Guest Post: Pension Cessation and the Rekindled Framework under Article 15(3) [Part II]

[This is a guest post by Kartik Kalra. This piece is the second of a two-part series on the evaluation and application of a rekindled framework to test protective discrimination under Article 15(3). Part One can be accessed here.]

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In the previous post of this two-part series, I have proposed a four-pronged test that is capable of navigating the thin line between recognizing and entrenching stereotypes when evaluating the saving of discriminatory laws under Article 15(3). To recall, this test consists of the following prongs:

1. the law must be based on stereotypes that are quantitatively verifiable;
2. the stereotype must be perpetuated in pursuance of remedying historical disadvantages faced by women;
3. there must be no availability of a lesser-discriminatory alternative than the impugned law; and
4. the advantage conferred on the historically disadvantaged group (i.e., women) must be greater than the disadvantage generated via the perpetuation of stereotypes.

In this piece, I apply this framework to the pensionary regime in general and remarriage-related Pension Cessation Rules (“PCR”) in particular, demonstrating the test’s ability to dismantle stereotypes without causing tangible disadvantages to women as a class. In doing so, I first introduce the judgement of the Queen’s Bench Division in Green v. Metropolitan Police Commissioner, also discussing the nature of Indian PCRs and the type of constitutional challenge they are susceptible to. Following this, I evaluate PCRs within Article 15(1), showing their indirectly discriminatory nature. Finally, I apply the four-pronged test to PCRs and propose a possible narrowing of the sex-based class to a dependency-based one, preventing the active entrenchment of stereotypes using the test’s third prong.

Remarriage Causing Pension Cessation

Earlier this year, the Queen’s Bench Division of the United Kingdom delivered its judgement in Green v. Metropolitan Police Commissioner, where it upheld a rule that denied pensionary benefits to widows on remarriage. Sharon Green, the lead petitioner, was the wife of a police officer who died during service. After twelve years of staying single and surviving off the pension she received following her husband’s death, she found a partner near her street with whom she envisioned a future. Regulation C9 of the Police Pension Scheme, 1987, however, stood as an enormous obstacle, which mandated a cessation of pensionary benefits on her remarriage or on continued cohabitation with a partner. Green was presented with two options: either continue to survive off the pension and abjure from entering into a romantic relationship, or to enter into one but sacrifice her livelihood.

The condition of remarriage leading to a cessation of pensionary benefits is omnipresent in Indian law, expressly mentioned u/ss. 50(8)(a) of the Central Civil Services (Pension) Rules, 2021, 49(6)(i) of the Tamil Nadu Pension Rules, 1978 and 6.17(4)(i)(a) of the Punjab Civil Services Rules, 1984. This condition is also present, inter alia, in the service rules formulated by Haryana, Jammu and Kashmir, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan. Judicial review of such rules along with the regime of pensionary benefits presents a perplexing challenge that I have discussed in the previous post, given that the law’s validation perpetuates sex-based stereotypes and its invalidation causes immediate, tangible disadvantages to women.

The challenge to rules that have the effect of perpetuating sex-based stereotypes occurs within Article 15(1), which prohibits discrimination (both direct and indirect) on grounds of religion, race, caste, sex and place of birth. Such rules can be saved under Article 15(3) if they constitute a “special provision for women”. Presently, under Article 15(1), the constitutional assessment of laws perpetuating stereotypes via direct discrimination yields a direct conclusion of unconstitutionality as held in Navtej (¶438-9), while those doing the same via indirect discrimination is subject to a proportionality-backed justification by the state as held in Nitisha (¶87).

PCRs and Article 15(1)

At this stage, it would be important to note that Indian PCRs, as opposed to the unamended Regulation C9 of the United Kingdom, do not generally discriminate directly on the basis of sex. An exception to this could be ss. 87 of the Pension Regulations for the Air Force, 1961 and 133 of the Pension Regulations for the Army, 2008, both of which deny pensionary benefits to a widower. By and large, however, most states recognize the eligibility of both widows and widowers to obtain pensionary benefits that cease at remarriage. The constitutional challenge, therefore, lies in indirect instead of direct discrimination.

Indirect discrimination under Article 15 concerns disparate impact: neutral rules affect particular groups differently due to pre-existing structural disparities. It serves as a mode to confirm the denial of equality of opportunity from the disproportion of outcomes. Nitisha adopted the test in Fraser v. Canada to address indirect discrimination, which asks whether a neutral rule disproportionately affects a particular group, and whether the impugned rule has the effect of reinforcing, perpetuating, or exacerbating the disadvantage faced by that group (¶86). There is no defined standard of empirical evidence necessary to establish indirect discrimination, and the Court is empowered to make use of its common sense in assessing disparate impact (¶82). Who would be affected disproportionately by a law on the cessation of pensionary benefits on remarriage, men or women?

Data shows that men occupy a disproportionate number of jobs in state employment, and therefore widows are the primary recipients of pensionary benefits until they remarry. PCRs act as a deterrent in their remarriage, for the law demands that they choose between a financially secure life of solitude or an impoverished life of love. Either way, women as a class are disadvantaged: socially and psychologically if they choose the former, and economically if they choose the latter. It would be important to note that Green held that PCRs cannot be characterized as infringing privacy, for the effect of the law is not determinative of the engagement of constitutional rights (¶78). In Indian jurisprudence, however, it is solely the effect of a limitation on the individual that determines the engagement of a constitutional right. PCRs have the effect of preventing women from exercising their rights of intimate decision-making in choosing their marital (or otherwise) partners, which has been repeatedly held to constitute a facet of their right to privacy. Shakti Vahini v. Union of India held the choice to marry a person of one’s choice to be a facet of individual autonomy; Shafin Jahan v. Ashokan KM held the “choice of a partner whether within or outside marriage” to lie “within a core zone of privacy, which is inviolable”; Arunkumar v. Inspector General of Police held the decision of a transgender woman to marry a man to be a facet of her privacy; and Indra Sarma v. VKV Sarma held the decision to cohabit without marriage to be an intimate and personal decision.

The state, in effect, makes its citizens choose between a fundamental right and a compelling financial necessity, which leaves them with no real choice. In literature and case law, a state demand of the citizen’s relinquishment of a fundamental right is navigated within the framework of the doctrine of unconstitutional conditions. Under this doctrine, the way it has been developed in India, the engagement of a fundamental right is triggered whenever the affected individual can show that the state’s demand is “unreasonable in the special sense that it takes away or abridges the exercise of a right protected by an explicit provision of the Constitution” (St. Xaviers’ College v. State of Guajrat, ¶158). This is undoubtedly the case with PCRs, for the state demands that an individual choose between their rights of intimate decision-making or their financial well-being. There is, therefore, a prima facie engagement of their fundamental rights. The evaluation of the reasonableness of the restriction via PCRs, however, is separate, and would occur within an Article 21 enquiry.

In sum, PCRs disproportionately affect women and have the effect of depriving them of their freedom of intimate decision-making. On this basis, I submit that PCRs, as they currently stand in India, are indirectly discriminatory against women.

PCRs and the Four-Pronged Test under Article 15(3)

At this stage, it must be noted that a failure in meeting the Fraser criteria does result in a direct conclusion of the law’s unconstitutionality, for the law can be saved by a proportionality-based justification offered by the state. While this justification can be offered to save the law from being indirectly discriminatory in the first place, a separate exercise will have to be carried out to save it using Article 15(3). The proposed four-pronged test is of a higher scrutiny as compared to the traditional proportionality test, for it additionally requires the elimination of over-inclusiveness in the law’s application. Given the higher scrutiny of the proposed test, I shall directly examine the possibility of saving the law under Article 15(3) instead of evaluating its justifiability under Article 15(1). Lastly, it must be noted that PCRs would be saved by Article 15(3) only insofar as they function to cease the pension of widows, not of widowers.

1. Quantitative Verifiability

The stereotype used and perpetuated by PCRs pertains to the economic dependence of women: they were first dependent on their earlier husband, then on the state, and now on their new husband. The verification of this stereotype must consider, inter alia, the proportion of women’s representation in state employment (around 20%), sex-based division of the total recipients of pensions, and the proportion of unmarried widows dependant on the state (around 90%). The empirical standards pronounced in Nitisha may also be deemed to apply here, meaning that the use of common-sense in the task of determining the quantitative verifiability of stereotypes shall be encouraged (¶82). In the South African Constitutional Court’s judgement in President v. Hugo, the judges concur that the stereotype of women as primary care-givers is true in fact without necessitating intense fact-finding endeavours (¶37, 77, 113). Economic dependence of women, therefore, is a verifiable stereotype and PCRs would satisfy the first prong.

2. Remedying Historical Disadvantage

The economic exclusion of women is a historical process of the solidification of the public-private divide, via which women have been relegated to the domain of the household where the “writ of the king doesn’t run”, and the man becomes the king, the sole breadwinner of the household. It is this historical subordination of women that pensionary benefits function to allay: they recognize that structural factors cause the present economic dependency of women, and that the state takes on the task of eliminating vagrancy that may be caused due to unfulfilled dependency. Correspondingly, PCRs also acknowledge this historical disadvantage by ceasing pensionary benefits when the woman has another partner. Fundamentally, this prong ensures that the vice of essentialism is not committed by portraying women as subordinate or inferior, instead acknowledging the historical and structural reasons that necessitate protective measures.

3. Availability of Lesser-Discriminatory Measures

The test of finding lesser-discriminatory alternatives requires, therefore, the investigation of a narrower class, the application of the law on whom doesn’t jeopardise stereotyping an entire sex-based (or otherwise) class a certain way. There exist such alternatives that are presently operational in India. The class subject to PCRs is the same as that receiving pensions, the possible narrowing of which must be evaluated to determine the availability of lesser-discriminatory alternatives. Consider, for example, Section 133(b) of the Pension Regulations of the Army, 2008, which introduces an additional variable to determine the eligibility to receive a widow’s pension: the maintenance of children. This law holds that if the widow is supporting the children borne out of her previous marriage, she shall be entitled to a full pension; and if she isn’t supporting her children after remarriage, she will be entitled to an amount between 30 and 60% of her original pension. The class eligible for the receipt of a full pension becomes smaller and reflects the variables affecting true dependency, veering the classification away from a sex-based one to a dependency-based one. In addition, the Indira Gandhi National Widow Pension Scheme applies to women who earn below a prescribed level, and the Swadhar Greh Scheme applies to women who are victims of difficult circumstances and require institutional support. There exist, therefore, alternatives measures that are able to narrow the classification, avoiding overinclusiveness and refraining from perpetuating the stereotype of women as dependent. PCRs can, therefore, be remodelled to cease benefits on the attainment of economic independence, not on a change in marital status.

