Category Archives: Privacy

From a Culture of Authority to a Culture of Justification: The Meaning of Overruling ADM Jabalpur

The nine-judge bench judgment of the Supreme Court in Justice K.S. Puttaswamy vs Union of India is now four-and-a-half months old. The verdict, which held that there exists a fundamental right to privacy under the Indian Constitution, has been analysed threadbare. Its implications for decisional autonomy, personal choice, State surveillance, informational self-determination, and many other facets of privacy, have been debated and discussed. In the coming months, the Supreme Court will have an opportunity to cement the legacy of Puttaswamy, when it hears cases pertaining to almost all these issues. However, there is one aspect of the judgment that has received universal approbation, but no analysis. This is the Court’s decision to overrule its 1976 judgment in ADM Jabalpur vs Shivakant Shukla, the Emergency-era verdict that is widely accepted to mark the “lowest point” in the Court’s history.

Recall that ADM Jabalpur concerned the question of whether individuals who had been preventively detained by the State had the right to approach the Courts in a habeas corpus petition. The background context was the existence of a Presidential proclamation of a State of Emergency; this Proclamation also suspended the the locus standi of all individuals to move the Courts for relief, in case they were detained. A majority of the Supreme Court held that the Presidential Proclamation had validly suspended the remedy of habeas corpus under the Constitution; and because there existed no rights or remedies outside the confined of the Constitution, the Presidential Proclamation acted as a complete bar to exercising the fundamental right to life and liberty. Consequently, a detained person could not approach the Courts arguing that his detention was illegal or unconstitutional.

In Puttaswamy, Justice Chandrachud (writing for a plurality of four judges), Justice Nariman and Justice Kaul all categorically overruled ADM Jabalpur. Their reason was that there were certain basic rights that were recognised by the Constitution, but not conferred by it. These rights were inalienable, and inhered in all human beings simply by virtue of their being human. Specifically, therefore, Puttaswamy overruled the finding in ADM Jabalpur that the Constitution was the sole repository of the rights of citizens.

A narrow view of Puttaswamy would limit it to doing only so much. I think, however, this would be a mistake. It would be a mistake because ADM Jabalpur’s ruling on the character of rights under the Constitution cannot be taken in isolation. It was part of a larger judicial logic that, following the South African Constitutional scholar Etienne Mureinik, I shall label the “culture of authority.” And the repudiation of ADM Jabalpur in Puttaswamy, I will argue therefore, was a repudiation of the culture of authority itself; Puttaswamy is best understood as providing a bridge – a bridge from ADM Jabalpur to a new understanding of the Constitution, an understanding that is based on the “culture of justification.”

ADM Jabalpur and the Culture of Authority 

Recall that in ADM Jabalpur, there were two issues. The first was whether the Presidential Proclamation of Emergency acted as a complete bar to the enforcement of the individual right to life and personal liberty in the courts. The second was the constitutional validity of Section 16(9A) of the Maintenance of Internal Security Act, that allowed for a detenu not to be given access to the grounds of his detention. The broader political context, of course, was Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s decision to impose an Emergency on the basis that there was a grave internal disturbance that threatened the life of the nation.

Consequently, ADM Jabalpur was delivered during a “state of exception” – that is, a situation where the Executive has suspended the normal functioning of the state, ostensibly to deal with an existential threat. The four majority opinions reflect this in granular detail. The reasoning that culminated in the majority holding that the detenus could not approach Court challenging their detention was based on four principal prongs, each of which reflected the logic of the state of exception.

A. The State of Exception 

The first prong was based on the proposition that the questions of when circumstances arose that justified the imposition of a state of exception (“Emergency”), and what rights and remedies citizens were to be allowed during a state of exception, were to be decided solely by the Executive. As Justice Beg observed:

Laws and law Courts are only a part of a system of that imposed discipline which has to take its course when self-discipline fails. Conditions may supervene, in the life of a nation, in which the basic values we have stood for and struggled to attain, the security, integrity, and independence of the country, or the very conditions on which existence of law and order and of law courts depend, may be imperilled by forces operating from within or from outside the country. What these forces are, how they are operating, what information exists for the involvement of various individuals, wherever placed, could not possibly be disclosed publicly or become matters suitable for inquiry into or discussion in a Court of Law.

Similarly, Justice Chandrachud wrote that “the facts and circumstances leading to the declaration of emergency are and can only be known to the Executive… Judge and Jury alike may form their personal assessment of a political situation but whether the emergency should be declared or not is a matter of high State policy and questions of policy are impossible to examine in courts of law.” He went on to state that:

The mind then weaves cobwebs of suspicion and the Judge, without the means to knowledge of full facts, covertly weighs the pros and cons of the political situation and substitutes ins personal opinion for the assessment of the Executive, which, by proximity and study, is better placed to decide whether the security of the country is threatened by an imminent danger of internal disturbance. A frank and unreserved acceptance of the Proclamation of emergency, even in the teeth of one’s own pre-disposition. is conducive to a more realistic appraisal of the emergency provisions.

At the heart of this articulation is not only the idea that extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures, but also that the determination of when extraordinary times have come upon us, and what extraordinary measures are needed, are for the State to decide. As the Nazi legal theorist Carl Shmitt wrote, “the sovereign is he who decides the State of exception.” According to the Jabalpur majority, this aspect of sovereignty lay solely with the Executive. So, Justice Chandrachud was able to write:

The people of this country are entitled to expect when they go to the ballot-box that their chosen representatives will not willingly suffer an erosion of the rights of the people. And the Parliament, while arming the executive with great and vast powers of Government, may feel fairly certain that such powers will be reasonably exercised. The periodical reviews of detention orders. the checks and counter-checks which the law provides and above all the lofty faith in democracy which ushered the birth of the Nation will, I hope, eliminate all fear that great powers are capable of the greatest abuse. Ultimately, the object of depriving a few of their liberty for a temporary period has to be to give to many the perennial fruits of freedom.

The same logic was at play in the Majority’s decision to uphold Section 16(9A), with Chief Justice Ray noting that:

The reason why Section 16A has been enacted is to provide for periodical review by Government and that is the safeguard against any unjust or arbitrary exercise of power… the grounds of detention and any information or materials on which the detention and the declaration were made are by Section 16A(9) of the Act confidential and deemed to refer to matters of State and to be against public interest to disclose.

A corollary to this was that the very act of vesting such extraordinary power with the Executive raised no constitutional concern. Justice Bhagwati, for example, held that the mere possibility or hypothesis that power might be abused was no ground to deny the existence of the power itself. And Chief Justice Ray noted that:

People who have faith in themselves and in their country will not paint pictures of diabolic distortion and mendacious alignment of the governance of the country. Quite often arguments are heard that extreme examples are given to test the power. If there is power, extreme examples will neither add to the power nor rob the same. Extreme examples tend only to obfuscate reason and reality.

B. Rights and Remedies

Secondly, ADM Jabalpur stood for the proposition that the removal of a remedy did not affect the existence of a right. The Presidential proclamation in question provided that the right of any person including a foreigner to move any Court for the enforcement of the rights conferred by Article 14, Article 21 and Article 22 of the Constitution would remain suspended for the period of the Emergency. All four judges in the majority held that by virtue of the Presidential Proclamation of Emergency, it was not that Article 21 was removed or ceased to exist; it was simply that a detenu could not approach the Court under writ proceedings to enforce his right under Article 21.

C. Jurisdiction of Suspicion 

Thirdly, ADM Jabalpur endorsed and authorised what Justice Beg referred to as a “jurisdiction of suspicion”:

Provision for preventive detention, in itself, is a departure from ordinary norms. It is generally resorted to either in times of war or of apprehended internal disorders and disturbances of a serious nature. Its object is to prevent a greater danger to national security and integrity than any claim; which could be based upon a right, moral or legal, to individual liberty. It has been aptly described as a “jurisdiction of suspicion.”

The crucial point was that the validity or reasonableness of the suspicion was entirely up to the Executive to decide. Since the right to move Court stood suspended, no detenu could approach a judicial authority and attempt to prove that the “suspicion” on the basis of which he had been detained was actually groundless, or illegal, or motivated by mala fides. Here again, the overarching justification was that of national security.

