) 

Mr Datar argued that the consequences of not having a PAN Card effectively locked an individual out of a number of economic transactions that were a lifeline (especially) for small traders and entrepreneurs. Apart from crores of individual taxpayers, it would be this class that would be affected the most: their entire economic life would grind to a halt. Consequently, for those who did not wish to get an Aadhaar number, S. 139AA was a serious infringement of their right to carry on trade and business under Article 19(1)9(g).

Now, if a law violated Article 19(1)(g), it could only be justified under Article 19(6): i.e., if it was a reasonable restriction in the interests of the general public. The correct test for assessing reasonableness had been laid down by Justice Sikri himself, in Modern Dental College vs State of MP (discussed on this blog here), and it was the test of “proportionality”:

“… a limitation of a constitutional right will be constitutionally permissible if: (i) it is designated for a proper purpose; (ii) the measures undertaken to effectuate such a limitation are rationally connected to the fulfillment of that purpose; (iii) the measures undertaken are necessary in that there are no alternative measures that may similarly achieve that same purpose with a lesser degree of limitation; and finally (iv) there needs to be a proper relation (‘proportionality stricto sensu’ or ‘balancing’) between the importance of achieving the proper purpose and the social importance of preventing the limitation on the constitutional right.” (paragraph 53)

Mr Datar pointed out that for 0.4% of duplicate PANs, 99.96% of taxpayers were being forced into Aadhaar. How, he asked, was this proportionate? In the balancing of interests between duplicate PANs and the freedom to do business, proportionality – in this case – clearly weighed in on the side of the former.

Mr Datar concluded by stating that this was a very serious case, with far-reaching consequences for civil liberties. Responding to the Attorney-General’s contention that all that had happened was that an extra “A” had been added to S. 139A, making it “Section 139AA”, he urged the Court to stop the encroachment on individual rights at its first step. He ended by quoting Justice Douglas of the US Supreme Court:

“As nightfall does not come at once, neither does oppression. In both instances, there is a twilight when everything remains seemingly unchanged. And it is in such twilight that we all must be most aware of change in the air – however slight – lest we become unwitting victims of the darkness.”

Issues before the Court

The Supreme Court has to resolve the following issues:

(a) Did S. 139AA “take away the basis” of the Supreme Court’s earlier orders on Aadhaar being voluntary, or is it an impermissible legislative overruling of a binding Court order?

(b) Does S. 139AA violate bodily integrity under Article 21? If it does, then does it serve a compelling State interest? And is it narrowly-tailored? Is it analogous to other laws such as the Registration Act, the Census Act, or the Passports Act, or is it much broader and far-reaching then those statutes? When deciding this issue, the Court will also have to decide how much to defer to the Union’s claims on duplication and black money, in view of the fact that the Petitioners strongly contested the validity of these claims. One interesting aspect here is how the Court will choose to allocate burdens of proof: will it, if it finds an infringement of bodily integrity, hold that the State must then justify it on the touchstone of compelling interest and narrow tailoring?

(c) Does S. 139AA violate Article 19(1)(g)? If so, is it proportionate, in view of statistics on the number of duplicate PANs and the existence of duplicate Aadhaars?

(d) In view of the fact that the Aadhaar Act makes Aadhaar voluntary, does S. 139AA fail the discriminatory purpose prong of Article 14 by classifying taxpayers into those who have voluntarily taken an Aadhaar number, and those who haven’t?

(e) Has the State shown a “rational nexus” under Article 14, with its goals of preventing black money and duplication? Here again, the issue of deference will become decisive: will the Court hold 139AA to be an economic statute, and take the Union’s claims at face value? Or will it, in view of the contentions involving fundamental rights, subject the Union to a stricter scrutiny in justifying its contention about Aadhaar being the panacea for preventing tax evasion?

(f) Does 139AA amount to compelled speech under Article 19(1)(a)?

(g) Does 139AA violate the principle of informational self-determination under Article 21?

(e) Is there an implied limitation upon legislative competence as far as laws concerning the human body are concerned? If yes, then does 139AA violate this implied limitation?

Options before the Court

The Court may do one of the following six things:

(a) Strike down S. 139AA as unconstitutional.

(b) Accept Mr Divan’s argument, and hold that S. 139AA is voluntary by reading “shall” as “may”.

(c) Accept Mr Datar’s argument and “harmoniously construe” S. 139AA and the Aadhaar Act by holding that those who have already procured and Aadhaar number might be required to quote it, but those who haven’t cannot be compelled to enroll.

(d) Find that issues or privacy are essential to decide the case, refer the matter to the pending Constitution Bench, and stay its operation in the meantime.

(e) Refer without staying

(f) Uphold S. 139AA entirely, but leave it open to the Petitioners to challenge it on the grounds of privacy, once the Constitution Bench finally decides the main Aadhaar challenge.

 

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Filed under aadhaar, Article 14, Article 21 and the Right to Life, Bodily Integrity, Bodily Privacy/Integrity, Equality, Privacy

The Constitutional Challenge to S. 139AA of the IT Act (Aadhaar/PAN) – II: The Union’s Arguments

In the previous post, I detailed the petitioners’ arguments in the constitutional challenge to S. 139AA of the Income Tax Act, which effectively makes enrolling for an Aadhaar number compulsory for taxpayers. After Petitioners completed their arguments, the Union of India – through the Attorney-General, Mr Arghya Sengupta, and Mr Zoheb Hossain – responded in defence of S. 139AA. Mr Shyam Divan and Mr Arvind Datar then replied for the Petitioners. In this post, I shall provide a brief account of the arguments, isolate the issues that the two-judge bench of the Supreme Court must address, and outline the possible outcomes.

The Attorney-General’s Arguments: A Limited Right to Bodily Integrity

The Attorney-General argued that the Petitioners’ Article 21 challenge to S. 139AA – focusing on bodily integrity – was nothing but a camouflaged privacy challenge, which the Court could not examine at this stage (see previous post on the dropping of privacy arguments from the present proceedings). However, assuming that there was an independent right to bodily integrity under Article 21, the thrust of the Attorney-General’s argument was that this right could be limited by the State – and in fact, was limited by the State in a number of other domains, in ways equally, or more, intrusive than Aadhaar. For instance, Section 32 of the Registration Act, 1908, required all ten fingerprints as a pre-requisite for registering property. People routinely subjected themselves to biometric collection while traveling abroad. More broadly, the Attorney-General argued that Aadhaar only did something that was already normalised and routinised in society: in an era of ubiquitous photography, what was so unacceptably intrusive about an iris scan? Given the ubiquity of online transactions through smartphones, what was so intrusive about having to part with one’s data for the purpose paying taxes? To accede to the Petitioners’ arguments would be to set a legal standard that could only be fulfilled by hermits living alone in the mountains, and not citizens part of the modern, digital economy.