4. Weighing of Advantages and Disadvantages

Given the availability of lesser-discriminatory alternatives that are able to meet the state’s eventual goal of preventing vagrancy, the law would have to be re-evaluated to make it conform to the third prong. For the fourth prong, we must weigh the advantages that women as a class receive under the pensionary regime with the disadvantages caused to them due to the perpetuation of sex-based stereotypes. Judges would arrive at different outcomes for this prong, as the contrasting reasonings offered by O’Regan and Krigler JJ. in President v. Hugo show. While O’Regan J. held that a law cognizant of stereotypes can confer meaningful advantages on women in the present (¶112), Krigler J. held that the perpetuation of sex-based stereotypes is inevitable in their recognition and must be avoided to the greatest extent (¶80).

I consider that an unwavering commitment to constitutional ideals at the cost of livelihoods is also bound to produce sub-optimal outcomes. A reading of this prong must ordinarily be construed in favour of the impugned stereotypical law, given that it reaches this stage after a confirmation of its application to the narrowest possible class. The pensionary regime confers an obvious advantage on women as a class in the form of tangible benefits of pensions, and a declaration of its unconstitutionality due to cessation on remarriage is bound to produce significant disadvantages for women in the present.

Conclusion

Through this two-part series, I have attempted to demonstrate the degree of perplexity one encounters in navigating the conflict between the pursuit of constitutional ideals and the immediate concern of addressing vagrancy via the recognition of verifiable stereotypes. The present framework under Article 15(3) proves inadequate to navigate this question, for it lacks a determining principle to save some laws and reject others. In response to this, I developed a four-pronged test that requires that the investigation of a narrower class within the sex-based classification to whom the impugned law applies. The four-pronged test, while easily susceptible to a critique of the kind levelled in Frontiero v. Richardson concerning the greatest possible avoidance of all sex-based classifications, bears fidelity to social iniquity in fact instead of a dogmatic commitment to constitutional ideals. This, I propose, best balances the twin considerations of dismantling stereotypes and eliminating vagrancy.

The dilemma between the recognition and entrenchment of stereotypes can be vividly observed in the functioning of pensionary benefits, a site for the four-pronged test’s application. The application of this test to the pensionary regime yields a general conclusion of the law’s constitutionality, provided that the class to whom they apply is narrowed, and the classification veered away from a sex-based one to a truly dependency-based one. The process of dismantling stereotypes is long and sustained, one where the law both follows and guides social progress. Immediate declarations of unconstitutionality benefit none, eliminating stereotypes only in law while they continue to thrive in fact. The four-pronged test, therefore, serves as a meaningful instrument in navigating this dilemma, upholding advantageous stereotype-based laws at the present while guiding the stereotypes’ ultimate dismantling.

‘Atypical’ Love: The Supreme Court’s Decision in Deepika Singh vs CAT

[This is a guest post by Karan Gupta.]

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In a recent judgment delivered in Deepika Singh v. Central Administrative Tribunal and Ors., the Supreme Court of India granted relief to a woman, who had been denied maternity leave on the ground that she had previously availed child-care leave for her two non-biological children. Although it is a short judgment, the underlying premises and the observations recorded have far-reaching implications for the socio-legal understanding of parental-care as well as the traditional understanding of the ‘family unit’.

I argue that the line of enquiry adopted by the Court was informed by the target beneficiary of the provisions (women) and the manner in which gender-ascribed parental-care roles exclude women from the job market. The Court relied on these ascribed roles for the limited purpose of assessing whether twin-benefits of maternity leave and child-care leave may be extended. At the same time, the Court was cautious to avoid the trap of essentialising women with child-care responsibilities [I]. I assess how the Court’s expansion of the traditional parent-child paradigm as extending beyond biological children has implications for the traditional socio-legal understating of the ‘family’ as being a fixed and unchanging unit comprised solely of a married cis-heterosexual man (father/husband) and a cis-heterosexual woman (mother/wife), and children born to them. I explore the broader contributions of this to Indian jurisprudence [II]. I conclude that the Court recognised not just the myriad ways in which individuals assume parental responsibility, but also the myriad ways in which individuals forge familial ties. In doing so, the Court has invited a re-imagination which offers a significant contribution to broadening the ambit of a “right to love” from being restricted to the right to form intimate relationships with a limited set of individuals, to mean the right to form intimate relationships with anyone.

Facts

The case concerned a challenge to the denial of maternity leave to a woman (‘appellant’) for her first biological child. Under Rule 43(1) of the Central Services (Leave Rules) 1972 (‘1972 Rules’), a female government employee “with less than two surviving children” may apply for maternity leave for a period of 180 days. Under Rule 43-C, a female government employee with minor children may apply for child-care leave for a maximum period of two years to take “care of up to two children”. The Post Graduate Institute of Medical Education and Research (‘Institute’) denied the appellant’s maternity leave application on the ground that she had entered into the register and availed child-care leave for two children of her spouse from his previous marriage. Consequently, her first biological child, deemed by the Institute to be her third child, disentitled her to maternity leave under Rule 43(1), as she failed to meet the statutory condition of having fewer than two surviving children.

The court of the first instance (Central Administrative Tribunal) and the appellate court (High Court of Judicature) dismissed her challenge on similar grounds. The core question before the Supreme Court, centered around Rule 43(1), was whether a woman who availed child-care leave for two non-biological children was disentitled from availing maternity leave for a biological child.

Holding

The Court held that maternity leave and child-care leave constituted distinct entitlements, with the latter being available at any time (for instance, during the child’s education or sickness) and not just at the time of birth. The Court further held that merely because the appellant undertook child-care responsibilities “in ways that may not find a place in the popular imagination”, she was not disentitled from availing maternity leave. The Court concluded that “the fact that the appellant’s spouse had two biological children from his first marriage would not impinge upon the entitlement of the appellant to avail maternity leave for her sole biological child.” Thus, even though the Institute had permitted the appellant to register two non-biological children and avail child-care leave, she would be entitled to maternity leave under Rule 43(1) for her first biological child.

It is how the Court reached this conclusion that is worth unpacking in some detail.

Analysis

Framing the line of enquiry under a (beneficial) delegated legislation

Note that the 1972 Rules are silent on whether the word ‘children’ in Rules 43(1) and 43-C means biological children only. A focus on defining the word could have resulted in an anomalous situation. If the Court had concluded that ‘children’ in Rule 43(1) meant only biological children, the appellant would have been granted relief, but a strong argument could then be made to deny the grant of child-care leave under Rule 43-C for non-biological children (as both provisions use the word ‘children’). On the other hand, if the Court had concluded (as the Respondents argued) that the word ‘children’ in Rule 43(1) included non-biological children, the appellant would have been denied maternity leave on the ground that her first biological child is a deemed third child.

Could an alternate line of enquiry be framed which may avoid this anomalous situation? The Court shifted focus away from the ambit of the word ‘children’ to the target beneficiary of the two provisions – women. This involved an exercise in determining the objective with which the 1972 Rules were framed.

The Court examined similar provisions (under the Maternity Benefit Act 1961) and held that the objective of these provisions is to ensure that childbirth or child-care responsibilities do not disentitle an individual from being paid their wages during a period of leave for childbirth or child-care. In their logic, the 1972 Rules “entrench and enhance” the general non-discrimination principle of Article 15 of the Constitution and flow from the enabling provision in Article 15(3) to enact beneficial provisions for advancing the interests of women. Having reached this conclusion, the Court’s enquiry was further informed by the effect of gender-ascribed parental roles in preventing women from accessing the economic marketplace.

The Court opined that that in cis-heterosexual families (such as the present case), women often undertake a disproportionate share of child-care. The Court relied on statistics which found that women spend 577% more time on unpaid work than men (presumed to account for disproportionate child-care responsibilities), and held that “women continue to bear the primary responsibility for child-care”. Consequently, the 1972 Rules align with Constitutional postulate under Article 15 and cognate legislation and constitute socially beneficial delegated legislation.

An important question is apposite here – does this reliance on gender-ascribed parental roles unwittingly essentialise women with child-care? The Court avoided consciously falling into this trap. The Court noted that women are “pressed” to undertake a disproportionate share because of “gendered roles assigned to women and societal expectations”. Compelled by these social circumstances, they often find themselves excluded from the economic marketplace. The Court was careful in recognizing that child-care includes maternity leave, paternity leave and child-care leave. These observations are significant. The Court referred to gender-ascribed parental roles which operate in society to prejudice and stereotype women (de facto) to frame the nature of the 1972 rules as a beneficial delegated legislation. At the same time however, the Court carefully rejected an essentialisiation through an underlying reasoning that the idea of women as caretakers is not ‘natural’ but ascribed.

The recognition of de facto inequality or unfavorable treatment and employing it in extending a benefit to those at its receiving end itself promises broad implications beyond a case on maternity leave. Recall here that it is a common defense against indirect discrimination claims generally that as long as the law applies equally to all people (de jure equality), it is irrelevant how the same may perpetuate inequality in effect on the ground (de facto inequality). In this understanding, any interpretation of the law or action operates independently of the social current and on-ground realities. However, a fundamental problem with this acontextual interpretation is that it overlooks that the legal order, in fundamentally seeking to govern social relations, must be informed by social realities. For instance, it is odd to fix an arbitrary minimum wage without a complete understanding of present-day wages, the purchasing power of those wages, and the minimum standard of living required for a fulfilling life. There is a strong argument then social currents and power structures must be recognised and inform the interpretation of the law.

Here, the Court undertook two distinct steps – first, it recorded a finding on the objective of the 1972 Rules by focusing on women as the target beneficiaries and second, crucially, it recognised and relied on de facto inequality caused by gender-ascribed parental roles to inform its understanding of the 1972 Rules and conclude that it is a socially-beneficial delegated legislation. In the process, it affirmed that the law and its interpretation must be alive to social realities, including de facto inequality which operates in society. Further, it is possible to inform our understanding and the interpretation of the law by recognising de facto inequality, without essentialising/crystallising those identities (see Seigal’s excellent work on how a rejection of de facto inequality in informing law and policy has complicated the affirmative action debate of the SCOTUS).

Adopting the reasoning above enabled the Court to frame the core enquiry in the adjudication – whether an individual could be extended a twin-benefit (child care-leave and maternity leave) under a beneficial delegated legislation. This was a viable alternative to focusing on the ambit of ‘children’ and consequently adopting one of the two alternate paths which would frustrate one benefit. This sets the stage for the judgment to assume further significance in inviting a re-imagination of parental care and the understanding of ‘family’.