D. Salus Populi Est Supreme Lex

Lastly, ADM Jabalpur stood for the proposition that the liberty of the individual was not a paramount value under the Constitution, but simple one among many values to be weighed in the scales – and, in particular, always to be overriden by the principle of “salus populi est supreme lex” (“regard for public welfare is the highest law”). For example, Justice Beg warned against “a too liberal application of the principle that courts must lean in favour of the liberty of the citizen, which is, strictly speaking a principle of interpretation for cases of doubt or difficulty.” This, in turn, was drawn from the belief that individual liberty was a “gift” bestowed by the Constitution and the State, which could be withdrawn during a state of exception. For this, all for judgments of the majority relied upon the wartime British judgment in Liversidge vs Andersen, which had upheld the untrameled power of the Home Secretary to detain people, free from the constraints of judicial review. As Justice Beg wrote:

Clearly the question whether a person is of hostile origin or associations so that it is necessary to exercise control over him, raises, not a justiciable, but a political or administrative issue.

Let us now sum up the elements of the “culture of authority” that was at the foundation of the majority opinions in ADM Jabalpur.

  • There exists a state of normalcy and a state of exception (the paradigmatic example of which is an Emergency).
  • The Executive has the sole prerogative of determining when circumstances exist that a State of Exception ought to replace the default state of normalcy, and what is to happen with respect to citizens’ rights during a State of Exception.
  • The Executive is guided by the principle of “salus populi est supreme lex” (regard for public welfare is the highest law). It is not for the Courts to ask whether:
    1. The conditions requiring the state of exception to be called really exist or not (summed up by defining Court defining the preventive detention powers as a “jurisdiction of suspicion”, and disclaiming the need for showing proximity.
    2. Whether the Executive’s actions actually serve public welfare or not.
  • During the State of Exception, the Executive can suspend rights, suspend remedies, and be the sole arbiter both for the content of the right and for the remedy.
  • The fact that such a power is vested in the Executive and is capable of abuse is no ground for the power not existing. The Executive is always presumed to act in good faith.
  • In sum: “salus populi est supreme lex” is like the Ninth Schedule of constitutional interpretation.

The Foundations of Justice Khanna’s Dissent

In his sole dissenting opinion, Justice Khanna launched a fundamental challenge to this entire way of thinking. Justice Khanna’s dissent was not based merely on a difference with the majority about the question of whether rights existed outside the Constitution or not. Rather, his different was more fundamental, and went to the root of what it meant to live under a Constitutional republic. According to Justice Khanna, at the heart of a constitutional republic was the maintenance of a balance of power between State and individual. The issue was not whether the State may or may not abuse its powers, and the manner in which it might abuse its power in order to violate individual liberty. The issue, rather, was that the very existence of certain kinds of power with the State was a violation of liberty. As he noted:

“…experience should, teach us to be most on our guard to protect liberty when the Government’s purposes are beneficent. Men born to freedom are naturally alert to repel invasion-of their liberty by evil-minded persons. Greatest danger to liberty lies in insidious encroachment by men of zeal, well-meaning but lacking in due deference for the rule of few.”

And:

Whether such things actually come to pass is not the question before us; it is enough to state that all these are permissible consequences from the acceptance of the contention that Article 21 is the sole repository of the right to life and personal liberty and that consequent upon the issue of the Presidential order, no one can approach any court and seek relief during the period of emergency against deprivation of life or personal liberty. In order words, the position would be that so far as executive officers are concerned, in matters relating to life and personal liberty of citizens, they would not be governed by any law, they would not be answerable to any court and they would be wielding more or less despotic powers.

Constitutionalism meant curtailing what the State was able to do its citizens. To give the State power to both determine the state of exception, and then also to determine what rights and remedies citizens had during such a period, simply on the invocation of salus populi, was to make a mockery of the very idea of a constitutional republic. Consequently, Justice Khanna rejected the argument that, in the interests of public safety and public welfare, the Executive could be left to solely determine the scope and ambit of rights enjoyed by citizens, noting that “the power of the courts to grant relief against arbitrariness or absence of authority of law in the matter of the liberty of the subject may now well be taken to be a normal feature of the rule of law.”

A corollary of this was Justice Khanna’s rejection of the “jurisdiction of suspicion” – that is, the idea that during the state of exception, the Executive was vested with the sole power of curtailing the liberty of any individual it suspected of being a threat to the established order:

Normally, it is the past conduct or antecedent history of a person which shows a propensity or a tendency to act in a particular manner. The past conduct or antecedent history of a person can, therefore, be appropriately taken into account in making a detention order. It is indeed largely from the past events showing tendencies or inclinations of a person that an inference can be drawn that he is likely in the future to act in a particular manner. In order to justify such an, inference, it is necessary that such past conduct or antecedent history should ordinarily be proximate in point of time. It would, for instance, be normally irrational to take into account the conduct an activities of a person which took place ten years, before the date of ins detention and say that even though after the said incident took place* nothing is known against the person indicating ins tendency to act in a prejudicial manner, even so on the strength of the said incident which is ten years old, the authority is satisfied that ins detention is necessary. It is both inexpedient and undesirable to lay down an inflexible test as to how far distant the past conduct or the antecedent history should be for reasonably and rationally justifying the conclusion that the person concerned if not detained may indulge in prejudicial activities. The nature of the activity would have also a bearing in deciding the question of proximity. If, for example, a person who has links with a particular’ foreign power is known to have indulged in subversive activities when hostilities broke out with that foreign power and hostilities again break out with that foreign power after ten years, the authorities concerned, if satisfied on the basis of the past activities that it is necessary to detain him with a view to preventing him from acting; in a manner prejudicial to the security of India, might well pass a detention order in respect of that person. The fact that in such a case there is a time lag of ten years between the activities of the said person and the making of the detention order would not vitiate such an order. Likewise, a remote prejudicial activity may be so similar to a recent prejudicial activity as may give rise to an inference that the two are a part of chain of prejudicial activities indicative of a particular inclination. In such an event the remote activity taken along with the recent activity would retain its relevance and reliance upon it would not introduce an infirmity. If, however, in a given case and in the context of the nature of activity the time lag between the prejudicial activity of a detenu and the detention order made because of that activity is ex facie long, the detaining authority should explain the delay in the making of the detention order with a view to show that there was proximity between the prejudicial activity and the) detention order. If the detaining authority fails to do so, in spite of an opportunity having been afforded to it, a serious infirmity would creep into the detention order.

Towards the Culture of Justification 

Justice Khanna’s dissenting opinion in ADM Jabalpur, reminiscent of Lord Atkins’ dissent in Liversidge vs Andersen, exemplified the “culture of justification”. Mureinik writes thus:

If the new Constitution is a bridge away from a culture of authority, it is clear what it must be a bridge to. It must lead to a culture of justification –a culture in which every exercise of power is expected to be justified; in which the leadership given by government rests on the cogency of the case offered in defence of its decisions, not the fear inspired by the force at its command. The new order must be a community built on persuasion, not coercion.

The phrase “every exercise of power is expected to be justified” is at the heart of this vision of constitutionalism. In particular, it is a complete repudiation of salis populi supreme est lex. The State cannot simply decide to compel its citizens by invoking the larger goal of public welfare. The State must, rather, justify every act of compulsion. It must justify, for example, that its exercise of power will actually serve public welfare. It must explain how it will do so. It must explain that the only way of doing so is through the route of force and compulsion. It must prove that there is no other non-coercive way of achieving that goal, and that it is not imposing any more compulsion than is strictly required in the interests of public welfare. It must show that the amount of power it arrogates to itself in order to carry through its coercive action is proportionate to the importance of the goal it seeks to achieve. And the State cannot impose a regime of permanent suspicion: a regime in which the only justification for the exercise of coercion is that all citizens are potential criminals, and preventive compulsion is the only effective mechanism of preserving the public good. The culture of justification prohibits the State from presuming criminality and law-breaking.

And most importantly, the State cannot be the sole judge and arbiter of these questions. It is the constitutional courts that must carefully examine and scrutinise each of these issues, where the exercise of power is concerned. The courts need not attribute bad faith to the State, or assume the existence of abuse; rather, as Justice Khanna pointed out all those years ago, the Court must be “most on… guard to protect liberty when the Government’s purposes are beneficent.” Therefore, it is precisely when the State claims salus populi, and asks the Court to back off so that it can freely exercise compulsion in order to secure public welfare, that the Court must be at its most vigilant. It is then that the hardest and most searching questions must be asked of the State, and the State put to strict proof in answering the questions outlined above. To adopt a hands-off approach on the basis that these are questions of “high State policy”, and that it is not for judicial authorities to enter into the realm of policy-making and second-guess the State on issues of general welfare, would be only to repeat the mistake of ADM Jabalpur, and ignore the lesson of Justice Khanna.