Although the Attorney-General did not specifically use the term, what he appeared to be doing was borrowing the American doctrine of “reasonable expectation of privacy“: that is, the scope of one’s right to privacy – or, in the language in which this case was argued – “bodily integrity” – is determined by what is socially sanctioned and understood as reasonable at any given time. Briefly put, the Attorney-General’s case was that Aadhaar calls upon citizens to give up only that which they voluntarily and regularly give up as part of their daily lives; consequently, there was no constitutional violation to start with.

The Attorney-General then argued that in any event, citizens had no absolute rights over their bodies. In this case, there was a larger public interest that justified the level of infringement. For instance, the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act regulated the conditions under which a woman could abort her foetus. Random breath checks for drunken driving were required in the interests of road safety. At this point, Justice Sikri interjected, and wondered whether those examples were analogous, because in those cases, the restrictions were clearly reasonable. To this, the Attorney-General replied that in the present case as well, there was a larger public interest: the effective and efficient collection of taxes, which was an integral part of life in an ordered society.

To substantiate this argument, the Attorney-General took the Court through the history of PAN Cards, and the perceived need to replace them with Aadhaar. He argued that on a random verification of 0.2% of all PAN Cards, a number of duplicate PANs were thrown up. Besides, over the previous twenty years, the existence of shell companies, the presence of directors in multiple companies, and multiple PAN holders, had all come to light. India was a highly tax non-compliant society. Furthermore, in addition to tax dodging, there were also problems of black money, which was used to finance terrorism. For all these reasons, it was important to develop a system in which identification could not be faked. The Attorney-General submitted that the only way to accomplish this was to digitise fingerprints and iris scans, and keep them for posterity. At present, fingerprints and iris scans could not be duplicated, and consequently, the shift to Aadhaar was necessary. Furthermore, this data would be encrypted and stored in a centralised server, and shared only with the police in case it was needed for resolving a crime.

Aadhaar itself, the Attorney-General submitted, was originally conceputalised to prevent leakages in the public distribution system, in payment of wages under the NREGA, in the payment of pensions, and so on. He argued that with Aadhaar, more than Rs 50 crores had been saved by plugging leakages. Consequently, even if there was some infringement of individual rights, it was balanced by the larger public goal, as mandated – according to the Attorney-General – by Rousseau’s conceptualisation of the social contract. Individuals were in a contractual relationship with the State from their birth, reliant upon it for a host of benefits; how then could they refuse to pay their taxes in the manner mandated by the State?

Indeed – according to the Attorney-General – the Supreme Court had itself sanctioned the use of Aadhaar in PDS schemes in 2011, and in SIM card verification just a couple of months before. Furthermore, an accurate identification system such as Aadhaar was needed to ensure that India was in compliance with its obligations under international agreements such as the FATCA. For all these reasons, the Attorney-General submitted that Aadhaar was entirely within the parametres of Article 21 of the Constitution.

He concluded his arguments by submitting that within the contours of the social contract, nobody had a right to make themselves invisible: “you may want to be forgotten. But the State does not want to forget you.

Returning to this argument at a later point in his submissions, the Attorney-General also argued that a number of Supreme Court cases – such as Kathi Kalu Oghad – had held that compelling persons accused of a crime to provide their fingerprints had been held not to violate the constitutional right against self-incrimination. So why couldn’t the State put in preventive measures to check tax dodging in advance? Justice Sikri interjected to say that the Kathi Kalu line of cases might not be apposite, because they involved accused in criminal cases; surely it was not right to treat the entire country as presumptively accused of tax dodging. The Attorney-General replied that he was only arguing that the right to bodily integrity was not absolute – it could be taken away in certain cases. “Which cases, is the question“, Justice Sikri responded. “Even your life can be taken away under Article 21“, the Attorney-General continued. “But only with due process,” Justice Sikri replied. “We must balance individual dignity with State interests.” The Attorney-General responded: “at the end of the day, if you can give your fingerprints for registering property, why can’t you give your fingerprints for this?

Still later in his submissions, the Attorney-General cited precedents from the American Supreme Court about urine testing for school athletes, DNA testing of a rape accused, and – perhaps paradoxically – Roe vs Wade – to reiterate that the right to bodily integrity was not absolute.

Article 19(1)(g)

The Attorney-General’s rebuttal to Mr Datar’s argument on Article 19(1)(g) was brief. He stated that there was no violation of Article 19(1)(g), and expressed surprise that in this day and age, someone was making a constitutional argument based on Article 19(1)(g).

S. 139AA and the Aadhaar Act

The Attorney-General submitted that there was no conflict between Section 139AA and the Aadhaar Act. Responding to Mr Shyam Divan’s submission that the coercive character of 139AA could not stand alongside the voluntary nature of Aadhaar, the Attorney-General argued that Section 7 of the Aadhaar Act was at least partially mandatory: the State could tell citizens “either you should have an Aadhaar Act, or you jolly well apply for it.” Furthermore, under S. 57 of the Aadhaar Act, Aadhaar could be used for purposes other than those stipulated in the Act itself. And in any event, he argued, Parliament’s power to prescribe uses for Aadhaar was plenary, and subject only to the Constitution. The Attorney-General added that the Aadhaar Act came built in with safeguards: Section 29, for instance, prohibited the sharing of information. True, there had been some leaks of late; but those leaks, he argued, had not come from the UIDAI, or the central government, but the Jharkhand state government; and in any event, biometric details had not been compromised – only bank account information had.

Parliamentary Legislation and Court Orders

The Attorney-General’s final argument was that whatever the status of the pre-2016 Supreme Court orders stipulating that Aadhaar could only remain voluntary, all these were overridden by subsequent legislation. There was no such thing as “legislative estoppel“. No Court could injunct Parliament from passing laws as it deemed fit. By passing the Aadhaar Act – and then s. 139AA – the Parliament had simply exercised its plenary powers, and passed validating legislation taking away the basis of the prior court orders.

The Attorney-General concluded his arguments by citing a World Bank Report praising the Aadhaar system. Everyone needed an identity, he argued. Many people in India had no identity. Aadhaar was a method to bring them into the mainstream, prevent exclusion, and guarantee them their dignity.