The Forms of Parental Care and Familial Love

In the traditional parent-child paradigm, parental care is assumed to be restricted to biological children. The Court recognised that this understanding ignores the myriad ways in which individuals come to assume parental-care responsibilities – either by choice or circumstance. Guardians and caretakers of children, who often occupy the roles of ‘mother’ and ‘father’, may “change with remarriage, adoption, or fostering.” Thus, individuals often assume parental-care responsibilities towards non-biological children as well.

For instance, in the present case, the appellant had transcended the traditional parent-child paradigm and assumed the role of a parent by caring for two children who were born to her husband from his previous marriage. Similarly, an individual may adopt a child and consequently assume the role of a parent. In both cases, the individual transcends the traditional parent-child paradigm and assumes parental responsibility for non-biological children. By reading the terms ‘guardian’ and ‘caretaker’ on one hand and ‘parent’ on the other as non-exclusive terms, the Court was alive to social realities and questioned the foundation of restricting the understanding of parental-care to only biological children. To the Court (and rightly so), parental-care manifests in numerous ways which extends beyond biological children. On the face of it, these observations are significant in recognising that individuals manifest their love towards both biological and non-biological children and step into the shoes of a parent.

What implications does this have for the conception of the ‘family’?

The traditional parent-child paradigm often informs and is informed by an understanding of the family as a fixed and unchanging unit comprising a married heterosexual man (husband/father) and a heterosexual woman (wife/mother), and children born to them. In this understanding, the family unit exists for the procreation and care of children and by extension, a family unit is definitionally a marital union between a man and a woman. In society and in law then, any other union is not considered a family, and individuals in such unions who assume child-care would be guardians at best, but not parents. This understanding of the family, coupled with the traditional parent-child paradigm, excludes from the popular understanding of a family and parental responsibility any non-conforming structures which may comprise loving partners (including queer relationships) and child-care responsibility (including non-biological children).  

However, as the Court broadened the traditional parent-child paradigm to include parent-care outside marriage (i.e., through remarriage, adoption, or fostering), this opened one door to interrogate and reject the assumption of the family as a fixed and unchanging unit comprising a union between a man and woman. Addressing this understanding of the family, the Court held:

“…This assumption ignores…the fact that many families do not conform to this expectation to begin with. Familial relationships may take the form of domestic, unmarried partnerships or queer relationships. A household may be a single parent household for any number of reasons, including the death of a spouse, separation, or divorce. Similarly, the guardians and caretakers (who traditionally occupy the roles of the “mother” and the “father”) of children may change with remarriage, adoption, or fostering. These manifestations of love and of families may not be typical but they are as real as their traditional counterparts. Such atypical manifestations of the family unit are equally deserving not only of protection under law but also of the benefits available under social welfare legislation.” [Emphasis added]

The above observations are significant. The Court recognised that unmarried partnerships or queer relationships, though outside popular imagination, are manifestations of a family and are equally deserving not only of protection under the law (say in the negative sense of non-discrimination), but also the benefit of the law (say in the extension of social benefits and entitlements). To the Court, the family is not a fixed and unchanging unit, but is fluid in being a manifestation of the many ways in which we express love.

This expanded understanding of the ‘family’ is significant for two reasons:         

First, in India, the beneficiaries of marriage legislation (and by extension divorce and maintenance legislation) are cis-heterosexual individuals, and the beneficiaries of adoption legislation are married couples or single individuals. Whilst some benefits have been extended to unmarried partnerships, this is largely confined to cis-heterosexual partnerships. Presently, as same sex marriage has no legal basis, queer relationships are denied legal recognition of marital ties as well as the right to adoption. For instance, under the Adoption Regulations, 2017, framed by Central Adoption Resource Authority, despite some ambiguity, only married couples having at least two years of stable marital relationship are eligible for adoption. Thus, while there is no direct prohibition to same-sex couples adopting children, the lack of a legal recognition of same-sex marriage means that adoptions by same-sex couples are indirectly barred. Keep in mind that this bars not only individuals who enter atypical familial relationships from adopting/or fostering but also children from receiving love and care from such individuals.

Recall here my observations above that the Court’s recognition of de facto inequality and unfavorable treatment has broad implications beyond this case. Pending and future cases which either challenge the exclusion of certain forms of companionship or parent-care from legal recognition can bring to fore and rely on how the lack of legal recognition furthers de facto inequality and unfavourable treatment. In backdrop of multiple petitions pending before the Delhi High Court seeking the recognition of same-sex marriage and the opposing stand of the Union Government that ‘spouse’ means only a husband and wife, the observations on de facto inequality invite an interpretation which extends the protection under and benefit of the law, rather than denies the same. Further, the marked observations on unmarried partnerships and queer relationships as a manifestation of family assume significance in setting the basis for a precedent-backed argument for legal recognition.

Second, these observations contribute to the rising stream in Indian jurisprudence which broadens the understanding of a “right to love” from being restricted to the right to form intimate relationships with a limited set of individuals, to mean the right to form intimate relationships with anyone. Recall here that in decriminalising consensual sexual relations between same-sex individuals and also recognising the right to love as extending beyond sexual acts, the Supreme Court in Navtej Johar had opined that the battle against:

“…the limits imposed by structures such as gender, caste, class, religion and community makes the right to love not just a separate battle for LGBT individuals, but a battle for all.”

The Court also held that:

“…decriminalisation is a first step. The constitutional principles on which it is based have application to a broader range of entitlements.” [Emphasis added]

This steady stream has seen other recent inflows from different quarters. In 2019, the Madras High Court upheld a marriage between a cisgendered man and a transgender woman, thus legitimising the validity of marriage across different genders. In Shafin Jahan v Ashokan, the Supreme Court opined that:

“The choice of a partner whether within or outside marriage lies within the exclusive domain of each individual. Intimacies of marriage lie within a core zone of privacy, which is inviolable. The absolute right of an individual to choose a life partner is not in the least affected by matters of faith.” [Emphasis added]

This stream hints that the time is ripe to interrogate the socio-legal barriers which reduce the right to love to demarcated and pre-defined patterns of companionship. In Deepika Singh, not only did the Court recognise manifestations of love which cut across the traditional parent-child paradigm and the traditional understanding of the ‘family’, it also concluded that equal benefit of the law (here maternity leave) may not be denied on such basis. This advocates for a step further than the mere removal of legal barriers and extends to the benefits provided under law.

It appears that the Court did not record a definitive finding on the meaning of ‘children’ in the Rules 43(1) and 43-C. It appears to have avoided the anomalous situation noted above by expanding the traditional parent-child paradigm to include child-care for non-biological children whilst also opining that the Institute’s decision to grant child-care leave for the appellant’s non-biological children may be a matter on which the Institute took a compassionate view at the relevant time. Informed however by its understanding that the 1972 Rules facilitate the continuation of women in the workplace and that an interpretation which extends the twin-benefits of child-care leave and maternity leave should be adopted, the Court held that appellant should not be denied maternity leave merely because she entered into a parent-child relationship or undertook child-care responsibilities “in ways that may not find a place in the popular imagination”.

Conclusion

At first glance, the extension of the maternity leave benefit to the appellant appears to be a work-around explicit statutory text making maternity leave conditional to having fewer than two surviving children. However, as I have argued above, it is in the underlying premises and the reasoning adopted by the Court in reaching its conclusion, that the judgment assumes significance. By recognising gender-ascribed parental stereotypes and extending a twin benefit under the 1972 Rules on its basis, the Court advanced gender justice and also invited a more inclusive reimagination of the family. In recognising the numerous ways in which individuals manifest love towards children (remarriage, adoption, and fostering), and the atypical ways in which individuals manifest love towards one another (unmarried partnerships or queer relationships), the Court recognised not just the myriad ways in which individuals assume parental responsibility, but also the myriad ways in which individuals forge familial ties. In doing so, Deepika Singh marks a significant contribution to broadening the ambit of a right to love from being restricted to the right to form intimate relationships with a limited set of individuals to mean the right to form intimate relationships with anyone.

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Disclosure: the author is a former judicial-law-clerk of the judgment-author.

Guest Post: A Critique of the Uttar Pradesh Population Control Bill

[This is a guest post by Samira Mathias and Shivani Vij.]

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In an effort to control population growth, the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh has introduced the draft Population (Control, Stabilization & Welfare) Bill 2021, in an undoubtedly rushed manner. The poorly drafted bill, marred by numerous provisions which are violative of fundamental rights, is eerily reminiscent of the 1976 sterilization programme initiated by the then Congress government. Though the Bill does not mandate sterilizations, it incentivizes them with monetary benefits, and further corrodes reproductive autonomy by disincentivizing departures from the prescribed two-child norm through automatic ineligibility for government benefits. Pertinently, the Bill targets and has a disproportionate impact on the poor (to be discussed below).

By hastily resorting to harsher and unscientific methods of population control, the state is pre-determining a course of action for all people, instead of treating them as rational agents capable of making their own choices. Such a policy also amounts to an abdication of the state’s positive duties in facilitating the full enjoyment of human rights.

(i)  Violation of Reproductive Choice & Consent

The Bill purportedly aims to address population explosion by incentivizing compliance with the two-child norm, and disincentivizing departures. These disincentives include inter alia, denial of access to government welfare schemes and subsidies (Sec 12), limiting ration cards to up to four (units) (Sec 8(j)), ineligibility to contest elections (Sec 9), and bars on applying for government jobs (Sec 10) or promotions in government services (Sec 11). It further provides rewards for undergoing voluntary sterilization after two children, in the form of monetary assistance towards construction of houses, rebate for utilities, additional maternity and paternity benefits etc. (Sec 6) Moreover, specifically for individuals living Below the Poverty Line (BPL), having one child and undergoing voluntary sterilization draws promises of monetary benefits (Sec 7). 

The introduction of this system of incentives and disincentives obfuscates true choice, by exploiting the economic vulnerabilities and career aspirations of people. A more holistic assessment of consent needs to be conducted in light of the theory of adaptive preferences (Martha Nussbaum). The theory posits that in environments of deprivation or limited choices, individuals unconsciously change their preferences to reflect what they think is feasible. Thus, these individuals are not rendering free consent, but are merely expressing internalized inequalities of access to resources. The Bill exploits these inequalities in socio-economic status, disproportionately targeting families engaged in governmental service or living below the poverty line (BPL). The series of disincentives prescribed for violations of the norm, especially the ineligibility to avail of rations, and the disqualifications from appointments and promotions in government posts may prompt women to undergo abortions in order to avoid what are in effect penalties for having a third child. Fears of inadvertently violating the norm could motivate both men and women to undergo sterilizing or contraceptive procedures that are incompatible with their health or beliefs. The Bill also promises Rs 80,000 to a BPL family if they have a single male child and then undergo sterilization, or 1,00,000 for doing the same after the birth of a girl. These figures are more than twice the annual income fixed for a BPL family in Uttar Pradesh to receive rations.   Thus, under the guise of ‘voluntary’ sterilizations, the Bill through its economic penalties, in effect leaves no choice to families struggling to make ends meet or dependent on government supports to survive. This is a dangerous and insidious erosion of bodily autonomy, raising a serious constitutional challenge to Article 21 rights.