In the coming months, the Court is scheduled to hear a number of constitutional cases that have far-reaching effects on individual freedom and State power. When it decides those cases, the shadow of Puttaswamy and of Justice Khanna will loom large. It is now for the Court to complete the transformation from the culture of authority to the culture of justification, which was the promise of the Constitution, the hope of Justice Khanna when he dissented, and the beginning of the path outlined in Puttaswamy.

This is, after all, a Constitution that chose to make the individual its basic and most fundamental unit.

 

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Section 377 Referred to a Constitution Bench: Some Issues

In an order passed today, a three-judge bench of the Supreme Court, headed by the Chief Justice, referred the correctness of the judgment in Suresh Kumar Koushal vs Naz Foundation to a Constitution Bench. Because of the complex history of this case, some background is essential to understand the implications of today’s order. Recall that on December 11, 2013, a two-judge bench of the Supreme Court, in Koushal, had upheld the constitutional validity of Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, which criminalises carnal intercourse against the order of nature. In doing so, the Supreme Court overturned the 2009 judgment of the Delhi High Court in Naz Foundation vs NCT of Delhi, which had read down Section 377 and decriminalised consensual same sex relations between adults. Although the Supreme Court did not specify what constituted “carnal intercourse against the order of nature”, its judgment was widely understood to recriminalise homosexuality in effect, if not in so many words.

Soon after the judgment in Koushal, a different two-judge bench of the Supreme Court delivered judgment in NALSA vs Union of India, where it upheld and affirmed the constitutional rights of transgender persons under Articles 14, 15, 19 and 21 of the Constitution. As I argued at the time, Koushal and NALSA rested on mutually irreconcilable foundations – the exact arguments that had been rejected in Koushal had been accepted in NALSA, and so, the only way out was to review the correctness of Koushal.

In the meantime, review petitions contesting the correctness of Koushal had been dismissed. Petitioners then took the last route open to them: they filed curative petitions. A curative petition is an extraordinary remedy developed by the Supreme Court in its 2002 judgment in Rupa Ashok Hurra. It is basically a remedy of the last resort: even after a review is rejected, the Court may still reconsider its judgment in certain exceptional circumstances. Hurra set out the exceptional circumstances:

“… this Court, to prevent abuse of its process and to cure a gross miscarriage of justice, may re-consider its judgments in exercise of its inherent power. The next step is to specify the requirements to entertain such a curative petition under the inherent power of this Court so that floodgates are not opened for filing a second review petition as a matter of course in the guise of a curative petition under inherent power. It is common ground that except when very strong reasons exist, the Court should not entertain an application seeking reconsideration of an order of this Court which has become final on dismissal of a review petition. It is neither advisable nor possible to enumerate all the grounds on which such a petition may be entertained. Nevertheless, we think that a petitioner is entitled to relief ex debito justitiae if he establishes (1) violation of principles of natural justice in that he was not a party to the lis but the judgement adversely affected his interests or, if he was a party to the lis, he was not served with notice of the proceedings and the matter proceeded as if he had notice and (2) where in the proceedings a learned Judge failed to disclose his connection with the subject-matter or the parties giving scope for an apprehension of bias and the judgment adversely affects the petitioner… we are of the view that since the matter relates to re- examination of a final judgment of this Court, though on limited ground, the curative petition has to be first circulated to a Bench of the three senior-most Judges and the Judges who passed the judgment complained of, if available. It is only when a majority of the learned Judges on this Bench conclude that the matter needs hearing that it should be listed before the same Bench (as far as possible) which may pass appropriate orders.”

The rarity of the curative remedy is reflected by the fact that in the fifteen years since Hurra, only four curative petitions have been allowed. However, in 2014, Petitioners won a significant victory when the Court agreed to hear the Naz curative in “open court” – most curative petitions are dismissed by circulation in judges’ chambers.

The Naz curative was then listed for hearing on the 2nd of February, 2016, before the three senior-most judges at the time – Chief Justice Thakur, and Justices Dave and Khehar. After some oral argument, the Court passed the following order:

“All that we need say is that since the issues sought to be raised are of considerable importance and public interest and since some of the issues have constitutional dimensions including whether the Curative Petitions qualify for consideration of this Court in the light of the Judgment in Rupa Ashok Hurra’s case (Supra), it will be more appropriate if these petitions are placed before a Constitution Bench comprising five Hon’ble Judges of this Court.”

In other words, all questions – including the question of whether the curative petition could be admitted for hearing – were to be decided by a five-judge bench.

Later that year, however, a fresh petition was filed challenging the constitutional validity of Section 377.  Navtej Johar vs Union of India was filed by five LGBT individuals as a writ petition under Article 32 of the Constitution (and not a public interest litigation, like Naz Foundation was), alleging direct violation of fundamental rights. When this petition came before a two-judge bench of the Court on 29th June 2016, the Court passed the following order:

“The issue pertains to the validity of Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code. We are informed that the Constitution Bench of this Court is hearing the issue. Post this matter before Hon’ble the Chief Justice of India for appropriate orders.”

Both the curative petitions and this petition then went into cold storage. In late August 2017, however, the nine-judge bench of the Supreme Court handed down the famous “Privacy Judgment”. As we have discussed before, the a majority of judges in the privacy judgment directly held that sexual orientation was a facet of privacy, and very publicly doubted the correctness of Koushal. In his plurality, Justice Chandrachud observed:

…  we disagree with the manner in which Koushal has dealt with the privacy – dignity based claims of LGBT persons on this aspect. Since the challenge to Section 377 is pending consideration before a larger Bench of this Court, we would leave the constitutional validity to be decided in an appropriate proceeding.” (para 128)

While, therefore, judicial propriety and discipline prevented the nine-judge bench from overruling Koushal, there was little doubt that the bottom was entirely knocked out of that judgment – and it was only a question of when – not if – Koushal would be overruled.

It is in this context that we must understand today’s referral order. The order was made in the Navtej Johar petition, which had been filed after the initial curative hearing, and had not been tagged with the curative petitions. In the order, the Court observes the existence of the NALSA judgment, and also Puttaswamy. It then notes:

“… the said decision [Puttaswamy] did not deal with the constitutional validity of Section 377 IPC as the matter was pending before the larger Bench. The matter which was pending before the larger Bench is a Curative Petition which stands on a different footing.”

After noting that the issue of consensual same-sex relations “needs to be debated”, the Court concludes as follows:

“Taking all the aspects in a cumulative manner, we are of the view, the decision in Suresh Kumar Kaushal’s case (supra) requires re-consideration. As the question relates to constitutional issues, we think it appropriate to refer the matter to a larger Bench.”

A few questions arise from this. The first and most important is: what is status now? In Puttaswamy, the Court specifically declined to overrule Koushal on the basis that it was already being considered by a Constitution Bench. Today’s order effectively authorises the Chief Justice to set up a parallel Constitution Bench that will also consider Koushal. In that case, what happens to the curative proceedings? Today’s order observes that the curative proceedings “stand on a different footing”; that is, of course, true. The curative petitions have to be argued according to the very strict Hurra standard (see above), and cannot also invoke NALSA or Puttaswamy. A judgment asking for reconsideration of Koushal, however, is not bound by the Hurra standard.

That, however, leads to a conceptual problem: given that a curative petition in Koushal is pending and has been specifically referred to a Constitution Bench, clearly, Koushal is already under reconsideration. Or, to put it another way, the judgment in Koushal has not yet attained finality – it is subject to the outcome of the curative proceedings. From that perspective, today’s order appears to either mandate the reconsideration of a judgment that is already being reconsidered (if you take the judgment itself as final), or to mandate the reconsideration of a judgment that is not yet final (if you take the conclusion of curative proceedings as the point of finality).

The situation is further clouded when you consider the fact that – as the Court held in Hurra “the curative petition has to be first circulated to a Bench of the three senior-most Judges and the Judges who passed the judgment complained of, if available. It is only when a majority of the learned Judges on this Bench conclude that the matter needs hearing that it should be listed before the same Bench.”