The Arguments of Mr. Arghya Sengupta: Article 14 and Proportionality

Continuing the case for the Union, Mr Arghya Sengupta argued that Mr Datar’s claim that 139AA violated Article 14 of the Constitution was incorrect, because Article 14 did not require the Court to undertake a proportionality analysis. He cited K.T. Plantations for the proposition that a proportionality test effectively amounted to judges substituting their wisdom for that of Parliament. Taking the Court through comparative law, Mr Sengupta submitted that traditional judicial review claims in the United Kingdom had never included a proportionality test. While the European Court of Human Rights did incorporate a proportionality analysis into its rights-analysis, this only caused greater confusion than resolution. Relying upon Lord Pannick and Lord Hoffman, Mr Sengupta submitted that “the reasons for not treating people equally often involve considerations of social policy.” Justice Sikri interjected to observe that equality claims in the United Kingdom – which didn’t have a Constitution – might be treated differently from how they were in India. Mr Sengupta responded that the broader point was that proportionality only entered the picture when some balancing of rights was involved. Article 14 only required the Courts to ask whether there existed a valid reason for treating people differently from one another. There was no question of balancing. In fact, Article 14 was not about “rights” at all; fundamentally, it was about “wrongs”. Mr Sengupta concluded this argument by citing Professor Rebecca Dixon for the proposition that even the proportionality test had begun to collapse into the traditional test, and argued for the retention of the traditional Indian test of intelligible differentia and rational nexus.

On the merits of Article 14 itself, Mr Sengupta argued that Mr Datar was incorrect in arguing that the disproportionate penalty for not complying with Article 139AA rendered it violative of Article 14. Relying upon the McDowell Casehe repeated his submission that proportionality could not be invoked to strike down a statute under Article 14. Nor could a statute be struck down on grounds of arbitrariness. Justice Sikri interjected that, by virtue of Mardia Chemicals, it might be possible to invalidate a statute on grounds of arbitrariness. In response, Mr Sengupta cited Rajbala vs State of Haryana, which had rejected the arbitrariness doctrine (for a previous discussion of this debate on this blog, see here; for an analysis of Rajbala, see here).

Coming to the traditional classification test under Article 14, Mr Sengupta opposed Mr Datar’s argument that by making Aadhaar compulsory only for individual assessees, S. 139AA violated the rational nexus test. He argued that, by definition, only individuals could have Aadhaar numbers (as opposed to companies, or HUFs). Consequently, Parliament had chosen to first focus on the problem of black money and tax evasion committed by individuals, and had brought in Aadhaar to check that. No enactment, Mr Sengupta argued, could completely solve a social problem. Parliament had decided to make a start with individuals, and at a future date, would devise ways for dealing with the other categories of assessees as well.

Justice Sikri said that he understood that there was no discrimination if companies were incapable of even having Aadhaar numbers. However, the question was why discriminate between two people, both of whom were willing to pay tax, if one of them was willing to enrol for an Aadhaar number, and the other was not. Mr Sengupta replied that the purpose of 139AA was not to discriminate, but to prevent duplication of PAN cards. So the discriminatory object test under Article 14 – as Mr Shyam Divan had argued – was inapplicable. In fact, much like in the US, when TIN was replaced by SSN, in future, the State might choose to replace PAN with Aadhaar entirely.

Conscientious Objection

Mr Sengupta submitted that Mr Divan calling his clients “conscientious objectors” who were being discriminated against was entirely misplaced. Citing texts on civil disobedience and conscientious objection, he argued that what Mr Divan was essentially arguing for was a license to break the law. You may not want to stand up for the national anthem, he pointed out, but that did not mean you could sit down. Justice Sikri observed that that might not be an entirely accurate framing; the petitioners had, after all, approached the Court to have the law struck down. Mr Sengupta replied that there could be conscientious objection to all kinds of laws, but that in itself did not make them discriminatory.

Informational Self-Determination

Mr Sengupta’s final argument was on informational self-determination. He submitted that there was no absolute right to informational self-determination. The State could – and did – collect a wide range of information from individuals: births, deaths, marriages. The information that the State required from its citizens was extensive, and nobody challenged it. In any event, Mr Sengupta argued, whatever right to informational self-determination – in the apparent guise of privacy – did exist, it would have to be conditioned and defined by cultural factors. India was very different from Germany, from where Mr Divan had drawn his doctrine. There would have to be devised an Indian doctrine of informational self-determination, drawn from Indian conditions. Citing Mark Tushnet on the dangers of comparative law, Mr Sengupta argued against “importing” the conception of privacy into India.

At this point, Mr Divan interjected and said that his argument was not a privacy argument, but an argument about his right to his body. Justice Sikri observed that there might be overlaps between the two concepts. Mr Divan responded that there might indeed be overlaps, but that his right to bodily integrity was not subsumed within his right to privacy. Mr Sengupta argued that it was not open to this Court to draw a distinction between privacy and informational self-determination; given that the very question of privacy was pending before the Constitution Bench, it was for the Constitution Bench to decide what the scope of privacy was, and whether or not it included informational self-determination. Returning to his argument about importing foreign law into India, Mr Sengupta cited Justice Antonin Scalia of the American Supreme Court who, in a death penalty case, had resisted the use of comparative precedent, arguing that in judging whether the death penalty in a particular case was “cruel and unusual punishment”, only “American standards of decency” ought to be looked at.

In any event, Mr Sengupta continued, even the German Constitutional Court required a balancing between individual and community interests. He repeated his submission that the right to informational self-determination was fundamentally about privacy, since the right to control information about oneself was a facet of privacy. If the Court was going to go into that, then there was a compelling State interest in the present case: that of preventing duplicate PANs, and ensuring efficient collection of taxes. Justice Sikri stated that the Petitioners would have to show why they had a right to pay taxes in the manner that they desired. Mr Sengupta continued by saying that biometric collection was the most sophisticated system presently known. PAN was the technology of 1975, he concluded; but Aadhaar was the technology of 2016.

The Arguments of Mr Zoheb Hossain

Mr Zoheb Hossain observed that India is a progressive tax regime. Progressive taxation was itself a facet of Article 14 of the Constitution. 139AA served this progressive goal by eliminating the inequality between taxpayers and tax evaders, by making duplication of PANs impossible. There was no discrimination against individuals; in fact, there were other provisions of the Income Tax Act – such as dividend distribution tax – applicable only to companies.