Sexual and reproductive autonomy are recognized as quintessential facets of privacy and thus the fundamental right to life guaranteed under Article 21 of the Constitution (KS Puttaswamy v. Union of India). Not only does the Bill restrict reproductive autonomy, but it does so in the most invasive way possible. While the State is empowered to impose limitations on privacy, it must do so in compliance with the four-part test laid down by the Supreme Court. Thus, the policy should pursue a legitimate aim, there should be a rational nexus between the restriction and the aim, it should be the least restrictive measure and, should strike a balance between the competing interests.

No evidence has been provided by the State for the need for the more restrictive measures of sterilization and a two-child norm, or even proof of their effectiveness in comparison to less restrictive measures such as providing for family planning methods, in order to achieve the aim of ‘population control’. Indeed, the Bill concedes to the existence of such less restrictive measures in Chapter V through an affirmation of the state’s duties to educate, encourage and support families with family planning.   The state should be focusing entirely on its positive role in promoting reproductive choices in line with the autonomy of persons, instead of eroding this autonomy by dictating choices for people.

Moreover, the Bill creates a peculiar impact on personal laws which permit polygamous marriages. Section 19 of the Bill provides for each woman in a polygamous marriage to have two children but allows the man in the marriage to have only two children in total across all his spousal relationships (Sec 19). If the husband violates his two-child quota, he will be subjected to the disbenefits prescribed for violators, but his wives and children will not be so penalized if each of them are compliant with the norm (Sec 18). Yet this simultaneously exists as a potential source of marital discord and indirectly restricts the reproductive rights of women in polygamous marriages Furthermore, there is potential for great confusion in the application of these sections. For instance, section 5 of the Bill promises benefits to single children on the basis of the status of the couple’s compliance with the norms (Sec 5). Yet, the provisions on polygamous marriages ascribe different statuses to both persons in the couple.

(ii) Attack on the right to livelihood & other constitutional rights

Another disproportionate impact is found on the rights to health and food of the poor, who depend on daily rations to survive. By providing for only four units of ration cards to seek compliance with its two-child norm (Sec 8(j)), the State violates these socio-economic rights which the Apex Court of India in Bandhua Mukti Morcha v. Union of India and PUCL v. Union of India settled as falling under the Directive Principles of State Policy and Art 21 rights of individuals. The National Food Security Act 2013, the statute enabling the provision of ration cards to the poor, was legislated with this very focus on ensuring a life with dignity by securing the right to food and basic necessities. Denying access to rations thus breaches Constitutional guarantees. By causing a disparate impact on the well-being of an economically struggling section of the population, the Bill denies the equal protection guarantee under Article 14 of the Constitution.

Worryingly, children’s rights to equality under Article 14 are also implicated. Single children are promised free education, healthcare, and insurance, as well as scholarships and preferences in admissions to higher educational institutions and jobs (Sec 5). This irrationally penalizes children for having siblings and represents an abdication of the state’s responsibility to look after the rights and well-being of all children.

Section 8(k) of the Bill further confers on the government the following power to enforce “Other disincentives as may be prescribed”. This is overly broad language, vesting the government with sweeping powers to revoke or disqualify persons from welfare schemes if they breach the two-child norm. There are no safeguards for how these disincentives can be determined and prescribed, and no provisions mandating that there be a rational nexus between the disincentive and procreation beyond the norm.

Indeed, a rational nexus is already absent within the prescribed disincentives. Persons who have more than two children after the Act comes into effect are barred from contesting government jobs and local body elections (Secs 9 & 10). The number of children a person has is in no way a reflection of their capacity and competence to fulfil these roles. Penalizing them for having more than two children automatically denigrates their family choices.

The Bill further mandates that existing local body electives and government employees undertake to have no more children (Sec 9(2) & 10(2)). There is no reason why the continuance of a government job should be contingent on the size of a family. The proposed law is effectively economically coercing couples into sterilizations and abortions.

(iii) Attacks on the integrity and dignity of persons: a means to an end

Individual dignity has been recognized as attainable only where liberty is seen as inhering in each individual, and equality as subsisting between all persons (para 189, Dr. D.Y. Chandrachud J., Indian Young Lawyers Association and Ors. v State of Kerala and Ors.). The state’s attempts to instrumentalize women’s reproductive capacities by fixing a cap on the number of children they can have, simultaneously reduces their human right to a state tool, while degrading women and children to ‘means’ to policy ends.

Further, instead of seeking to change regressive attitudes towards children on the basis of gender, the Bill monetizes them – offering couples living below the poverty line one lakh rupees if they have single child who is a girl, and eighty thousand rupees if the child is a boy (Sec 7).

The Bill also encourages a commodifying attitude towards children, through its approach to disabilities. Disabled children are not counted for the purposes of determining whether couples have breached the two-child norm (Sec 15). The Bill also enjoins the government to provide for reversing sterilizations, in cases where a child subsequently becomes permanently disabled (Sec 23(m)). These provisions place the worth of all children on their abilities and treat disabled children like inferior persons that do not discharge a quota. These are deeply disturbing attitudes that should not receive such implicit encouragement from the state.

Finally, the Bill’s choice of language where a ‘two child norm’ is defined as the ‘ideal size’ of a family implicitly belittles the choices of couples departing from such a norm. The Bill in effect promotes a homogenization of family structures, attacking the right of couples to make deeply personal choices about their family life.

(iv) Social context

The Bill has a disproportionate impact on the constitutional rights and dignity of women by ignoring the social context of childbirth in India and the fact that women may not have any real choice in family planning. Notable academician Professor Sandra Fredman (in her book Comparative Human Rights) has argued that any legislation affecting the reproductive autonomy of women must take into account the social and cultural dimensions around it. This is so because decisions regarding child-bearing and child-rearing are influenced by numerous social factors besides the choice of an individual, such as childcare leave, adequacy of personal resources etc. One such factor in India, is the pressure exerted on a woman to continue to have children until a male child is born. The desire for a male child has been and continues to be one of the primary causes of female infanticide and/ or feticide in many states of the country. In addition to this, marital rape, which is still not a punishable offence in India, also severely constrains choices of women and is one of the reasons for unplanned pregnancies. Amidst these peculiar social and cultural factors that surround childbirth, imposing a two-child norm and prescribing disincentives would mean that a man who forces his wife to have more children penalizes himself as well as his wife under the new law. Thus, the Bill, once implemented, would restrict the fundamental rights of women because they had more than the prescribed number of children – a decision which was never entirely within their control. The restrictions on their bodily autonomy, reproductive choice and life under Article 21 would thus be curtailed disproportionately to the legitimate aim of population control. The proposed law must therefore be viewed through the special lens of impacts on the constitutional rights of women in particular.

To steer clear of constitutional issues, the State must endeavour to restrict the right to reproductive autonomy with the least restrictive means. This can be done by empowering citizens to make responsible choices about family sizes by providing resources for better education and access to family planning for all households. This would enable informed choices about childbirth and promote attitudes where children are valued in and of themselves. The State should also align the initiatives on prevention of female infanticide and feticide with its policy on population control and address childbirth in the context of marital rape, which is not an offence under the Indian Penal Code. It is only when the focus shifts from coerced sterilizations and compliance with a strict two-child norm to the exercise of informed choice, that the State will be able to implement a sustainable policy of matching population numbers with resources within the ambit of permissible restrictions to fundamental rights.

Conclusion

In sum, the UP Draft Population Bill is profoundly problematic. It is constitutionally objectionable in the ways that it erodes privacy and reproductive autonomy, treats socio-economic rights like policy tools, and confers overly broad powers on the government. It is also incompatible with other existing laws, and disproportionately impacts already vulnerable sections of society, while constructing a system of incentives and disincentives devoid of rational links to policy goals.

 The Bill is invasive and denigrating of the choices of people, treating people as means to ends, and perpetuating regressive and damaging attitudes to women, children and the disabled. The state should be focusing on its positive duties, looking on the citizenry as partners in constructing a sustainable future. Sustainability, after all, depends on long-sighted, rational and cohesive solutions. A fragmented approach such as this fails to zero in on long term solutions – educating the people, equipping them to make responsible choices, promoting better attitudes towards the family and the human person, empowering the vulnerable, and advocating for comprehensive solutions to resource utilization that involve scientifically backed, environmentally sustainable choices as to use of resources. It is the need of the hour to take this ‘leap of reason’ from (forced) compliance with a restrictive policy to informed choice that will not only respect constitutional and moral rights, but be more sustainable for the future.

Guest Post: Deconstructing the Paternalism in Section 66(1)(b) – Treasa Josfine v. State of Kerala

[This is a guest post by Unnati Ghia.]

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On 9^th April 2021, the Kerala High Court in Treasa Josfine v. State of Kerala directed the State authorities to consider an application submitted by the petitioner (a female trainee engineer) for the post of a Safety Officer in Kerala Minerals and Metals Ltd, on the grounds that she had been denied opportunity on the basis of her sex.

The petitioner’s grievance was that the notification published by the State inviting applications for the post applied only to male candidates, which was discriminatory under Articles 14, 15 and 16 of the Constitution. The counter affidavit filed by the State argued that the notification was in compliance with Section 66(1)(b) of the Factories Act, 1948. Section 66(1)(b) states that “no woman shall be required or allowed to work in any factory except between the hours of 6 A.M. and 7 P.M”. The submission of the State was that the post of a Safety Officer required the person so engaged to work round the clock, even during the night if required. Therefore, women could not be hired for this position under the provisions of the Factories Act. 

Reasoning of the Court

The Court in Treasa Josfine relied on two key decisions of the Kerala High Court. The first decision was that of Hindustan Latex Ltd. v Maniamma, which, in my opinion, does not appear to be a case under Section 66(1)(b). In Hindustan Latex, a Division Bench of the Kerala High Court observed that special provisions for women under Article 15(3) constituted an exception to sex discrimination under Article 14.