In other words, the task of a curative bench, if the curative petition succeeds, is to send the matter back for a fresh hearing (and not to decide the case on merits itself). That is, if a curative petition succeeds, then the judgment under challenge is to be reconsidered.

But that is exactly what today’s order, in effect, achieves, when it says that “the decision in Suresh Kumar Koushal’s case requires reconsideration.” Or, in other words, today’s order effectively allows the curative petitions by a side-wind. Suddenly, the most difficult hurdle before the original petitioners – to meet the threshold requirements under Hurra – has been swept away.

The upshot, therefore, is this: the pending curative petitions have now been made effectively infructuous (by that I mean that while the curative petitions are still pending, and technically due to be heard, their subject matter – crossing the Hurra threshold – has effectively been decided separately now, so in substance, there is nothing that remains to be argued when they do come up for hearing). By virtue of today’s order, the issue of the constitutional validity of Section 377 is to be heard afresh, and the correctness of Koushal to be reviewed from scratch. There will of course be some procedural issues to untangle – the petitioners in the curative petitions will now have to either get those petitions tagged with Johar or file fresh intervention applications. The basic point, however, is that today’s order marks a very significant advance in the legal struggle against Section 377.

One last point: today’s order calls for a reconsideration of Koushal primarily by invoking the judgments in NALSA and PuttaswamyPuttaswamy, of course, was entirely about the right to privacy, and the relevant portion of NALSA cited by the Court also refers to privacy (in the context of Article 21). This should not result in the future Supreme Court hearing reviewing Koushal only on the grounds of privacy; Koushal‘s analysis of Articles 14 and 15 was every bit as wrong-headed as its “understanding” of Article 21. If the Court is now going to hear the case afresh, then it will, hopefully, rule not only on Article 21, but on issues of equality and non-discrimination as well.

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Filed under Bodily Privacy/Integrity, Decisional Autonomy, Equality, Privacy, Sex Equality, Sexuality

Guest Post: The Trans Bill and Its Discontents – II

(In this Guest Post, Vasudev Devadasan concludes his analysis of the Transgender Bill.)

In the last post (here) we defined transgender persons as individuals who experience a conflict between the ‘gender identity’ assigned to them at birth, and ‘gender identity’ they develop through the course of their lives. Thus, an individual may be designated ‘male’ or ‘female’ at birth, but over time may come to identify with the opposite sex, or even outside the male-female binary as a transgender. In NALSA v UoI (NALSA) the Supreme Court affirmed both the right of the individual to choose their own gender and the existence of a third gender (transgender). The Court also ruled that discrimination against transgender persons for failing to conform with gender stereotypes (by choosing an alternative ‘gender identity’) amounted to discrimination on the grounds of ‘sex’ and was prohibited by Articles 15 and 16 of the Constitution. Lastly the Court held that transgender persons were members of ‘backward classes’ deserving of reservations under Articles 15(4) and Articles 16(4) of the Constitution.

When making these statements the Court had the benefit of speaking in the abstract. In implementing these guarantees the government faces the task of conferring benefits on a group whose membership is based on a subjective determination of conflicting ‘gender identity’ experienced only by the individual in question. How does the government provide reservations to ‘transgender persons’ when the only way to know whom a ‘transgender person’ is, is an internal conflict experienced by the transgender person?

In this post, I examine the anti-discrimination provisions in the new Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Bill and explore the difficulty of securing equality and affirmative action for a group whose membership cannot be objectively determined. I also examine the current Bill’s provisions on begging and residence (prohibiting transgender persons from being separated from their families) and question whether they are in tune with the developing concept of ‘autonomy’ under the Constitution.

Non-Discrimination

The current Bill provides a procedure for the ‘Recognition of Identity of Transgender Persons’. While we discussed the shortcomings of this procedure on the last post, the rationale for having a recognition procedure is clear. Non-discrimination rights arise when citizens belong to a class or category of citizen as distinguishable from other citizens. A claim to non-discrimination will be acknowledged when a citizen can demonstrate belonging to this class or category and then show that such belonging is the “ground” for the discrimination in question. Therefore, the current Bill provides a definition of ‘transgender person’, provides a procedure to recognise a ‘transgender person’, and then Section 3 of the Bill states, “No person shall discriminate against a transgender person…” by denying education, unfair treatment in employment etc. The provision thus protects individuals who are recognised as transgenders under the scheme of the Bill.

Before moving on, two points should be noted. Firstly, the Bill does not create reservations for transgender persons in education or employment. While the National Commission for Backward Classes did formally recommend that transgender persons be included in the category ‘Other Backward Class’, and while these recommendations are ordinarily binding on the Government, the current Bill does not create reservations for transgender persons. Secondly, the Bill does not define the term “discrimination”. By not defining “discrimination” the Bill is silent on how and when the protection guaranteed by Section 3 would be violated. In contrast, the 2014 Rajya Sabha Bill defined discrimination as “any distinction, exclusion or restriction on the basis of gender identity and expression which [restricts the exercise of human rights] on an equal basis with others.” Just as the Supreme Court did in NALSA, this definition states that where a person is treated differently because of their ‘gender identity or expression’, and such different treatment affects their enjoyment of rights, discrimination is deemed to have occurred.

The problem facing the government is that by creating a recognition procedure that the State controls, they have severely restricted the individual’s ability to self-identity with the gender of their choice (a choice the Court in NALSA held to be protected by Article 21). There are two seemingly conflicting goals here: (a) to fix and regulate the categories of sex (male, female and transgender), and (b) to allow individuals to freely move between these categories by choosing their own ‘gender identity’. The current Bill seeks to filter the subjectivity so essential to the transgender identity through a lens of legal certainty. The question is therefore whether the actual or potential mobility of ‘gender’ that NALSA and the very definition of transgender espouse can be accommodated within a regulatory non-discrimination framework.

Victoria and New South Wales for example dispense with the requirement of having a fixed legal identity when determining whether transgender persons have been discriminated against. The Victorian legislation (the Equal Opportunity Act) prohibits discrimination on the grounds of ‘gender identity’ which is defined as:

…the identification on a bona fide basis by a person of one sex as a member of the other sex (whether or not the person is recognised as such):

  1. by assuming characteristics of the other sex, whether by means of medical intervention, style of dressing or otherwise; or
  2. by living, or seeking to live, as a member of the other sex.

Thus, what matters is not whether the individual is recognised in law as a transgender person. Rather, whether they are perceived by society as being a transgender person. Thus, rather than the law having to recognise an immutable characteristic of ‘transgender’ which both violates the principle of self-identification and aims to ‘normalise’ transgender persons by creating a fixed gender/legal identity, discrimination occurs when an individual is discriminated against because they are perceived to be transgender, irrespective of whether they are actual transgender. For example, if an individual is denied employment on the ground that they are perceived to be transgender, a valid claim for discrimination can be made against the employer. Sharpe terms this the “interplay of performance and gaze” and this provides a framework within which the law is able to comprehend the fluid nature of the transgender identity and yet protect transgender persons from discrimination. Conferring rights without requiring a fixed legal identity.

While this solution may work for non-discrimination simpliciter, it still leaves the question of affirmative action open. Where legal benefits are positively conferred on a group, the State has a legitimate interest is ensuring that the individuals who are availing of these benefits belong to the group. The current Bill creates a ‘screening committee’ which includes medical personnel to verify and recognise an individual as a transgender person. This is likely to expose individuals to unwanted and intrusive scrutiny. Thus, a balance needs to be struck between the State’s interest to curb the abuse of affirmative action benefits, and an individual’s freedom to change genders with dignity.

In Secretary, Department of Social Security v HH, Justice Brennan moves the needle away from biological verification, to a slightly more holistic test. In determining an individual’s gender, he notes, “the respondent’s psychological and social/cultural gender identity are the matters of primary importance not sex chromosomal configurations or gonadal or genital factors…” The understanding that ‘sex’ is not a determinant factor, and that “psychological, social and cultural” factors can determine gender seems to be a step in the right direction. This ties in with the Indian Supreme Court’s understanding that an individual’s psyche is part of ‘sex’ within the meaning of Articles 15 and 16. If the ‘screening committee’ that the Bill creates was to examine this, a balance maybe struck.