Mr Hossain then argued that Mr Divan was incorrect to argue that compelled taking of biometric details and iris scans amounted to compelled speech. Citing United States vs O’Brien, he argued that not every act or conduct amounted to “speech”.

Mr Hossain concluded by arguing that the standard for injuncting a parliamentary legislation was extremely high. There could be no injunction unless the statute was manifestly unconstitutional. Consequently, if the Court was inclined to refer the case to the larger bench, it ought not to grant a stay on the operation of S. 139AA.

(Disclaimer: The writer assisted the Petitioners in the constitutional challenge before the Court.)

 

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Filed under aadhaar, arbitrariness, Article 14, Article 21 and the Right to Life, Bodily Integrity, Bodily Privacy/Integrity, Equality, Free Speech, Privacy

Guest Post: Consistency across Statutes and Article 14 in Harsora vs Harsora – A Further Critique

(This is a guest post by Rahul Bajaj, a final-year law student at the University of Nagpur)

On this blog, there has been a discussion of (see here and here) Justice Nariman’s recent judgment in the case of Hiral P. Harsora versus Kusum Narottamdas Harsora and Ors., in which Section 2(Q) of the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act of 2005 (“the Act”) was struck down as being violative of Article 14 of the Constitution. In his comment on this judgment, Gautam described the case as a “textbook application of Article 14 doctrine”, inasmuch as Justice Nariman found that the distinction that Section 2(q) created between adult male and female respondents and between adult and non-adult male respondents, was not founded upon an intelligible differentia and did not bear a rational nexus with the object of the statute.

However, I would submit that the judgment, far from being a textbook application of Article 14, marks a significant departure in how Indian constitutional Courts construe the reasonable classification doctrine and apply it to assess the constitutionality of any statute against the touchstone of Article 14. This assertion is based on the fact that the Court factored into its analysis, and I would argue gave prime significance to, factors that have no place in an Article 14 inquiry.

A clarification here would be in order. In the paragraphs that follow, I will only be critiquing one prong of the Court’s reasoning viz. reliance on the need for internal consistency in statutes as a ground to declare Section 2(q) unconstitutional. In other words, I believe that the Court’s holding that the classification created by Section 2(q) is unreasonable, given the object and overall scheme of the Act, cannot be faulted.

While no one can cavil at the approach outlined by the Court in para 10 for assessing the constitutionality of a statute against the touchstone of Article 14 viz. looking at the statement of objects, text of the preamble and the provisions of the statute as a whole, this judgment would not have warranted closer scrutiny if the Court had confined its inquiry to faithfully adhering to this approach. Instead of doing so, however, the Court seems to have been unduly influenced by the desire to ensure internal consistency and uniformity in statutes regulating the lives of women in different spheres.

This assertion is based on the Court’s statement in para 18 which deserves to be quoted in full:

As has been rightly pointed out by Ms. Arora, even before the 2005 Act was brought into force on 26.10.2006, the Hindu Succession Act, 1956 was amended, by which Section 6 was amended, with effect from 9.9.2005, to make females coparceners of a joint Hindu family and so have a right by birth in the property of such joint family. This being the case, when a member of a joint Hindu family will now include a female coparcener as well, the restricted definition contained in Section 2(q) has necessarily to be given a relook, given that the definition of ‘shared household’ in Section 2(s) of the Act would include a household which may belong to a joint family of which the respondent is a member. The aggrieved person can therefore make, after 2006, her sister, for example, a respondent, if the Hindu Succession Act amendment is to be looked at. But such is not the case under Section 2(q) of the 2005 Act, as the main part of Section 2(q) continues to read “adult male person”, while Section 2(s) would include such female coparcener as a respondent, being a member of a joint family. This is one glaring anomaly which we have to address in the course of our judgment.

As the above extract unequivocally indicates, after noting that the definition of ‘respondent’ under Section 2(q) needs a relook on account of the amendment of Section 6 of the Hindu Succession Act, the Court seamlessly arrogates to itself the task of rectifying what it characterizes as a glaring anomaly. I would submit that this line of reasoning suffers from two grave flaws.

First, while ensuring internal consistency in statutes that deal with related subjects is doubtless a desirable objective, it is submitted that it is not the task of a court, much less of a court adjudicating upon the constitutionality of a statutory provision in accordance with well settled principles, to regard the attainment of this object as a key consideration that ought to undergird its judgment.

Second, the Act was enacted on 13th September, 2005 and the amendment to the Hindu Succession Act, as the Court itself notes, came into force on 9.9.2005, thereby indicating that the latter preceded the former. This being the case, if the legislature did not think it fit to craft the definition of ‘respondent’ in the Act in such a way as to bring it in line with the amendment to the Hindu Succession Act, it is difficult to fathom how the Court could have tasked itself with this responsibility.

Further, in para 42 of the judgment, the Court takes note of the definition of ‘respondent’ in the Sexual Harassment of Women at Workplace (Prevention, Prohibition and Redressal) Act, 2013, which definition is not circumscribed by the words ‘adult male’. Justifying its reliance on this definition, the Court notes that it indicates that “Parliament itself has thought it reasonable to widen the scope of the expression “respondent” in the Act of 2013 so as to be in tune with the object sought to be achieved by such legislations.”

Far from fortifying the Court’s conclusion, I would submit that it reinforces the flaw in the Court’s reasoning. More specifically, since the Court acknowledges that the widened definition of ‘respondent’, statutorily engrafted in the 2013 Act, is reflective of a conscious decision by Parliament to bring female respondents within the ken of the Act, does it not logically follow that the exclusion of female relatives from the definition of ‘respondent’ in Section 2(q) of the Act is the outcome of a conscious decision taken by the Parliament? If that be so, it is difficult to fathom how the Court could have use the 2013 Act as the foundation for its conclusion that Section 2(q) is unconstitutional, considering that Parliament adopted two different interpretations of ‘respondent’ on the basis of the distinct purposes that the two laws were designed to serve.

In sum, while this judgment will undoubtedly bring in greater consistency in the statutory architecture regulating the lives of women in different spheres, it is submitted that this can be no reason to declare a statutory provision unconstitutional. To the extent that this judgment uses this justification for holding Section 2(q) unconstitutional, I would respectfully submit that it rests on an intellectually shaky foundation and is inconsistent with the well settled principles that should inform an Article 14 inquiry.

(PS: My thanks to Prof. Shirish Deshpande for helping me acquire a nuanced appreciation of the ideas embodied in this article.)