In Leela v State of Kerala, another Division Bench took the view that Section 66(1)(b) was a beneficial provision under Article 15(3). The Bench held that Section 66(1)(b) ensured that women were not taken away from their families, and they were protected from the “hazards” of working at night.

The Court also relied on Vasantha R v Union of India, where the Madras High Court held Section 66(1)(b) to be discriminatory under Articles 14, 15 and 16. Interestingly, the Madras High Court observed the validity of Section 66(1)(b) must be tested under Articles 14 and 15(1) because it was a restriction on women, as opposed to being a protective provision under Article 15(3).

In Treasa Josfine, Justice Anu Sivaraman agreed that Section 66(1)(b) is a beneficial provision intended to protect women. However, the Court observed that the Factories Act was enacted at a different time and in a different socio-economic context, particularly with respect to the roles played by women in society. Given this context, Section 66(1)(b)’s force could only be utilised to protect women, but would not constitute a reason to deny them engagement and opportunity if they are fully qualified [paragraph 15]. On this basis, the Court set aside the notification and held it to be violative of Articles 14, 15 and 16. 

The premise of the Court’s decision in Treasa Josfine is that the change in the roles played by women as they shift from domestic labour to wage labour warrants a different interpretation of Section 66(1)(b) [paragraph 14]. The Court relies on the Supreme Court’s decision last year in Ministry of Defence v. Babita Puniya, which held that justifications founded in stereotypical assumptions about women do not constitute a valid basis for denying opportunity. In light of this, the Kerala High Court held the denial of opportunity to the petitioner under Section 66(1)(b) is “completely untenable and unacceptable”. 

Within this reasoning, it is not clear which stereotype has caught the scrutiny of the court and rendered the notification unconstitutional. The Court refers to the fact that women capably work round the clock jobs in several industries today. From this, one may infer that the assumption that qualified women cannot work in a night shift or beyond 7 p.m. is the problematic stereotype in this case. If so, the application of Babita Puniya to this case is valid. 

However, this does little to detract from Section 66(1)(b) as it stands — that women cannot be employed for tasks beyond 7 p.m. The issues identified by Sivaraman J. in the notification therefore stand equally true for the main provision. Yet, the constitutionality of Section 66(1)(b) vis-à-vis the decision in Babita Puniya was not examined by the Court. 

There are two reasons as to why the Kerala High Court in Treasa Josfine may have refrained from entering into this discussion. First, the Judge sitting singly was bound by the previous Division Bench decisions in Hindustan Latex and Leela, and was obligated to follow the position taken in those decisions. Second, the petitioner appears to have challenged the constitutionality of Section 66(1)(b) only to the extent that it impacted her participation in the selection process. 

In this post, I now present reasons for why Section 66(1)(b) cannot withstand constitutional scrutiny under Article 15, in light of the same principles as identified by the High Court. 

Unconstitutionality of Section 66(1)(b)

The premise of Section 66(1)(b) is that women do not have the capability to protect themselves in a job that requires them to work at night. Thus, the denial of opportunity to women under Section 66(1)(b) is justified on the basis of a need for security. What are the issues with this approach?

First, it presumes women to be hapless victims requiring robust protection from the State. This is not to say that the workplace cannot be an unsafe environment for women, but this could be addressed without victimising them. Second, the approach under Section 66(1)(b) places the burden of this protection on women themselves by completely removing them from a “dangerous” work environment, as opposed to taking steps to remedy the threat therein. 

Another rationale behind Section 66(1)(b) was highlighted by the Kerala High Court in Leela — the provision ensures that women would be able to take care of their families and that their children would not suffer. A similar argument was made before the Madras High Court in Vasantha R v Union of India. The Madras High Court held that women holding household duties is not a universal phenomenon, and did not constitute a reason for denying a night shift. 

Interestingly, this rationale was also explicitly rejected by the Supreme Court in Babita Puniya. There, Chandrachud J. observed that the argument that women could not meet their requirements of service due to domestic obligations was itself predicated on the stereotype of such obligations resting solely on women. Women are often pushed into and limited to the domestic sphere by the patriarchy itself. This is why it is problematic to deny employment opportunities or benefits on the basis that women have to devote time to the home, because it further entrenches the public-private divide. 

On the basis of the anti-stereotyping principle in Babita Puniya then, Section 66(1)(b) cannot pass muster. An obvious response to this argument is that even if it employs a stereotype, it is a special provision permitted under Article 15(3). For instance, the Kerala High Court maintains that Section 66(1)(b) is a special and beneficial provision for women, intended to protect them from exploitation. Admittedly, provisions such as Section 66(1)(b) have posed a legal conundrum, because courts generally conflate provisions protecting or prima facie in favour of women as necessarily being materially beneficial to them. 

The perils of this form of “protective discrimination” in favour of women have already been acknowledged by the Supreme Court in Anuj Garg v. Hotel Association. In Anuj Garg, a law prohibiting women from being employed in establishments serving intoxicants was struck down because it ended up “victimizing its subject in the name of protection”. Such laws presume that women inherently lack agency, and thus are examples of State sponsored paternalism. 

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg had pointed out a similar phenomenon in the United States in the aftermath of Muller v Oregon. In Muller, the US Supreme Court upheld a statute that prohibited women from working for more than 10 hours a day, due to the “unique vulnerability” of women. The decision in Muller resulted in a series of “protective” labor laws for women, which prohibited night shifts, limited the loads they could carry and excluded them from certain jobs completely. According to Ginsburg J., these laws prevented women from competing with men, resulting in lower paying jobs, and also reinforced traditional gender roles — all in the name of “protection”. Subsequently, in the first case Ginsburg J. argued before the US Supreme Court, Justice Brennan observed that protective labor laws placing women on a pedestal were, on closer inspection, often a cage.

Similar forms of gender discrimination are justified by Indian courts under Article 15(3). In response, Gautam Bhatia for instance has argued that “special provisions” must bear some relation to the historical and structural subordination of women. This would ensure that the State must identify and attempt to remedy specific forms of disadvantage, as opposed to provisions that pay lip service to equality and limit the agency of women. 

Conclusion

Notably, states such as Maharashtra and Kerala have altered the position under Section 66(1)(b) by permitting the employment of women post 7 p.m. provided that all safety and security safeguards are met by the employer. This leaves the employment of women entirely to the option of the employer, but does little to incentivise them, especially given the benefit of a statutory justification to deny employment in the first place. In light of these reasons, Section 66(1)(b) must not be understood as a “special or beneficial” provision for women. Instead, laws that mandate safeguards and security for women at the workplace without removing them from the workplace altogether would be better suited to the objective of a “beneficial provision” for women. 

The Sabarimala Judgment – III: Justice Chandrachud and Radical Equality

Justice Indu Malhotra’s dissenting opinion sets up a crucial constitutional question: how do you reconcile the Constitution’s commitment to pluralism – which entails respect for group autonomy – with the claims of equality and non-discrimination, addressed from within those groups? It is this question that is at the heart of Justice Chandrachud’s concurring opinion.

Chandrachud J. sets up the issue in the introductory part of his judgment, where he observes that the Indian Constitution is transformative in two distinct ways: first, in setting up the governing institutions of an independent republic, transitioning from colonial rule; but also, “placing those who were denuded of their human rights before the advent of the Constitution – whether in the veneer of caste, patriarchy or otherwise – … in control of their own destinies by the assurance of the equal protection of law” (paragraph 2). The reference to caste and patriarchy is important, because it acknowledges that discrimination is not limited to State action, or even to hostile individual action, but that it also flows from institutional design: caste and patriarchy are neither “State” nor an agglomeration of individual acts where you can attribute discriminatory agency to identifiable individuals. They are social institutions.

And because they are social institutions, their impact upon the lives of the people that they touch is not merely a private matter. In paragraph 5, therefore, Chandrachud J. observes:

Essentially, the significance of this case lies in the issues which it poses to the adjudicatory role of this Court in defining the boundaries of religion in a dialogue about our public spaces. (paragraph 5)

The use of the word “public spaces” is crucial, and especially when you juxtapose it with Malhotra J.’s dissenting opinion, which we discussed in the previous post. Recall that for Malhotra J., there was a distinction between a “social evil” like Sati – where a Court could potentially intervene – and a case like Sabarimala, where the challenge was based on irrationality or immorality. It is this public/private binary – social evil (public) and bare immorality (private) – that Chandrachud J. rejects, by framing the issue as about access to public spaces.

It is within this framework that Chandrachud J. begins his substantive analysis.

Essential Religious Practices 

After surveying the body of precedent concerning the ERP test – and also noting the shift from “essentially religious” to “essential religious”, that we have discussed on this blog – Chandrachud J.’s judgment has a section titled “The engagement of essential religious practices with constitutional values.” At the threshold, Chandrachud J. finds that the Respondents have failed to establish that the exclusion of women from Sabarimala is either an obligatory part of religion, or has been consistently practiced over the years. The evidence, at best, demonstrates the celibate nature of Lord Ayappa, but this in itself does not establish that exclusion of women is part of ERP (paragraph 51).

However, apart from the traditional and straightforward analysis of whether or not a religious claim amounts to an essential religious practice, Chandrachud J. also advances an important alternative argument: that “the test of essentiality is infused with … necessary limitations” (paragraph 50), limitations that are grounded in constitutional morality, and the constitutional values of dignity and freedom. So, at paragraph 55, Chandrachud J. notes:

The Respondents submitted that the deity at Sabarimala is in the form of a Naishtika Brahmacharya: Lord Ayyappa is celibate. It was submitted that since celibacy is the foremost requirement for all the followers, women between the ages of ten and fifty must not be allowed in Sabarimala. There is an assumption here, which cannot stand constitutional scrutiny. The assumption in such a claim is that a deviation from the celibacy and austerity observed by the followers would be caused by the presence of women. Such a claim cannot be sustained as a constitutionally sustainable argument. Its effect is to impose the burden of a man’s celibacy on a woman and construct her as a cause for deviation from celibacy. This is then employed to deny access to spaces to which women are equally entitled. To suggest that women cannot keep the Vratham is to stigmatize them and stereotype them as being weak and lesser human beings. A constitutional court such as this one, must refuse to recognize such claims. (paragraph 55)

As a piece of discrimination law reasoning this is, of course, impeccable. But there is something more at work here, which I want to highlight. Chandrachud J.’s observation that the effect of the celibacy argument “is to impose the burden of a man’s celibacy on a woman” is the crucial link between the denial of the right to worship (which Malhotra J., in her dissent, regards as a private, internal matter to religion) and the public aspect of this case. What Chandrachud J. recognises is that the justification offered to exclude women is an integral part of a far broader discourse that is founded on the exclusion and subordination of women in social and community life. This becomes clear two paragraphs down, where he discusses the stigma around menstruation (another justification that was advanced by the Respondents), and observes:

The stigma around menstruation has been built up around traditional beliefs in the impurity of menstruating women. They have no place in a constitutional order. These beliefs have been used to shackle women, to deny them equal entitlements and subject them to the dictates of a patriarchal order. (paragraph 57)

The phrase “patriarchal order” is an important one. It indicates that the exclusion of women from Sabarimala is not simply – as Malhotra J. would have it – a unique and particular feature of that specific religious community, and something that can be isolated from the broader world around it. Rather, the exclusion of women from Sabarimala on the grounds of celibacy and menstruation is one among countless ways in which patriarchy – as a social institution – works to keep women in a position of subordination.