Provisions on Residence

The current Bill also seeks to secure the right of transgender persons to stay in their own home. Section 13(1) states that, “No transgender person shall be separated from parents or immediate family on the ground of being a transgender, except on an order of a competent court…” Sub-clause 3 of the same Section goes on to note, “Where any parent or a member of his immediate family is unable to take care of a transgender, the competent court shall […] direct such person to be placed in a rehabilitation centre” The framework created by the Bill compels a transgender person to either continue living with their family, or be placed in a rehabilitation centre. The section makes no distinction between a ‘minor’ and an adult and creates a rather intrusive mechanism of regulation where a transgender person cannot choose where to live.

The Parliamentary Standing Committee raised concerns that the two options provided by the Bill would not guarantee protection given the realities present on the ground. Several transgender persons face significant abuse at the hands of their own families who deny them the right to self-identity with a gender of their choosing and restrict their gender expression. The nature of the rehabilitation centres is also unknown. The Committee noted that several transgender persons choose not to live at home, but rather within transgender communities where they form an alternative network of friends and family.

The Committees observations on Section 13 raise interesting constitutional questions given the understanding of ‘autonomy’ articulated in the Right to Privacy (Puttaswamy) earlier this year. At the core of the Court’s rationale in Puttaswamy was the idea that privacy protects an individual’s liberty by securing ‘dignity’ and ‘autonomy’. Privacy in the Court’s articulation is the right to determine how one should exercise the freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution. Thus, ‘autonomy’ guarantees the right of every person to make essential choices which affect the course of life.” (⁋113) The State cannot interfere with an individual’s decisions concerning several core areas that the Court describes (non-exhaustively) as including family, marriage, procreation, and even what to eat and drink.

By compelling transgender persons to either live at home or in a State run rehabilitation centre Section 13 seems to deny them the right to choose the community they wish to live in. Deciding to live at home or not would fall within an ‘essential choice’ relating to ‘family’. And by denying transgender persons the third alternative (of living within a transgender community) the case could be made that the State is interfering with their ‘autonomy’ as protected under Puttaswamy.

Provisions on Begging

Lastly, Section 19(a) of the Bill makes it an offence to ‘compel or entice a transgender person’ to commit the act of ‘begging’. Transgender persons have a well-documented history of suffering abuse at the hands of anti-vagrancy provisions such as this, simply because begging is often the only choice of income generation available. As the Standing Committee noted, transgender persons are often booked under analogous ‘begging’ provisions merely because they are present in public places. While the provision only penalises the offence of compelling a transgender person to beg, there is a thin line between criminalising an individual for begging out of their own volition and compelling another to beg, with the latter often being used against the former.

In Ram Lakhan v State, Justice Ahmed examined this distinction in the context of the implicit defences to the offence of ‘begging’. He noted that when an individual begs out of the sheer compulsion to stay alive, he is protected under the defence of ‘necessity’. Where an individual is compelled to beg he does so under threat of violence and even death and is thus protected under the defence of ‘duress’. In both cases, the individual has no real choice, and it is this involuntariness that provides the basis for both the defence of ‘necessity’ and ‘duress’ making it a “distinction without a relevant difference”. In the course of practical policing there may be obvious benefits to the distinction between a begging racket and a person begging to prevent the onset of starvation. However, the inclusion of the legislative provision as it is currently framed may be counter-productive, especially given the existence of parallel anti-begging laws.

Conclusion

We have seen how the current Bill fails to understand the core principle of ‘self-identification’ in defining a transgender person, how it struggles with the question of non-discrimination, and takes an approach to residence and begging that doesn’t appreciate the nuances of the law and its relationship with the ground realities faced by transgender persons. Creating a regulatory framework for transgender persons is undoubtedly a complex and delicate task. Certain questions, such as legal recognition for transgender persons, and the prevention of discrimination pose questions that expose the limits of law as crafted within the male-female binary. On the points of residence and begging however, the Bill seems to lack an understanding of ground realities required to upturn generations of neglect towards transgender persons. Even in their best possible forms, these provisions would require sensitive administration to have a meaningful impact in the long run. Perhaps what is most troubling is that none of the criticisms raised in this piece or the last are new. Given the excellent platform created for the government with the NALSA verdict, the original Rajya Sabha Bill and the various committee reports, the fact that the Bill remains in its current form is lamentable.

 

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Guest Post: The Trans Bill and its Discontents – I

(This is a guest post by Vasudevan Devadasan.)

This week the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Bill is up for vote in the Lok Sabha. The Bill has had a comparatively short but turbulent history. On the back of the National Legal Services Authority v UoI (NALSA) judgement and an Expert Committee Report by the Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment (here) the Bill was first introduced and passed as a Private Member Bill by the Rajya Sabha in 2015. A year later however, the Ministry introduced a modified version of the Rajya Sabha Bill and referred it to committee. The Standing Committee (whose report can be found here) lambasted the Bill on several points that we will discuss here and on subsequent posts. Despite the Standing Committee’s report, the provisions of the bill have not been modified and continue to raise some troubling constitutional issues.

Beginning with the distinctions of ‘sex’ and ‘gender’, as well as ‘gender identity’ and ‘gender expression’, this post examines the interpretation of Articles 19 and 21 in NALSA. While there are a host of practical and legal ramifications of introducing such legislation, this post focuses on the constitutional issues raised by the definition of “transgender” in the current Bill and the ‘screening process’ that individuals have to undergo to secure legal recognition of their gender identity.

The constitutional framework

Before looking at the multiple definitions of “transgender” that have been used by the bills in parliament, its crucial to understand the constitutional framework created by NALSA and Article 19 and 21. (There are other judgements before and after that contribute to this framework, but the relevant principles are discussed contextually in NALSA.) Firstly, the Court distinguishes between ‘sex’ and ‘gender’. The former is determined by biological characteristics such as chromosomes and internal and external sex organs, and is assigned to individuals at birth while the latter is constituted by an individual’s own experience, developed through innate belief, upbringing, society and culture. In the case of a transgender person there is a conflict between their “gender identity” assigned to them at birth, and the one they develop through the course of their life. Secondly, while ‘gender identity’ refers to an individual’s internal experience of gender, ‘gender expression’ refers to their outward expression, as perceived by society.

It is the right of transgender persons to choose their gender identity that the Supreme Court upheld in NALSA. In the Court’s own words, “self-determination of gender is an integral part of personal autonomy and self-expression and falls within the realm of personal liberty guaranteed by Article 21”. Additionally, the Court held that ‘gender expression’ by way of dressing, speaking, or behaving was protected under Article 19. The invocation of ‘personal autonomy’ and ‘self-expression’ is crucial, because this means that the decision of a transgender person in choosing a gender (whether male, female) is made is made by the individual, as an expression of personal choice. In fact, the Court explicitly rejected an objective ‘medical’ or ‘pathological’ standard to determine an individual’s gender (¶75) The Court also recognised that “transgender” constituted its own, standalone, gender for individuals who did not wish to associate themselves with either the male or female gender. In summary, a transgender person could choose to be recognised as either male or female based on their choice, or alternatively could choose to be recognised as transgender.

Self-identification is a promising idea in principle and may work in practice as well. For example, Argentina passed a statute that recognises an individual’s right to gender identity, and allows a person to change their sex in public records by filing an affidavit. However, this is clearly more helpful to individuals who want to change their gender identity than individuals who wish to identify outside the male-female binary. Additionally, the Court in NALSA sought both non-discrimination and affirmative action to be taken for transgenders. To secure these goals, there needs to be some practicable process or method by which the State can identify transgender persons. The crux of the matter then becomes the suitable level of State-scrutiny over an individual’s decision to identify with a gender, be it male, female, or transgender. It is important to note that the purpose of scrutiny must not reach a level so as to interfere with the individual’s autonomy to choose a gender, but sufficient to enable recognition and efficient governance.

The (current) Transgender Bill

The primary issue with the current bill stems both from its definition of the term “transgender person”, but also from the fact that to be recognised as a “transgender person”, one must undergoe a ‘screening process’ conducted by, inter alia a medical officer and a psychologist/psychiatrist. Section 2(i) defines a “transgender person” as one who is:

  • Neither wholly female nor wholly male; or
  • a combination of female or male; or
  • neither female nor male; and

whose sense of gender does not match with the gender assigned to that person at the time of birth, and includes trans-men and trans-women, persons with intersex variations and gender-queers.