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Addendum: The Impact of the S. 2(q) Judgment upon the Marital Rape Exception

Previously on this blog, we have discussed the marital rape exception under the Indian Penal Code. Recall that Section 375 of the Indian Penal Code sets out the ingredients of the offence of rape. Exception 2 to Section 375 states that “Sexual intercourse or sexual acts by a man with his own wife, the wife not being under fifteen years of age, is not rape.” I had argued earlier that Exception 2 creates two classes of women – married and unmarried (for the moment, let us ignore the intermediate category of separated women, who fall within S. 376B of the IPC), and accords unequal protection of law to these classes. It does likewise with men, and consequently, infringes Article 14 of the Constitution.

The objection to this line of argument is as follows: the effect of striking down Exception 2 would be to create a new offence altogether: the offence of marital rape. This is, in essence, a legislative task. Consequently, a Court, exercising judicial functions, will be overstepping its jurisdiction if it legislates a new crime.

How persuasive you find this objection depends upon whether you read Exception 2 as classifying acts or classifying persons (a distinction made notorious, of course, in Koushal vs Naz). Yesterday, however, we discussed the judgment of the Supreme Court in Hiral P. Harsora vs Kusum Narottamdas Harsorawhere Justice Nariman, writing for a two-judge bench, struck down S. 2(q) of the Domestic Violence Act on the ground of an Article 14 violation. In my view the Court, in Hiralal P. Harsora, did precisely what it would need to do to strike down the marital rape exception. Recall that S. 2(q) of the DV Act stated:

“….“respondent” means any adult male person who is, or has been, in a domestic relationship with the aggrieved person and against whom the aggrieved person has sought any relief under this Act.

Provided that an aggrieved wife or female living in a relationship in the nature of a marriage may also file a complaint against a relative of the husband or the male partner.”

Just like the marital rape exception, S. 2(q) effectively stipulated that acts of “domestic violence” (defined in S. 3 of the Act) would not fall within the DV Act if they were committed by female and/or persons (who were not relatives of a husband or male partner). The Court reasoned that this classification bore no rational relation with the purpose of the Act, which was to protect women from domestic violence “of all kinds”. The effect of the Court’s judgment was to widen the ambit of the DV Act by ensuring that henceforth females who committed domestic violence could be proceeded against under the Act. Or, if you want to put it another way, the Court legislated a new offence (albeit not a criminal offence): commission of domestic violence by females (who are part of a domestic relationship). Transposing this logic to the marital rape exception the argument is straightforward: the marital rape exception stipulates that husbands who commit rape do not fall within the ambit of S. 375 IPC. This classification bears no rational relation with the purpose of the Section or the IPC (i.e, to prevent and punish crime). The effect of striking down the Exception will be to widen the ambit of S. 375 by ensuring that henceforth husbands who commit rape can be proceeded against under S. 375. This might amount to “legislating a new offence” – but the Court just did that last week.

An immediate objection may be raised: S. 2(q) of the DV Act was part of the definitional section, while S. 375 IPC stipulates the ingredients of the crime of rape. The two are not equivalent, therefore, and it is only in the latter case that constitutional invalidity would result in legislating a new offence. In my view, however, the distinction is only a semantic one. As described above, what the Court is doing in the two cases is the same thing, and the result is the same. In both cases, two things are happening: an act that was not previously an offence is now an offence (commission of domestic violence by females and commission of rape by husbands); and a class of persons that were previously exempted from liability for committing the same act (females committing domestic violence and husbands committing rape). The basis is also the same: the two enactments tackle a certain kind of offence (domestic violence, rape), and consciously leave out a class of persons from liability, even though that class of persons might – in the non-legal sense – commit exactly that offence. Whether this is done through the definitional section or the ingredients section is a question of legal form, and not relevant to an Article 14 enquiry.

However, at this stage, a further objection may be made: the previous argument only deals with the act that constitutes the offence. S. 375, however, does not merely punish sexual intercourse, but punishes sexual intercourse without consent. The marital rape exception is based upon the premise that within marriage, spousal consent to sexual intercourse is presumed. Whatever the validity of this assumption, it is open to the legislature to make it; more importantly, if this is the basis of Exception 2, then it takes the provision out of the ambit of Article 14 altogether, and also dispenses with Hiralal P. Harsora as precedent.

It is no doubt true that the underlying assumption of Exception 2 is the doctrine of presumed consent within marriage. However, that is not what the Exception says. Had the Exception stated that “Sexual intercourse by a man with his own wife is deemed to be with her consent“, then it would have been a different matter.

It might be objected, however, that this is precisely the semantic distinction that we have argued against above. Section 375 is entirely about the question of consent. Consent is built into the definitional clauses. Consequently, the only reasonable way to read Exception 2 is to read it as stipulating deemed consent.

Such a reading, however, would put Exception 2 at odds with the rest of the IPC. Consider Section 87 of the IPC:

“Nothing which is not intended to cause death, or grievous hurt, and which is not known by the doer to be likely to cause death or grievous hurt, is an offence by reason of any harm which it may cause, or be intended by the doer to cause, to any person, above eighteen years of age, who has given consent, whether express or implied, to suffer that harm; or by reason of any harm which it may be known by the doer to be likely to cause to any such person who has consented to take the risk of that harm.”

Now, while Exception 2 states that marital rape is not “rape”, legally defined, it does not exempt marital rape from falling within other sections of the IPC. Prima facie, marital rape could constitute hurt (S. 319), wrongful restraint (S. 339), use of criminal force (S. 350), and sexual harassment (S. 354A). Now, under the doctrine of presumed consent, none of these offences could apply to sexual intercourse between husband and wife, since Section 87 would kick in. Consequently, there ought to have been a marital exception – along the lines of Exception 2 to Section 375 – for each of these provisions. However, there isn’t. Consequently, the doctrine of presumed consent cannot be taken to be the only explanation for the marital rape exception.

In fact, the explanation that is most commonly given – and which was invoked during the recent public debates on marital rape – is that the Exception is necessary in the interests of family unity and integrity. Whatever one may think about the merits of this answer, and the further argument that it family unity is a legitimate legislative purpose under Article 14, it is important to note that this argument is also excluded by Hiralal P. Harsora, since Justice Nariman, in that case, clearly derived the legislative purpose from the statement of objects and reasons and preamble of the DV Act, and did not engage in a roving enquiry about other possibly justified purposes. Under this framework, it is immediately clear that family unity is no part of the legislative purpose underlying the IPC as a whole, or Chapter XVI (“offences affecting the human body”), or even S. 375. The IPC is a criminal statute, and its purpose is the prevention, detection, deterrence, and punishment of crimes. And it is impossible to conceive of a defence of the classification drawn by the marital rape exception that bears a rational relation to these goals.