Justice Malhotra and Justice Chandrachud, therefore, come at the issue from opposite angles. What Malhotra J. sees as a claim requiring that religion be subordinated to the diktats of morality, Chandrachud J. understands as challenge to one manifestation of patriarchal subordination itself. According to Chandrachud J., you cannot divide social life into different silos, and say that discrimination and subordination are fine as long as they stay within a defined silo. At least as far as religion and society are concerned, in the context of India, the silos are forever merged. As Alladi Krishnaswamy Iyer said in the Constitutional Drafting Committee, “there is no religious question that is not also a social question.”

It perhaps needs to be noted that history is on Justice Chandrachud’s side. In India, temple-entry movements have a long history, and have always been framed in the language of civil rights, and access to public spaces. This was especially true of the great caste-based temple-entry movements of the 1920s and 30s (which are discussed later in the judgment). This substantiates the argument that in India, the “thick” character of religious life implies that you cannot simply wall it off from the rest of social life. Consequently, discrimination within religion is hardly an isolated event, like – for example – the non-appointment of a woman to a clerical post in an American Church, which was upheld by that Supreme Court. Rather, at the heart of Chandrachud J.’s judgment is the understanding that discrimination within religion both reinforces and is reinforced by, discrimination in broader social life.

Untouchability 

This understanding is reinforced in what is undoubtedly the boldest and most radical part of Chandrachud J.’s judgment. An argument was made by the intervenors that the exclusion of women from Sabarimala amounts to “untouchability” within the meaning of Article 17. The Chief Justice and Nariman J. do not address this argument, and Malhotra J. rejects it on the ground that “untouchability” under the Indian Constitution is limited to caste-based untouchability.

Chandrachud J. disagrees. After a detailed survey of the Constituent Assembly Debates (which we have discussed previously on this blog, here), he correctly observes that there was no consensus in the Constituent Assembly over the precise scope and ambit of the phrase. But when you place the moment of constitutional framing within broader history, you have an answer:

The answers lie in the struggle for social emancipation and justice which was the defining symbol of the age, together with the movement for attaining political freedom but in a radical transformation of society as well. (paragraph 73)

And:

Reading Dr Ambedkar compels us to look at the other side of the independence movement. Besides the struggle for independence from the British rule, there was another struggle going on since centuries and which still continues. That struggle has been for social emancipation. It has been the struggle for the replacement of an unequal social order. It has been a fight for undoing historical injustices and for righting fundamental wrongs with fundamental rights. The Constitution of India is the end product of both these struggles. It is the foundational document, which in text and spirit, aims at social transformation namely, the creation and preservation of an equal social order. The Constitution represents the aspirations of those, who were denied the basic ingredients of a dignified existence. (paragraph 74)

This reminiscent of Granville Austin’s famous line, that the fundamental rights chapter was framed amidst a history of fundamental wrongs. In these paragraphs, Justice Chandrachud argues that the meaning of fundamental rights ought be determined by asking the following question: what was the legacy of injustice that the Constitution sought to acknowledge, and then transform? That legacy was defined by social hierarchies and social subordination. At its most virulent form, this took the shape of caste untouchability. However, caste was not the only axis for exclusion from, and subordination within, the social order. There were others, prime among which was, of course, sex. Consequently, as Justice Chandrachud observes:

The incorporation of Article 17 into the Constitution is symbolic of valuing the centuries’ old struggle of social reformers and revolutionaries. It is a move by the Constitution makers to find catharsis in the face of historic horrors. It is an attempt to make reparations to those, whose identity was subjugated by society. (paragraph 75)

It is, of course, important not to overstate the case. Not every form of discrimination or prejudice can fall within Article 17. The framers did after all use the specific word “untouchability”, limiting the sweep of the Article only to the most horrific kind of discrimination. Chandrachud J. is aware of this, because he then goes on to justify why exclusion based on menstruation falls within Article 17:

The caste system represents a hierarchical order of purity and pollution enforced by social compulsion. Purity and pollution constitute the core of caste. (paragraph 76)

And of course, it is purity and pollution that are at the heart of excluding menstruating women – not just from temples but, as regularly happens in our country – from all forms of human contact during the menstrual period. Chandrachud J.’s important insight, therefore, is this: the social exclusion of a set of people (who are in any event historically subjugated), grounded in ideas about purity and pollution, amounts to a manifestation of the kind of “untouchability” that the Constitution seeks to prescribe. This does not mean, of course, that it is not caste-based untouchability that is at the heart of Article 17; nor does it seek to dilute the severity of that institution, or the Constitution’s commitment to wipe it out. What it does acknowledge, however, is that the same logic that is at the base of caste-based untouchability, also takes other forms and other manifestations. These manifestations may not be at the core of Article 17, but they do deserve its protection:

Article 17 is a powerful guarantee against exclusion. As an expression of the anti-exclusion principle, it cannot be read to exclude women against whom social exclusion of the worst kind has been practiced and legitimized on notions of purity and pollution. (paragraph 75)

And therefore:

The caste system has been powered by specific forms of subjugation of women. The notion of “purity and pollution” stigmatizes the menstruation of women in Indian society. In the ancient religious texts and customs, menstruating women have been considered as polluting the surroundings. Irrespective of the status of a woman, menstruation has been equated with impurity, and the idea of impurity is then used to justify their exclusion from key social activities. (paragraph 81) (internal footnotes omitted)

In an important way, this links back to the previous argument about essential religious practices. It is obviously absurd to compare the exclusion of women (and mostly upper-caste women at that) from a temple with “untouchability” as we understand it. But that is something that Chandrachud J. very consciously does not do. What he does do is to link the underlying basis of the exclusion in Sabarimala with something that goes far beyond, and permeates very layer of society: this is why he specifies that the idea of impurity justifies exclusion from “key social activities.” In other words, it is not about exclusion from worship, but – yet again – how that exclusion both reinforces and is reinforced by an existing and overarching set of discriminatory institutions and systems.

Exist, Pursued by a Bear: Narasu Appa Mali 

There is one more important thing that Chandrachud J. does in his concurrence. Noting that the exclusion of women has also been justified on the basis of “custom”, he examines – and overrules – the Narasu Appa Mali judgment on the specific point that customs are not subject to fundamental rights.

In terms of outcomes, this is not new: in Madhu Kishwar v State of Bihar, the Supreme Court has already held that customs are subject to fundamental rights. However, that case did not examine Narasu: here, Chandrachud J. does, and specifically finds that its reasoning is flawed.

This is very important, because Narasu also held that “personal law” – that is, uncodified religious law – was outside the scope of fundamental rights review. The reasoning for that was the same, and so, also stands discredited. As Chandrachud J. points out, the reasoning given by the Bombay High Court in Narasu – that, for example, the existence of Article 17 shows that the framers intended to specifically include customs that they wished to proscribe – does not hold water. More importantly, however, is the affirmative case that Chandrachud J. advances:

Custom, usages and personal law have a significant impact on the civil status of individuals. Those activities that are inherently connected with the civil status of individuals cannot be granted constitutional immunity merely because they may have some associational features which have a religious nature. To immunize them from constitutional scrutiny, is to deny the primacy of the Constitution. (paragraph 99)

In other words, there cannot be islands of norms and prescriptions that are granted constitutional immunity.  As with the ERP and the untouchability argument, the rationale is the same: the individual is the basic unit of the Constitution, and norms, practices, prescriptions, rules, commands and whatever else that have the potential to impair individual dignity or block access to basic goods in society, must pass constitutional scrutiny (paragraph 100).

And indeed, Chandrachud J. goes on step further with this thought, noting that the ERP test itself ought – in future – give way to a test that asks not whether a practice is “essential” (which is, after all, a question that the believers, and not the Court, should answer), but asks whether the impugned practice is socially exclusionary, and denies individuals access to the basic goods required for living a dignified life (Disclaimer: this part of the judgment cites an article of mine, and I will readily admit to being biased in favour of the anti-exclusion argument.)

Conclusion

In the previous post, we discussed Malhotra J.’s dissent. We saw how Malhotra J. raises an important question: how do we reconcile the Constitution’s commitment to pluralism with judicial intervention into internal religious affairs? We have now seen how Chandrachud J. has answered it: the commitment to pluralism and respect for group autonomy must be understood within a Constitutional framework that places individual freedom and dignity at its heart. The Constitution recognises group autonomy because, often, group life promotes individual freedom and dignity. Community, after all, is crucial to self-development. But groups can also restrict freedom and dignity, and it is in those circumstances that a Court must step in and balance the competing claims.

In Sabarimala, Chandrachud J. attempts to demonstrate how, in fact, the proscription in question does restrict freedom and dignity, and therefore, should be judicially invalidated. He does so by telescoping outwards from the singular event itself (exclusion from worship in one temple), and showing how this single event of exclusion is nested in an entire social and institutional order that is characterised by hierarchy, subordination, and exclusion. We may call this patriarchy, or we may call this something else, but the argument is clear: it’s not about worship at Sabarimala (which is what Malhotra J. limits it to, and therefore classifies it as simply about seeking morality or rationality), but about what exclusion from worship means in a broader context. To take an example: think of a Whites-Only signboard outside a restaurant in Apartheid South Africa. The point is not that one private restaurant owner has decided to exclude blacks from his private property. The point, rather, is how that signboard is an integral element of the practice and institution of apartheid. The crucial insight that Chandrachud J. brings in his judgment is that recognition of the institutional character of discrimination and inequality, and how that must be constitutionally combatted. As he notes, towards the end:

In the dialogue between constitutional freedoms, rights are not isolated silos. In infusing each other with substantive content, they provide a cohesion and unity which militates against practices that depart from the values that underlie the Constitution – justice, liberty, equality and fraternity. Substantive notions of equality require the recognition of and remedies for historical discrimination which has pervaded certain identities. Such a notion focuses on not only distributive questions, but on the structures of oppression and domination which exclude these identities from participation in an equal life. An indispensable facet of an equal life, is the equal participation of women in all spheres of social activity. (paragraph 117)

It is that which makes it a transformative judgment.