The use of the word “and” after clause (c) makes the definition conjunctive. Thus, to fall under the definition both the sexual characteristics and the gender characteristics of the definition must be met. By adding a pathological aspect to the definition of transgender, the Bill continues to view transgender as a medical or biological anomaly outside the normal duality of male and female. As we noted earlier, sex and gender are two distinct concepts; yet the definition in the Bill conflates them, both narrowing the scope of people who fall under the Bill’s protection, and distorting the definition of a transgender person in the national discourse. The definition also runs contrary to the rationale espoused in NALSA which explicitly ruled out the use of a ‘biological test’ to determine if a person is transgender. When looked at in contrast to the definition provided by the Expert Committee Report and the Rajya Sabha Bill, the conflation of ‘sex’ and ‘gender’ is apparent. They specifically dispensed with the male/female binary, and defined “transgender person” as:

a person, whose gender does not match with the gender assigned to that person at birth and includes trans-men and trans-women (whether or not they have undergone sex reassignment surgery or hormone therapy or laser therapy etc.), gender-queers and a number of socio-cultural identities…

In addition to the definition, the current Bill sets up a ‘screening procedure’. Section 4 states that a transgender person “shall have a right to self-perceived gender identity”. However, the recognition of this freely chosen gender identity is only possible when the procedures that the Bill stipulates are completed. Under Sections 5 through 7, a transgender person must approach a District Magistrate, make an application for issuing a ‘certificate of identity as a transgender person’. The application shall be evaluated by the ‘District Screening Committee’ which as noted above includes medical personnel. The inclusion of medical personnel as part of the identification procedure again hints at the legislature’s conflation of ‘sex’ and ‘gender’. By not specifying the criteria upon which the ‘Screening Committee’ shall grant or reject an application, the Bill risks the identification procedure, (a deeply personal choice originating in an individual’s internal experience of gender) morphing into an objective medical assessment. In NALSA the Court also grounded the principle of self-identification in an individual’s dignity. The Bill runs the risk of violating this principle by subjecting transgender persons to unnecessary medical scrutiny.

The Bill also makes the State (through the ‘Screening Committee’), as opposed to the individual, the final arbiter on an individual’s gender identity. Under the Bill, the Screening Committee acts as a gatekeeper to an individual being able to fully experience their self-perceived gender identity in society. This runs against the rights of ‘self-expression’ and ‘personal autonomy’ that Article 19 and 21 confer on citizens. As ‘gender expression’ is protected under Article 19(1) and the Supreme Court has recognised that individuals have a ‘positive right to make decisions about their life’ under Article 21 the constitutional validity of the ‘Screening Committee’ will certainly raise some constitutional questions as it poses a restriction on the legal recognition of an individual’s gender identity.

Lastly, Section 7 allows the District Magistrate to grant a “certificate of identity as [a] transgender person…” seeming to negate the possibility that a transgender person may choose to identify as a male or female. At its core, the idea self-identification would allow a transgender person to choose to identify with either the male, female, or transgender identity. Section 7 seems to relegate transgender persons as explicitly and eternally outside the male female binary that Indian society deems normal.

Conclusion

The current version of the Bill has received a lot of criticism on a wide range of issues. Since its inception it has seen the loss of several prominent aspects including exclusive courts for transgenders, reservation in educational institutions and incentives to the private sector to employ transgender persons. While these are notable lapses, far more troubling is that the Bill seems to misunderstand the very individuals it seeks to protect. By conflating the concepts of ‘sex’ and ‘gender’, and imposing an opaque recognition procedure, the Bill does little to uphold the core principle of self-identification and dignity as articulated in Article 19 and 21.

 

 

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Guest Post: Cracks in the Foundation – Two Fundamental Issues in the Puttaswamy Decision that threaten its legacy

(This is a guest post by Karan Lahiri, a practicing advocate based in New Delhi.)

[This essay assumes that the reader has read the 10-part series on the Puttaswamy decision on this blog]

The decision handed down by nine judges of the Supreme Court of India in Justice K.S. Puttaswamy v. Union of India has been received with much optimism. It is being seen as a milestone, not only in how it removes two unsightly stains on the Supreme Court’s legacy [i.e. the express overruling of A.D.M Jabalpur v. Shivakant Shukla (See Part IX), and the dismantling of Suresh Kumar Koushal v. Naz Foundation (See Part V]], but also in how it carves out the various facets of the larger – and more abstract – concept of privacy.

The edifice built by this judgment, however, has two deep flaws (both in Justice Chandrachud’s plurality opinion, joined by three other judges), which should not be lightly glossed over.

The first flaw is that there is a huge hole in the judgment, which looks distinctly like an Aadhar-shaped hole. Nowhere is this more apparent than Paragraph 181 of Justice Chandrachud’s opinion, where he discusses the idea of what constitutes a “legitimate state interest”, one of the three prongs of the test laid down by him to justify incursions into the zone of privacy: –

“Apart from national security, the state may have justifiable reasons for the collection and storage of data. In a social welfare state, the government embarks upon programmes which provide benefits to impoverished and marginalised sections of society. There is a vital state interest in ensuring that scarce public resources are not dissipated by the diversion of resources to persons who do not qualify as recipients. Allocation of resources for human development is coupled with a legitimate concern that the utilisation of resources should not be siphoned away for extraneous purposes.[Emphasis supplied]

This idea is repeated in his conclusion: –

 “The legitimate aims of the state would include for instance protecting national security, preventing and investigating crime, encouraging innovation and the spread of knowledge, and preventing the dissipation of social welfare benefits. These are matters of policy to be considered by the Union government while designing a carefully structured regime for the protection of the data.” [Emphasis supplied]

The idea expressed, in itself, does not seem problematic. Compare this, however, with the Union of India’s position at the time the matter was being referred to a larger bench (recorded in the interim order passed on August 11, 2015): –

“20. The learned Attorney General has further submitted that the Aadhaar card is of great benefit since it ensures an effective implementation of several social benefit schemes of the Government like MGNREGA, the distribution of food, ration and kerosene through PDS system and grant of subsidies in the distribution of LPG. It was, therefore, submitted that restraining the respondents from issuing further Aadhaar cards or fully utilising the existing Aadhaar cards for the social schemes of the Government should be allowed.”

It is almost as if the Union’s position on the legitimacy of Aadhar’s aims has been upheld, despite the narrow scope of the reference and the fact that the constitutionality of the Aadhaar scheme was not under challenge before this bench of nine-judges. Indeed, Justice Sapre, in his separate opinion, has rebuffed attempts by those challenging Aadhar to bring up the specifics of the Scheme in the following terms: –

“39) Some learned senior counsel appearing for the petitioners, however, argued that the law laid down by this Court in some earlier decided cases though not referred for consideration be also overruled while answering the questions referred to this Bench whereas some senior counsel also made attempts to attack the legality and correctness of Aadhar Scheme in their submissions.

 40) These submissions, in my view, cannot be entertained in this case. It is for the reason that firstly, this Bench is constituted to answer only specific questions; secondly, the submissions pressed in service are not referred to this Bench and lastly, it is a settled principle of law that the reference Court cannot travel beyond the reference made and is confined to answer only those questions that are referred.”

If, indeed, the bench was expected to cleave close to the reference when Senior Counsel appearing for the Petitioners attempted “attack the legality and correctness of Aadhar Scheme in their submissions”, then equally, it should not have overreached itself in endorsing a hypothetical government objective which, in effect, sounds a lot like the Union of India’s justification of the Aadhar Scheme. Depending on how smaller benches of the Court act in this future, this overreach, whatever the reason, might be seen by future generations as nothing short of sophistry.

The second flaw is the deployment of the “reasonable expectation of privacy” test in Justice Chandrachud’s plurality opinion, where he writes, under the heading “Essential Nature of Privacy”: –

“The lives which individuals lead as members of society engender a reasonable expectation of privacy. The notion of a reasonable expectation of privacy has elements both of a subjective and objective nature. Privacy at a subjective level is a reflection of those areas where an individual desire to be left alone. On an objective plane, privacy is defined by those constitutional values which shape the content of the protected zone where the individual ought to be left alone. The notion that there must exist a reasonable expectation of privacy ensures that while on the one hand, the individual has a protected zone of privacy, yet on the other, the exercise of individual choices is subject to the rights of others to lead orderly lives… Hence while the individual is entitled to a zone of privacy, its extent is based not only on the subjective expectation of the individual but on an objective principle which defines a reasonable expectation.” [Emphasis supplied]

 This basically attempts to limit the privacy right of the individual to that, which, as a member of society, she can reasonably expect. The degree of privacy thus, which one can reasonably expect, is that which does not interfere with “the rights of others to lead ordinary lives”. The problems with this line of reasoning are twofold, one of which is textual and the other doctrinal.