Consequently, I would argue that the reasoning in Hiralal P. Harsora, if applied consistently, leaves the Supreme Court with no other option but to strike down the marital rape exception as unconstitutional, if and when a challenge was brought before it.

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Filed under Article 14, Equality, Marital Rape

The Invalidation of S. 2(q) of the Domestic Violence Act: A Comment

Last week, a two-judge bench of the Supreme Court struck down Section 2(q) of the Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, 2005 [“DV Act”], on the basis that it violated Article 14 of the Constitution. Section 2(q), which is part of the definitional clause of the DV Act, read:

“…”respondent” means any adult male person who is, or has been, in a domestic relationship with the aggrieved person and against whom the aggrieved person has sought any relief under this Act:

Provided that an aggrieved wife or female living in a relationship in the nature of a marriage may also file a complaint against a relative of the husband or the male partner.”

To understand what, precisely was at issue, it is also important to set out the definitions of “aggrieved person” and “domestic relationship”. Section 2(a) defined an “aggrieved person” to mean “any woman who is, or has been, in a domestic relationship with the respondent and who alleges to have been subjected to any act of domestic violence by the respondent.” Section 2(f) defined domestic relationship as “a relationship between two persons who live or have, at any point of time, lived together in a shared household, when they are related by consanguinity, marriage, or through a relationship in the nature of marriage, adoption or are family members living together as a joint family.”

The effect of Section 2(q), therefore, was that insofar as a domestic relationship was concerned, an aggrieved woman could proceed only against male perpetrators of domestic violence. However, if the domestic relationship was a marriage or a relationship in the nature of a marriage, the aggrieved woman could file complaints against the relative of her husband/male partner. It is important to note that it is, by now, settled law, that under the proviso to Section 2(q), women could be respondents. Consequently, the distinction drawn by S. 2(q) was between marriages/relationships in the nature of marriage on the one hand, and other domestic relationships on the other. In the former case, female relatives of the husband/male partner could be made respondents, while in the latter, a respondent could only be an “adult male”.

The Supreme Court found that this distinction was irrational, arbitrary, and contrary to Article 14. For the most part, the judgment is a textbook application of Article 14 doctrine, and needs no comment. However, a couple of interesting issues do arise out of the judgment, which deserve to be examined.

The first is the issue of legislative purpose under Article 14. Relying upon Shashikant Laxman Kale vs Union of India and Harbilas Rai Bansal vs State of Punjab, Justice Nariman held that the Statement of Objects and Reasons and the Preamble of the DV Act must be examined to discern its purpose. Reading the two together, he found that the purpose of the Act was to “provide for effective protection of the rights of women who are victims of violence of any kind occurring within the family.” (emphasis his) (paragraph 16) In light of the wide definition of ‘domestic relationship’, which included members of both sexes (paragraph 18), the amendments to the Hindu Succession Act that now made women co-parceners in a joint family (paragraph 18), the gender-neutral definition of “domestic violence” under Section 3 of the DV Act (paragraph 19), and the fact that the remedies under the Act (such as protection and residence orders) could easily be defeated if “respondent” was limited to adult male persons (paragraph 20), he then held that the classification under S. 2(q) failed the rational relation test under Article 14. This was not just true for “male”, but for “adult” as well, since it was easy to envisage 16 and 17- year olds engaging in acts of domestic violence within shared households (paragraph 24). The linchpin of Justice Nariman’s opinion, which he repeated, was that “the classification of “adult male person” clearly subverts the doctrine of equality, by restricting the reach of a social beneficial statute meant to protect women against all forms of domestic violence.” (paragraph 31) The phrase “domestic violence of any kind” was repeated in paragraph 36.

In short, therefore, the Court struck down S. 2(q) on the basis that the distinction it drew between the persons who could be arraigned as respondents in the case of marital relationships, and other kinds of domestic relationships, bore no rational relation with the purpose of the Act, which was to protect women against domestic violence of “any kind”, or of “all forms”. This legislative purpose was drawn from its statement of objects and reasons and the Preamble.

It is important, however, to draw a conceptual distinction between two kinds of “legislative purposes”. In the first sense, “legislative purpose” is what the legislature actually had in mind (to the extent that collective purposes make sense) when enacting the statute, something that a Court can determine by looking at the text and surrounding documents of the law. This is what Justice Nariman did in the present case. Call this the “intended purpose“. In the second sense, “legislative purpose” is a purpose that can be justifiable attributed to a statute, regardless of whether or not it was actually within the contemplation of the legislature while drafting the law. Call this the “justified purpose“. In this case, after having found that the stated purpose of the Act was to protect women against domestic violence of “all kinds”, and that the S. 2(q) classification did not serve this purpose, Justice Nariman did not ask (and indeed, the State did not propose) whether S. 2(q) could be plausibly justified in relation to any other possible legislative purpose. Here is one possible candidate:

The Domestic Violence Act understands “domestic violence” as not simply violent acts committed by one person upon another within a domestic setting, but as a problem that flows from differential, structural power relations between men and woman in the family (which is why only women can be complainants under the Act), and therefore, primarily seeks to prevent male-on-female violence. While we may disagree with this framing, it is within the realm of legislative discretion to make this call. This accounts for S. 2(q). However, the legislature was also cognisant of the fact that the marital relationship is a space where women are specifically vulnerable, in no small part because in many circumstances they must leave their homes and live with their husband’s family. Consequently, the legislature chose to carve out a proviso to S. 2(q) to deal with the heightened vulnerability of women in marital relationships.

I am not arguing that this restated purpose of the Domestic Violence Act would necessarily clear Article 14 scrutiny. It might be argued, for instance, that even if one is to accept the argument that domestic violence is structural and institutional, acts of domestic violence can and are committed by both men and women – and so, even if we were to take the above argument on its own terms, it would fail the test of rational classification (in that case, however, the Court would also have to explain why the legislature’s identification of the specific harm that it was seeking to prevent was irrational and could be overridden in a judicial enquiry). What I am arguing, however, is that principles of judicial deference and the presumption of constitutionality would require the Court to adopt a generous approach towards the determination of legislative purpose, which would include, at times, reconstructing legislative purpose in a manner that would make the strongest case for the constitutionality of the law. If, even then, the law failed Article 14 scrutiny, then of course, it would need to be struck down.