The Sabarimala Judgment – II: Justice Malhotra, Group Autonomy, and Cultural Dissent

I had originally intended this series to follow a more familiar chronology – moving through the concurring opinions, and ending with Justice Indu Malhotra’s dissent. However, on a closer reading of the judgment, it strikes me that Malhotra J.’s dissent raises some crucial points, which remain unanswered in the opinions of the Chief Justice and Nariman J. – but are addressed in Chandrachud J.’s concurrence. For this reason, I will use this post to discuss the dissenting opinion, and flag its foundational arguments, and then – in the next post – examine Chandrachud J.’s concurrence.

Maintainability

How unusual – but how refreshing – to see a judge taking maintainability seriously, and that too in a PIL! Malhotra J. starts her analysis with the following observation:

The right to move the Supreme Court under Article 32 for violation of Fundamental Rights, must be based on a pleading that the Petitioners’ personal rights to worship in this Temple have been violated. The Petitioners do not claim to be devotees of the Sabarimala Temple where Lord Ayyappa is believed to have manifested himself as a ‘Naishtik Brahmachari’. To determine the validity of long-standing religious customs and usages of a sect, at the instance of an association/Intervenors who are “involved in social developmental activities especially activities related to upliftment of women and helping them become aware of their rights”, would require this Court to decide religious questions at the behest of persons who do not subscribe to this faith. (paragraph 7.2).

Malhotra J. goes on to warn that the issue of maintainability is not a “mere technicality” in this case, but something more important. It would open the floodgates for “interlopers” to question all kinds of religious beliefs and practices, something that would cause even graver peril for “religious minorities.” (paragraph 7.3) Malhotra J. then sums up:

The right to equality under Article 14 in matters of religion and religious beliefs has to be viewed differently. It has to be adjudged amongst the worshippers of a particular religion or shrine, who are aggrieved by certain practises which are found to be oppressive or pernicious. (paragraph 7.4).

While Malhotra J.’s concern about the floodgates is well-taken, I am not sure that that, by itself, can be a ground for rejecting the PIL on the basis of maintainability. However, I believe that in observing that “[The Article 14 claim] has to be adjudged amongst the worshippers of a particular religion or shrine“, Malhotra J. articulates a crucial point, which demonstrates why, even in the PIL era, the issue of maintainability is particularly crucial to this case.

To understand why, let us examine the nature of the claim. The claim is for women between the ages of ten and fifty to be allowed to enter Sabarimala. This claim is set up against the argument of the Sabarimala priest (and certain other devotees), that the entry of women is barred by religious custom. Sabarimala, therefore, is a classic example of what Madhavi Sundar calls “cultural dissent“: norms and values defined and imposed by cultural gatekeepers and dominant groups, have been challenged.

That cultural dissent is at the heart of Sabarimala is recognised by both the Chief Justice and Nariman J., in their opinions. The Chief Justice notes that Article 25(1) protects both inter-group and intra-group rights. In a very interesting observation, Nariman J. suggests that when there is internal dissent about a practice, its “essential” character to the religion (and therefore, its claim to protection under Article 25(1)) will be thrown in doubt. However, what is crucial to note is this: by its very nature, a claim to cultural dissent has to be articulated by the dissenters themselves. Because what is under challenge – as Justice Malhotra recognises – is the question of whether certain practices – internal to the religion – are “oppressive” or not. And given that religions are self-contained and self-referential systems of belief and practice, the question of what constitutes “oppression” will, in most cases, be an internal question.

Let me be clear: this is not an argument against the Courts interfering in religious practices on the touchstone of equality and non-discrimination. Quite the opposite: when marginalised groups within cultures or religions challenge oppressive norms or practices, more often than not, they will need an external authority (such as Courts, acting under the Constitution) to support them in that struggle. But what I am saying is that the claim must originate from the marginalised groups themselves. An external authority cannot assume the mantle of speaking on their behalf.

There is, of course, a significant exception to this: when the marginalised group is (literally) silenced from articulating its claims. But I feel considerable hesitation in applying that standard to Sabarimala. Are we going to say that every woman devotee at Sabarimala is either too brainwashed or too terrorised to approach the Court for her rights? That would seem to me to be not only factually incorrect, but highly demeaning as well – a saviour complex redolent of Lila Abu-Lughod’s excoriation of liberal interventionism in her tellingly-titled article, “Do Muslim Women Really Need Saving?“

I recognise that this is an unpopular position, I believe that the Majority should have voted with Malhotra J. to dismiss the PIL on grounds of maintainability, while granting liberty to any affected party to approach the Court through a writ petition.

Group Autonomy

Running through Malhotra J.’s judgment is a vision of group autonomy. She believes that the Constitution’s religious freedom clauses act to insulate religious groups from having their beliefs and practices subjected to constitutional scrutiny. As she observes:

It would compel the Court to undertake judicial review under Article 14 to delineate the rationality of the religious beliefs or practises, which would be outside the ken of the Courts. It is not for the courts to determine which of these practises of a faith are to be struck down, except if they are pernicious, oppressive, or a social evil, like Sati. (paragraph 8.2)

The devil, of course, is in the detail. Malhotra J. concedes that practices that are “pernicious, oppressive, or a social evil” can be reviewed by Courts. But that, indeed, was the Petitioners’ argument in Sabarimala: excluding women from the temple was a pernicious and oppressive practice, even though it did not (of course) reach the level of Sati. How does Malhotra J. respond to this? There is no immediate answer, but we do get something of an answer late in the judgment. In paragraph 10.13, Malhotra J. observes:

Judicial review of religious practises ought not to be undertaken, as the Court cannot impose its morality or rationality with respect to the form of worship of a deity. Doing so would negate the freedom to practise one’s religion according to one’s faith and beliefs. It would amount to rationalising religion, faith and beliefs, which is outside the ken of Courts. (paragraph 10.13)

The argument, therefore, appears to be this: a practice like Sati is not simply “religious”. In actually killing women, its impacts go far beyond, and into the “real world.” The question of the right to worship at Sabarimala, however, remains a question internal to the religion: its a moral issue, a question of whether within the community of Sabarimala devotees, men and women are treated equally. For Justice Malhotra, that is not something that Courts can go into. As she observes towards the end of the judgment:

Worship has two elements – the worshipper, and the worshipped. The right to worship under Article 25 cannot be claimed in the absence of the deity in the particular form in which he has manifested himself. (paragraph 13.9)

 

For Malhotra J., therefore, unlike Sati, Sabarimala is a pure question of faith, and therefore immune from judicial review and the application of constitutional norms of equality and non-discrimination.

Why is this so? Malhotra J. buttresses this point by two further arguments, both of which are grounded in principles of group autonomy. The first is that of “essential religious practices” [ERPs]. Malhotra J. takes strong issue with the Majority for holding that the exclusion of women is not an essential religious practice (and therefore not protected by Article 25(1)), and argues, instead, that this determination should be left solely to the religious community itself (paragraph 10.10). In the present case, Malhotra J. relies upon the statements of the Sabarimala Thanthri and the Travancore Devaswom Board to the effect that “the limited restriction on access of women during the notified age of 10 to 50 years, is a religious practise which is central and integral to the tenets of this shrine, since the deity has manifested himself in the form of a ‘Naishtik Brahmachari’.” (paragraph 13.7)

This is an important point, because it goes entirely against the grain of six decades of ERP jurisprudence, where the Court – relying upon textual and scriptural materials – makes this determination. It is also, in my opinion, correct (as I have pointed out on this blog before): the Courts – as a number of scholars have argued for a while now – is entirely unequipped to make determinations about what practice is or is not “essential” to religion: it lacks both the competence and the legitimacy to do so.

There is, of course, a latent peril in advocating this view: and that is that in any community (religious or otherwise) norms and practices are inevitably imposed top-down by dominant groups, who are invariably male. But this is exactly where Malhotra J.’s initial point about maintainability comes in: it is one thing when within a group, norms and practices are challenged, and the marginalised sub-groups invoke the Court’s aid. But it is another thing when an external party comes to Court, and is opposed by the religious community’s gatekeepers: in that situation, Malhotra J.’s views about the nature and scope of the ERP test make eminent sense.

The second argument advanced by Malhotra J. pertains to constitutional pluralism. It was argued by the Petitioners that discrimination against women runs counter to constitutional morality. Malhotra J. turns this argument on its head, noting that constitutional morality in India’s plural society requires respect and tolerance for different faiths and beliefs, which have their own sets of practices that might nevertheless appear immoral or irrational to outsiders (paragraphs 11.2, 11.4, 11.6 & 11.8).

The full argument, therefore, is this: our Constitution respects religious pluralism. Pluralism entails granting to the diverse religious groups and communities within our nation, the freedom of internal self-government, and the freedom to decide what norms and practices are integral to their existence and functioning. Where these norms or practices result in actual social harm, the Court can step in; however, the Court cannot intervene when the grounds of challenge are limited to bare immorality, irrationality, or unequal treatment. And the Court can especially not do so when the challenge is brought by external parties.

Religious Denomination

Malhotra J. then addresses the statutory point: that is, the question of whether, in view of Section 3 of the 1965 Act (guaranteeing non-discriminatory access to “all” classes), whether Rule 3(b) (that allows for excluding women if custom demands it) is ultra vires. Malhotra J. holds that it is not, on the ground that the worshippers of Lord Ayappa at Sabarimala constitute a separate “religious denomination”, and is therefore exempted from the operation of Section 3 as per the Act itself (through a specific proviso).

Unfortunately – and in stark contrast with the rest of Malhotra J.’s judgment – this part is disappointingly sketchy. On the basis of a Government notification, Malhotra J. asserts that the worshippers of Lord Ayappa at Sabarimala “follow a common faith, and have common beliefs and practises.” (paragraph 12.3) She then goes on to note, on the basis of precedent, that:

If there are clear attributes that there exists a sect, which is identifiable as being distinct by its beliefs and practises, and having a collection of followers who follow the same faith, it would be identified as a ‘religious denomination’. (paragraph 12.8)

Malhotra J. recognises, however, that this is a considerably more relaxed threshold than that articulated by previous judgments, and followed by the Majority. She tries to get around this by once again implicitly invoking the group autonomy principle, and arguing that a “liberal” interpretation should be accorded to the question of what constitutes a “religious denomination.” But this will not do: unlike the question of essential religious practices, which are required for threshold protection under the Constitution’s religious freedom clause, religious denominations are entitled to special and differentiated rights under Article 26: maintenance of institutions, acquisition and administration of property, and (textually) a greater autonomy in determining internal religious matters. For this reason, the critique of the essential religious practices standards cannot be uncritically applies to the definition of religious denominations: there are good reasons for a higher threshold, adjudicated by Courts. To depart from that principle would require a detailed and persuasive argument, which Malhotra J. does not offer. And indeed, she appears to recognise this herself, when she notes at paragraph 12.10:

The proper forum to ascertain whether a certain sect constitutes a religious denomination or not, would be more appropriately determined by a civil court, where both parties are given the opportunity of leading evidence to establish their case.