1. The Textual Problem

The Constitution has already defined, in its text, the social interests or “the rights of others” that can be invoked by the State in justifying incursions into fundamental rights. For example, in a given case, if there is an interference with a facet of the right to privacy emanating from Article 19(1)(a), the only “reasonable restrictions” recognized are those contained in Article 19(2), “in the interests of the sovereignty and integrity of India, the security of the State, friendly relations with foreign States, public order, decency or morality or in relation to contempt of court, defamation or incitement to an offence”, which do not recognize any broader social or public interest. This is why Justice Nariman, in his separate opinion (which I personally feel is the one which is most doctrinally sound), writes that “when it comes to restrictions on this right, the drill of various Articles to which the right relates must be scrupulously followed.” Justice Chandrachud’s opinion, however, uses these “rights of others” not merely to restrict the right to privacy, but to limit the very contours of the meaning of privacy. This is nothing but a variation of the Supreme Court’s notorious “balancing” test (critiqued on this blog here), where unenumerated public or social or community interests are used to restrict fundamental freedoms.

2. The Doctrinal Problem

The doctrinal inconsistency in Justice Chandrachud’s deployment of the “reasonable expectation of privacy” test lies in the fact that he uses it to limit the scope of an individual’s right to privacy based on “the rights of others”. However, this test, originating in American jurisprudence, has not been used in the United States to subordinate individual rights to amorphous social interests (“the rights of others”), but has been used to identify places where individuals can claim a Fourth Amendment right against unreasonable searches and seizures.

The test itself is traceable to the US Supreme Court’s decision in Katz v. US. The Fourth Amendment of the American Constitution protects the “right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures.” In Olmstead v. US, this was read strictly to mean that an unreasonable search and seizure only occurs when there is a physical “entry” into the “houses or offices of the defendants”.

The decision in Katz untethered the Fourth Amendment from the home (reflected in its text which covers persons, houses, papers, and effects), moving beyond the idea that unreasonable searches and seizures could only happen when there were physical intrusions into a home or office. It is in this context, while reversing a conviction based on evidence gathered with a listening device attached to the outside of a phone booth, that Justice Potter Stewart observed that “the Fourth Amendment protects people, not places”. In his concurrence, Justice Harlan speaks of the “reasonable expectation of privacy”, connecting the Fourth Amendment protection afforded to people once again to the dynamics of spaces: –

“As the Court’s opinion states, “the Fourth Amendment protects people, not places.” The question, however, is what protection it affords to those people. Generally, as here, the answer to that question requires reference to a “place.” My understanding of the rule that has emerged from prior decisions is that there is a twofold requirement, first that a person have exhibited an actual (subjective) expectation of privacy and, second, that the expectation be one that society is prepared to recognize as “reasonable.” Thus, a man’s home is, for most purposes, a place where he expects privacy, but objects, activities, or statements that he exposes to the “plain view” of outsiders are not “protected,” because no intention to keep them to himself has been exhibited. On the other hand, conversations in the open would not be protected against being overheard, for the expectation of privacy under the circumstances would be unreasonable. Cf. Hester v. United States, supra.

 The critical fact in this case is that “[o]ne who occupies it, [a telephone booth] shuts the door behind him, and pays the toll that permits him to place a call is surely entitled to assume” that his conversation is not being intercepted. Ante at 389 U. S. 352. The point is not that the booth is “accessible to the public” at other times, ante at 389 U. S. 351, but that it is a temporarily private place whose momentary occupants’ expectations of freedom from intrusion are recognized as reasonable. Cf. Rios v. United States, 364 U. S. 253.” [Emphasis supplied]

 Therefore, the question that Justice Harlan was answering, purely in the context of the Fourth Amendment was ­– in what places does the Fourth Amendment protect people against unreasonable searches and seizures? His answer is, first, that this protection is available where the individual subjectively expects privacy. So, for instance, there would be no Fourth Amendment protection if a Federal Agent overhears a loud public conversation in a crowded restaurant, since the speakers do not expect privacy. The additional limb is that society must recognize as reasonable the expectation of privacy of an individual in that space. Therefore, even if the person speaking openly in a crowded restaurant expects not to be overheard, this expectation would be an objectively unreasonable one based on prevailing social standards, as opposed to, let us say, a reasonable expectation of privacy that would be objectively valid if a private conversation was taking place in an enclosed private dining area.

Justice Chandrachud’s opinion, emphasizing the “rights of others”, has used this test to limit the very meaning of the broader right to privacy using the “reasonable expectation” test, in a manner which is completely at odds with US jurisprudence. This is despite the fact that in the United States, this is a pure Fourth Amendment test, and is not used to adjudicate cases where a broader right to privacy is involved, as emerging from the “penumbras” of the Bill of Rights (à la Griswold etc.). Secondly, in the United States, this test is only used to analyze whether the subjective expectation of privacy in the context of unreasonable searches and seizures, in Fourth Amendment cases, is objectively valid within particular physical spaces, based on social mores surrounding such spaces. There are no “rights of others” being balanced against the right to privacy. In fact, in the US, the “rights of others” is not even an ingredient in the “reasonable expectation of privacy” test.

Therefore, in Katz, a Fourth Amendment claim can be made in respect of a conversation in a phone booth, a “temporarily private place” which, based on social standards is recognized as a space where “momentary occupants’ expectations of freedom from intrusion are recognized as reasonable.” If Katz were to be decided based on the test which Justice Chandrachud has laid down, the Court would have ascertained the social interests or the “rights of others” involved, in order to determine whether a law enforcement agency could eavesdrop. So, for instance, the subject matter of the conversation or the identity of the defendant as a suspect could be used to justify an unconstitutional intrusion, perhaps based on a broad social interest in crime prevention. This is never what Justice Harlan intended when he laid down the reasonable expectation of privacy test.

Fortunately, in a case like Puttaswamy, where there is no single majority opinion rendered by five out of nine judges, what can be considered binding law must be arrived at by parsing the six plurality opinions, and understanding which propositions command the support of five or more judges, to form a determinative majority. Therefore, no proposition laid down in Justice Chandrachud’s opinion (on which a total of four judges have signed off, including Justice Chandrachud) can be considered to be binding unless supported by one of the other plurality opinions. A lot, therefore, will depend on what reading of Puttaswamy is advanced by future lawyers, and how future benches deal with it.

It therefore remains to be seen, in individual cases, whether these blemishes become mainstreamed, tarnishing the legacy of Puttaswamy, or whether they fade into oblivion.

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The Supreme Court’s Right to Privacy Judgment: Round-up

The essays discussing the judgment of the Supreme Court in Justice Puttaswamy vs Union of India can be accessed in the following orders:

  1. Part I: Foundations — Examining how the Court answered the two referral questions placed before it.
  2. Part II: Privacy, the Individual, and the Public/Private Divide — Analysing the judgment’s focus on the individual, and its construction and critique of the public/private divide
  3. Part III: Privacy, Surveillance, and the Body — Discussing the first of the three aspects of the Court’s formulation of privacy: privacy as bodily and mental integrity.
  4. Part IV: Privacy, Informational Self-Determination, and the Idea of Consent — examining the second aspect of privacy – informational self-determination – and the role of individual consent in data collection programs.
  5. Part V: Privacy and Decisional Autonomy — Discussing the third aspect of privacy – intimate decision-making – and its impact on issues of minority rights and others.
  6. Part VI: Limitations — Excavating the legal standards laid down by the judgment on the issue of State limitations upon privacy.
  7. Part VII: Privacy and Free Speech — Examining what, if any, would be the impact of the judgment on the freedom of expression
  8. Part VIII: Privacy and the Right to Information — Examining what, if any, would be the impact of the judgment on the right to information.
  9. Part IX: Living Constitutionalism, Natural Law, and Other Interpretive Issues — Discussing the judgment’s stand on some issues of constitutional interpretation
  10. Part X: Conclusion – the Proof of the Pudding — Arguing that Puttaswamy gives us a foundation for a progressive civil rights jurisprudence, but in the long run, its legacy will be determined by how the Court applies it in future cases.