As an aside, it is also interesting to take note of the path that this judgment did not take. Recall that in Yusuf Abdul Aziz vs State of Bombay, the Supreme Court upheld the constitutionality of adultery law against a gender-equality challenge (women are not liable in case of adultery) on the basis that it was saved by Article 15(3) of the Constitution (“special provisions for women and children”). An argument could have been made in this case that exempting a class of women from legal liability was exactly what was done in Yusuf Abdul Aziz, and upheld under Article 15(3). The problems with that approach are too many to list out here, and so, it is certainly a good thing that the Court showed no signs of retracing its steps along that road.

 

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The Bombay High Court’s beef ban decision – II: On the Unconstitutionality of the Reverse Onus Clause (Guest Post)

(In this guest post, criminal law specialist Abhinav Sekhri examines the concurring opinion of Gupte J., which struck down Section 9B of the Maharashtra Animal Preservation Act (the reverse burden clause)

In a post yesterday, the Resident Author of this Blog engaged in a thorough analysis of various aspects of the decision delivered by the Bombay High Court in Sheikh Zahid Mukhtar v. State of Maharashtra. Consideration of the issues discussed by the separate opinion of Justice Gupte was left, which is what I seek to address. Justice Gupte tackles Section 9-B of the Maharashtra Animal Preservation (Amendment) Act, 2015 [hereafter, the Act], which reads:

In any trial for an offence punishable under sections 9 or 9A for contravention of the provisions of this Act, the burden of proving that the slaughter, transport, export outside the State, sale, purchase or possession of flesh of cow, bull or bullock was not in contravention of the provisions of this Act, shall be on the accused.

The separate opinion struck down Section 9-B of the Act as unconstitutional. In this comment, I first give a basic introduction to reverse burden (or reverse onus) clauses, moving on to discuss the specific reasoning adopted in the Separate Opinion for holding the provision unconstitutional.

An Introduction on Reverse Burdens

 

Ordinarily, in criminal cases the burden to establish the guilt of an Accused rests on the state. This dovetails with the essential principle of every Accused having a presumption of innocence in her favour. Over time, though, many statutory inroads have been made into this principle. Beginning with requiring an Accused to establish certain facts (evidential burdens), today there are several instances of Accused persons requiring to establish innocence itself (legal burdens). The Supreme Court held these clauses to be constitutional even where they impose legal burdens, in Noor Aga v. State of Punjab [(2008) 16 SCC 417].

Consider an example from the Narcotic Drugs & Psychotropic Substances Act, 1985 [hereafter, NDPS Act]. This employs two reverse-burden clauses. Section 54 of that Act creates a presumption that the Accused is guilty of an offence, if she fails to ‘satisfactorily account’ for possession of contraband. Section 35 states that in a prosecution under the NDPS Act, it would be presumed that the Accused has the ‘culpable mental state’ necessary for the offence.

How these operate was clarified by the Supreme Court in Inder Sain v. State of Punjab [(1973) 2 SCC 372, a case under the old Opium Act, 1878]; Noor Aga v. State of Punjab [(2008) 16 SCC 417]; Dharampal Singh v. State of Punjab [(2010) 9 SCC 608]; Bhola Singh v. State of Punjab [(2011) 11 SCC 653]. According to these decisions, the prosecution must prove initial facts – there was contraband, and it was in the conscious possession of the Accused – which creates a presumption of guilt, shifting the burden on the Accused to rebut that presumption. Note, though, that the prosecution is not required to prove that the Accused was knowingly in possession of the contraband itself. For instance, in Dharampal, 65 kg of Opium was recovered from the boot of the car owned and driven by the Accused. The prosecution was not required to prove that the Accused knew that the boot had the contraband. The presumption was cast as soon as the prosecution proved the material was contraband, and that it was in the boot of the car owned and driven by the Accused. It was now on the Accused to rebut this presumption.

The Separate Opinion’s Analysis of Reverse Burdens

At the outset, I must applaud the opinion for having extensively discussed the issue of reverse burdens. The vociferous opposition initially faced by these clauses across the common-law world has certainly shifted to a resigned acceptance in light of the perceived needs of law enforcement. However, we are now in a time when legislatures resort to such egregious provisions at the drop of a hat, exhibiting a numbness to the severe curtailment of liberties they entail. Parts of the opinion specifically address this problem, as Justice Gupte attacks the very need of having such a clause while dealing with a substance such as beef, which, as admitted by the state, carries no intrinsic harm or threat to society as opposed to say drugs [Paragraph 215, Pages 235-236].

Moving on to considering the opinion more substantively. Justice Gupte bases his attack upon Articles 14 and 21 of the Constitution of India. After citing various decisions, both Indian and foreign [Paragraphs 202-212, Pages 210-231], Justice Gupte arrives at the following four-fold test for considering the validity of any reverse burden clause [Paragraph 213, Pages 231-232]:

  1. Is the State required to prove enough basic or essential facts constituting a crime so as to raise a presumption of balance facts (considering the probative connection between these basic facts and the presumed facts) to bring home the guilt of the accused, and to disprove which the burden is cast on the accused?
  2. Does the proof of these balance facts involve a burden to prove a negative fact?
  3. Are these balance facts within the special knowledge of the accused?
  4. Does this burden, considering the aspect of relative ease for the accused to discharge it or the State to prove otherwise, subject the accused to any hardship or oppression?

The First Condition restates that the provision must require basic facts to be established by the prosecution before talk of any presumptions and reversing burdens. This must bear enough of a ‘probative connection’ with the presumption sought to be drawn. Going back to the example of Dharampal above, we can usefully juxtapose it with the decision in Bhola Singh. In the latter, the Supreme Court set aside the conviction for a co-owner of a truck which was caught transporting contraband based on the presumption. The Supreme Court held the presumption was not attracted, as the prosecution didn’t prove any basic facts connecting the Accused with the contraband. The prosecution didn’t show the Accused knew how his truck was being used by the contractor, let alone him knowing that the truck was being used to smuggle contraband.

From this, the Second and Third Conditions address the kind of facts that are to be presumed. The idea behind this is an understanding that reverse burden clauses only make sense where the issue is lying within the ‘special knowledge’ of the Accused or to prove ‘negative facts’. ‘Negative facts’ are the existence of permissions such as licenses or tickets, which play a role where offences rely on the inexistence of these permissions. ‘Special knowledge’ is a reference to mental states of an Accused. This is trickier. Any culpable mental state will always be a matter for the ‘special knowledge’ of an Accused, inviting the argument that in every trial the burden must be on the Accused to disprove intention after the prosecution establishes the physical act. Enter, the fourth condition, which places the handbrake on extending such logic too far. It reminds us of the fundamental David v. Goliath nature of the contest though, and how difficult it is for an Accused to find and present evidence to establish his innocence beyond his own word for his deeds.