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The Supreme Court’s Right to Privacy Judgment – X: Conclusion: The Proof of the Pudding

Maneka Gandhi vs Union of India is one of the most famous cases in the history of the Indian Supreme Court. It is the crown jewel of our constitutional canon, India’s answer to Brown vs Board of Education, the case that revolutionised the Court’s civil rights jurisprudence. It is the judgment that consigned the notorious A.K. Gopalan to the dustbin of history, inaugurated an era in which the Constitution’s fundamental rights were to be read in an integrated and holistic manner, and breathed life into the “colourless” due process clause of the Constitution.

But Maneka Gandhi did not win her case. Her constitutional challenge to Section 10(3)(c) of the Passports Act failed, and the Court accepted the Attorney-General’s “assurance” that she would be given a hearing about her passport being impounded. The operative order of the Court, which is rarely quoted, stated:

Having regard to the majority view, and, in view of the statement made by the learned Attorney-General to which reference, has already been made in the judgments we do not think it necessary to formally interfere with the impugned order. We, accordingly, dispose of the Writ Petition without passing any formal order. The passport will remain in the custody of the Registrar of this Court until further orders.”

Maneka Gandhi vs Union of India was the repentant Court’s mea culpa for its abdication during Indira Gandhi’s Emergency, the first concrete embodiment of its will to make amends, a precursor to the age of public interest litigation. Maneka Gandhi was the point at which the Court abandoned three decades of formalist interpretation, and inaugurated a new path where Courts would expand the rights of individuals against the State, instead of limiting or contracting them.

But neither the Court’s repentance, nor its ringing words about interpreting Articles 14, 19, and 21 together, and not even its inauguration of the substantive due process doctrine was of any use to the petitioners in the constitutional challenges to the preventive detention provisions of the National Security Act in 1980; or, in 1994, to the constitutional challenges to the TADA’s departure from CrPC safeguards such as confessions to police officers, upheld on the justification of fighting terrorism; or, perhaps most glaringly, to the constitutional challenge to the Armed Forces Special Powers Act a few years later.

What then did Maneka Gandhi transform, exactly? How could the TADA and the AFSPA have been upheld by a Court serious about atoning for what happened during the Emergency? Which anti-civil rights statutes were struck down on the basis of the interrelationship-of-rights theory, or on grounds of substantive due process? To take just three examples, after Maneka Gandhi, the Supreme Court continued to uphold book bans, (total) cattle slaughter bans, and “anti-sodomy” legislation. For all its grand words, Maneka Gandhi was more a continuum along a long history of the Court saying many wonderful things, but when it came to the crunch, deferring to the State and finding a “public interest” that justified the limitation of rights (two exceptions to this general rule are Selvi vs State and Mohd Arif vs Union of India). The history of the Supreme Court’s jurisprudence post-Maneka Gandhi warns us, therefore, that what matters more is not grandeur in words, but concrete application.

Justice Puttaswamy vs Union of India has said many wonderful things about the right to privacy. That needs to be acknowledged and praised. However, it is equally important to note that Puttaswamy was a case decided in the abstract. The State’s arguments were limited to advocating a strict, originalist reading of the Constitution, and the protean nature of privacy – weak arguments at best, even when made by excellent counsel. And in deciding upon the pure proposition of law before it, the Puttaswamy bench did all that it could have done in the context of the proceedings before it: declared that a fundamental right to privacy existed, grounded it in Part III of the Constitution, and laid down rigorous standards for the State to meet if it wanted to limit the right to privacy.

However, when future benches of the Court are called upon to apply Puttaswamy, it will not be quite so straightforward. There will be challenges to dragnet surveillance, where the State will claim that the only way to catch terrorists is to surveil the entire population, and will submit “evidence” in a sealed envelop to the Court. There will be challenges to DNA profiling laws, where the State will argue that everyone must give up their privacy to help in the national effort to detect and prevent crime. There will be challenges to data collection and data mining, where the State will argue that the loss of privacy is a small price to pay for the gain in efficiency.

This is predictable, because it has happened before, for the last sixty-five years. The law of sedition was upheld because the Court believed that the State must have the means of “preserving itself”, and freedom of speech was an acceptable casualty. TADA was upheld because the Court felt that police abuse was an acceptable compromise in the fight against terrorism. The Court did not strike down police surveillance in Gobind, despite holding that there existed a fundamental right to privacy. In PUCL, the Court did not even mandate a judicial hearing as a pre-requisite to telephone surveillance under the Telegraph Act. As the Court itself has reminded us many times, in the last analysis, individual interests must “yield” to larger social interests — and that effectively, it is the State’s prerogative to both define the social interest, and to prescribe the means towards achieving it.

But it is the very point of individual rights that they prescribe limits upon what the State can do to achieve its goals. In a world without the right against self-incrimination or a right to personal liberty, law and order would be much more efficient. In a world in which the State could ban books and organisations without judicial scrutiny, no doubt counter-terrorism efforts would be facilitated greatly. When you agree that individuals have rights, that there are some things that the State cannot do to them no matter how laudable the goal, you agree that there may well be a net loss of efficiency. And you agree because there are other values that exist apart from security, law and order, and efficiency in plugging leaks in welfare programmes. In his book about the Snowden revelations, Glenn Greenwald puts the point perfectly, when he writes:

Nations and individuals constantly make choices that place the values of privacy and, implicitly, freedom above other objectives, such as physical safety. Indeed, the very purpose of the Fourth Amendment in the US Constitution is to prohibit certain police actions, even though they might reduce crime. If the police were able to barge into any home without a warrant, murderers, rapists, and kidnappers might be more easily apprehended. If the state were permitted to place monitors in our homes, crime would probably fall significantly. If the FBI were permitted to listen to our conversations and seize our communications, a wide array of crime could conceivably be prevented and solved.

But the Constitution was written to prevent such suspicionless invasions by the state. By drawing the line at such actions, we knowingly allow for the probability of greater criminality. Yet we draw that line anyway, exposing ourselves to a higher degree of danger, because pursuing absolute physical safety has never been our single overarching societal priority. Above even our physical well-being, a central value is keeping the state out of the private realm – our “persons, houses, papers, and effects”, as the Fourth Amendment puts it. We do so precisely because that realm is the crucible of so many of the attributes typically associated with the quality of life – creativity, exploration, intimacy.

Forgoing privacy in a quest for absolute safety is as harmful to a healthy psyche and life of an individual as it is to a healthy political culture. For the individual, safety first means a life of paralysis and fear, never entering a car or an airplane, never engaging in an activity that entails risk, never weighing the quality of life over quantity, and paying any price to avoid danger.” 

In its long history, the Supreme Court has invariably favoured the claims of the security State over the rights of individuals. And the crucial point is this: Puttaswamyin itself, is not going to change that. The standards that the Court has laid down – “legitimate purpose”, “necessity”, “proportionality”, and “procedural safeguards” – are commodious ones. For a Court still steeped in the institutional logic that upheld TADA and AFSPA, it is but a short step to argue that (for example) dragnet surveillance is constitutional because, well, anti-terrorism.

There is no doubt that without Puttaswamy, we would have been far worse off than we are today. And there is also no doubt that Puttaswamy has built a foundation for a new jurisprudence of civil rights. But we must all be equally clear about the fact that the real task will begin now: it will begin with the first bench that is asked to apply Puttaswamy to a concrete case where privacy runs up against reasons of State, and it will continue in the months, years, and decades to come. The task is not simply to apply Puttaswamy, but to use Puttaswamy to craft a genuinely progressive civil rights jurisprudence, where the original constitutional compact – that individual rights are not subordinate to “public good”, “social good”, “public interest” (or any other variant of the phrase) – is restored. And that, now, is the responsibility of citizens, of lawyers, and of course, of the judges who will be called upon to adjudicate privacy and liberty claims in the wake of this judgment. For judges, indeed, it is a challenge: to be true to the animating spirit of Puttaswamy, and make the hard decision to tell the State that although its aim may be laudable, its motives unimpeachable, and its method beneficial, under the Constitution of India, it nonetheless cannot have what it wants.

In that sense, the legacy of Puttaswamy is open. It could become what it promises to be – the foundation for a transformative civil rights jurisprudence. Or it could become only a rhetorical lodestar, a beautiful and ineffectual angel, beating in the void its luminous wings in vain.

Time will tell.

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