Overall, then, there is little to disagree with the framework Justice Gupte establishes for evaluating reverse burden clauses in his separate opinion. The first and fourth conditions are the actual ‘tests’ upon which the reverse burden clause will be tested. If you clear the first test, the framework requires determining what kind of presumption is placed on the Accused, before considering whether placing such a presumption is unduly burdensome and oppressive. Considering there is no such clear test available in judicial decisions at present, it is a welcome contribution which should prove helpful in providing a systematic consideration of the various reverse burden clauses we have at present, and are bound to have in the future.

Applying the Tests to Section 9-B of the Act

Section 9-B is meant to apply to every offence under the Act, i.e. offences under Sections 5, 5-A, 5-B, 5-C, 5-C and 6:

  1. Section 5 makes it an offence to slaughter cows, bulls, or bullocks in any part of Maharashtra;
  2. Section 5-A makes it an offence to transport and/or export cows, bulls or bullocks (or cause to, or offer to do so) within or outside Maharashtra in contravention of the Act or with knowledge that the animal will, or is likely to be, slaughtered;
  3. Section 5-B makes it an offence to purchase/sell/otherwise dispose of cows, bulls or bullocks (or offer to do so), knowing or having reason to believe the animal will, or is likely to be, slaughtered;
  4. Section 5-C criminalized possession of the flesh of a cow, bull or bullock slaughtered in contravention of the Act;
  5. Section 5-D criminalized possession of the flesh of a cow, bull or bullock slaughtered outside Maharashtra;
  6. Section 6 regulated the slaughtering of cows, bulls or bullocks and made it an offence to slaughter such animals without obtaining a certificate.

The obvious problem with Section 9-B is its broad and indiscriminate phrasing, placing the burden upon the Accused for proving every ingredient of the offence. In order to make the section apply to all offences in the Act, it burdened the Accused with proving “that the slaughter, transport, export outside the State, sale, purchase or possession of flesh of cow, bull or bullock was not in contravention of the provisions of this Act.” The basic fact concept would require the State to at least prove that the cow or flesh in question was slaughtered, transported, exported, sold or purchased. It would also require that a connection be drawn between that cow or flesh in question and the Accused. Section 9-B allowed the prosecution to get away without doing anything, violating the very basic First Condition.

Justice Gupte, however, begins by specifically looking at the possession offences under Section 5-C and 5-D of the Act through the lens of the Second Condition [Paragraph 214, Pages 233-235. After immediately concluding that the Accused could never establish the ‘negative fact’ of the flesh not being that of a cow or bull, Justice Gupte immediately also concludes that the Accused could never establish that the flesh was obtained in contravention of the Act to begin with, and immediately thereafter concludes this violates his Fourth Condition of oppression. At the end of these assertions, he states that it would be easier for the State to prove these foundational facts, and absence of any such requirement was itself a problem. While having created a clear four-fold test, Justice Gupte doesn’t maintain these neat distinctions in his scrutiny of the provision on its anvil. The confusion is apparent in the Paragraph, and blunts what would have otherwise been a forceful criticism of the provision.

These objections were in some measure expected by the State. As recorded in the Separate Opinion, the Advocate General for Maharashtra conceded Section 9-B would apply only after the prosecution established certain initial facts. At one point, it is recorded how the Advocate General interpreted Section 9-B to apply only to create a presumption after every physical act had been established. This interpretation would have meant Section 9-B operated to presume that the concerned physical act – transport/export/possession etc. – was done knowing that it was contrary to the Act.

This would have made Section 9-B akin to those clauses which presume the existence of the mental state, considering it to be within the ‘special knowledge’ of an Accused. However, as Justice Gupte rightly noted, “Constitutionality cannot be a matter of concession by the State at the hearing” [Paragraph 215, Page 235-236]. Justice Gupte doesn’t stop there, though, and then proceeds to attack the ‘special knowledge’ justification offered by the Advocate General [Paragraphs 216- 217, Pages 237-240]. As I mentioned above, it is here that Justice Gupte criticizes the usage of reverse burden clauses in this context of possessing cow meat, citing the inherently harmful nature of substances such as narcotics which can warrant possession-based presumptions. This is critical, and exposes future legislation employing reverse burdens with possession based offences to closer scrutiny under Article 14 of the Constitution.

The Opinion then moves to Section 5-A and 5-B. Section 9-B would have placed the entire burden on the Accused, which was naturally unsustainable. A version that kicked in only to create a presumption that the Accused had knowledge that the offending acts of transport/export/sale/purchase would lead to slaughter or were otherwise in contravention of the Act was also found unsustainable. The basis for this conclusion was an insufficient connection existed between the prosecution proving the physical acts and the ultimate presumption of knowledge (violating the First Condition). The offence was purely based on knowledge, and presuming that very ingredient would subject the Accused to oppression (violating the Fourth Condition). Section 9-B was unconstitutional when applied together with Sections 5-A and 5-B as well.

Lastly, Justice Gupte arrives at Sections 5 and 6, which were present before the Amendment. The analysis is crisp as it is brief – Sections 5 and 6 read with Section 9-B would involve a presumption of foundational facts, which would render its use unconstitutional for a violation of his First Condition.

What to Expect Now?

Newspapers have already reported that the State of Maharashtra plans to challenge this decision in the Supreme Court. A part of me hopes this happens, as it would enable the Supreme Court to, hopefully, endorse the exposition of the Separate Opinion on reverse burden clauses. The test created is clear, and potentially allows for greater clarity in examining these provisions which currently abound our statute book. In its current form, Section 9-B is far too broad to be considered sustainable. One would assume that the chances of the Supreme Court overturning the verdict are unlikely.

The higher probability is of a modified Section 9-B emerging from the Maharashtra legislature, incorporating the position espoused by the Advocate General during the hearing before the Bombay High Court. A version of Section 9-B which explicitly places an initial burden on the prosecution would then place the focus squarely on the other condition created by Justice Gupte, of such a provision placing an Accused under oppression and undue hardship. That consideration, whenever it does happen, will prove to have a lasting impression on how reverse burden clauses are viewed in our criminal justice system.

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