Miscellaneous

Malhotra J. makes two further findings. She rejects the argument – advanced by Amicus Curae – that Article 15(2) includes temples under the definition of “places of public resort.” And she also rejects the argument – advanced by the Interveners – that exclusion of women on grounds of menstruation amounts to “untouchability” under Article 17 of the Constitution. Both these arguments are based on the structure and the drafting history of the Constitution. With respect to Article 15(2), I believe the Malhotra J. is unarguably correct. Article 17 will be addressed in the next post.

Conclusion

Justice Malhotra’s dissent is powerful and persuasive on many counts. On maintainability, on essential religious practices, and on constitutional pluralism, I believe that her arguments are correct, and truer to the constitutional text and history than prevailing Indian religious freedom jurisprudence, which the opinions of CJI Misra and Nariman J. closely hew to.

Where then lies the disagreement? At one level, it is statutory: if Malhotra J.’s religious denomination argument is incorrect, then her case falls purely on statutory grounds, and the Majority is vindicated. I have a deeper disagreement, however, with the foundational assumption of Malhotra J.’s dissent, which comes through in her paragraph differentiating Sabarimala and Sati: the assumption is that in India, you can cleanly separate the religious and the social. This is a reality that has been recognised throughout history: in the Drafting Committee, Alladi Krishnawamy Iyer wryly remarked that “there is no religious matter that is not also a social matter.” In the Constituent Assembly, Ambedkar memorably spoke about how vast religious conceptions are in India, covering everything from birth to death. In his dissenting opinion in Saifuddin, Chief Justice Sinha discussed how religious excommunication had a debilitating impact upon civil rights. And so on. The point is this: it is a mistake to uncritically assume that Sabarimala is simply a right-to-worship case, a straightforward internal dispute within a religious community. It is a mistake, because it ignores how deeply intertwined religious, social, and public life is in India, and how discrimination within one sphere inevitably spills over into other spheres. Therefore, Malhotra J. is entirely correct when she says that practices that are “pernicious, oppressive, or a social evil” can be subjected to judicial review. But the question of what constitutes “oppressiveness” is more nuanced and complex than she allows.

It is that nuance which forms the heart of Chandrachud J.’s concurrence, which is what we shall turn to in then ext post.

Notes from a Foreign Field: The South African Constitutional Court’s Decision on Gender Equality and Customary Marriages

(This guest post, on a recent judgment of the Constitutional Court of South Africa, is authored by Tim Fish Hodgson. Tim works on socio-economic rights, is based in Johannesburg and is a former law clerk of Justice Zakeria Yacoob. He is cricket nerd, a law jock and identifies as a heretic. He tweets from @TimFish42. He writes in his personal capacity.)

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On 30 November 2017, the Constitutional Court of South Africa handed down an important judgment in Ramuhovhi, which consolidates and expands its body jurisprudence on gender equality in customary marriages and in terms of the recognition of customary marriages.

Ms Munyadziwa Netshituka, a black woman from South Africa’s poor, largely rural, Limpopo province was married to Mr Musenwa Joseph Netshituka. Ms Netshituka was not, however, the only Ms Netshituka to whom Musenwa was married. During his lifetime he concluded both civil and customary marriages with Munyadizwa and customary marriages with three other women: Tshinakaho, Masindi and Diana. Polygamous marriages are permitted in terms of Venda custom.

Musenwa died in 2008 and a dispute arose about how his property should be divided. In Venda customary law, ownership and control of marital property is reserved solely for husbands. However, Mr Netshituka’s will clearly indicated that he believed that he and Munyadizwa were married in community of property and had a “joint estate”. Indeed Munyadizwa was the registered as half-owner of valuable immovable property upon which the Why Not Shopping Centre is located.

When litigation was initiated, Munyadizwa was Mr Netshituka’s only remaining spouse at customary law (Tshinakaho, Masindi and Diana were all deceased). Upon Mr Netshituka’s death two of his sons (those of Tshinakaho and Masindi respectively) sought to challenge Munyadizwa’s right to ownership of this property in particular, and (as indicated above) they based their claim on Vedna customary law. And, if they had succeeded in proving the application of Venda customary law, this argument would have prevailed, potentially leaving Munyadizwa in a treacherous financial position.

Customary law in South Africa’s constitutional democracy

However, in South Africa’s constitutional dispensation customary law cannot be read in isolation. Venda customary marriages, like all other customary marriages, are also protected in terms of the Recognition of Customary Marriages Act (The Act). This includes both monogamous and polygamous relationships.

The Act was passed by Parliament in 1998 to give effect to the South African Constitution, which specifically contemplates protection of “marriages concluded under any tradition, or a system of religious, personal or family law”. This Act is therefore of considerable importance. According to the Constitutional Court, it:

“represents a belated but welcome and ambitious legislative effort to remedy the historical humiliation and exclusion meted out to spouses in marriages which were entered into in accordance with the law and culture of the indigenous African people of this country.”

Moreover, as with all other laws, traditions and practices in South Africa, the provisions of the Act must comply with the Bill of Right’s powerful protection of equality. The “achievement of equality” is a founding value of the Constitution, which also entrenches the right to “equal protection and benefit” of the law. It explicitly outlaws discrimination based on both “gender” and “sex”. Furthermore, when customary law is inconsistent with the Constitution, courts are required to “develop” it to ensure that it “promote[s] the spirit, purport and objects of the Bill of Rights”.

Women in Munyadziwa’s position have frequently needed to call on these constitutional provisions to ensure their own protection in terms of customary law. Without them, the Act itself is insufficient. It treats different marriages differently with serious consequences for women. Section 7(1) of the Act regulates such consequences of marriages concluded before the Act’s commencement (“old marriages”) while section 7(2) of Act governs those concluded after the Act’s commencement (“new marriages”).

 The basic and disastrous difference is that while “new marriages” are treated as marriages in community of property (where all property is shared equally between the spouses), the proprietary consequences of “old marriages” remain regulated by customary law. To return to the facts of this case, Mr Netshituka’s sons were therefore relying on the fact that the present case featured an “old marriage”, and therefore, Venda customary law (and not the “community of property” regime under Section 7(1)) would apply.

 The Constitutional Court and customary marriages

 The Constitution Court can (and should) be criticised from a feminist perspective. It has failed to identify, disregarded or ignored gender-specific arguments presented to it by women more often than it should have. It has also handed down some startlingly regressive judgments. Its infamous judgment(s) in Jordan, for example, unanimously refused to strike down legislation criminalising sex work saying: “dignity of prostitutes is diminished not by [the law] but by their engaging in commercial sex work”.

Nevertheless, overall, it has through its jurisprudence committed itself to the protection of formal and substantive equality for women. It has also, at times, been alert to systemic sexism in the form of patriarchy. It has described gendered patterns of behavior and gender-stereotypes as “a relic and a feature of the patriarchy which the Constitution so vehemently condemns”. Its broad position on gender equality has been no different in cases on African customary law.

In 2008, in Gumede, the Constitutional Court had already declared section 7(1) to be unconstitutional to the extent that it applied to monogamous “old marriages”. In coming to this conclusion, it reasoned that this provision is “self-evidently discriminatory” on the ground of gender. It was emphatic that the continued application of the provision in the context of Ms Gumede, an isiZulu women living in the KwaZulu-Natal province, negatively “affected wives in customary marriages” because they “are considered incapable or unfit to hold or manage property”. Women, the Court continued, are “expressly excluded from meaningful economic activity in the face of an active redefinition of gender roles in relation to income and property”.

The task in front of the court in Ramuhovhi, then, was simply to decide whether its reasoning in Ms Gumede’s case on monogamous “old marriage” could be extended to Munyadziwa’s case on polygamous old marriages. Quoting heavily from Gumede the Court confirmed that section 7(1) of the Act “perpetuate[s] inequality between husbands and wives” in old marriages. More specifically, it found that the provision clearly had the effect of violating Munyadziwa’s right to dignity and her right not to be discriminated against based on her gender and marital status. As a result, the challenge to Munyadizwa’s right to own, inherit and control marital property thus failed.

In its judgment, the Court also considered whether s 7(1) could be saved by s 7(4) of the Act. Section 7(4) permits couples to “jointly” approach a court to change the matrimonial property system applicable to “their marriage or marriages”. The Court’s response speaks to a strong understanding of unequal power relations between men and women in South African society. Describing s 7(4) as “cold comfort, if not pie-in-sky” for most women the court reasoned:

“The fact of not owning or having control over marital property renders wives in pre-Act polygamous marriages particularly vulnerable and at the mercy of husbands. They cannot be in an equal-bargaining footing for purposes of reaching agreement to make an approach to court in terms of section 7(4). In fact, some may even be cowed not to raise the issue at all.”

To cap off this reasoning the court added that it “it does not require rocket science” to know that most women “may not even be aware of the existence of the provisions of section 7(4)”. This observation is undoubtedly correct. A mere 46% of South Africans have ever heard of the existence of either the Constitution or the Bill of Rights, while a depressing 10% of people had ever read the Constitution or had it read to them. If people do not know their fundamental constitutional rights it takes legal fiction of science-fiction like proportions to imagine these same people will know complicated, hidden provisions of laws on the statute books.

Customary law and colonialism

 It is worth noting that the Constitutional Court has been particularly careful to respect customary law and to acknowledge the genesis of its patriarchal problems in its judgments. These problems have their origins both in patriarchal African cultures and their “formalisation and fossilisation” but Dutch and British colonial powers and the apartheid government. Therefore, though the court does not deny that patriarchy “has always been a feature of indigenous society” in Bhe it observed that:

“At a time when the patriarchal features of Roman-Dutch law were progressively being removed by legislation, customary law was robbed of its inherent capacity to evolve in keeping with the changing life of the people it served, particularly of women. Thus customary law as administered failed to respond creatively to new kinds of economic activity by women, different forms of property and household arrangements for women and men, and changing values concerning gender roles in society. The outcome has been formalisation and fossilisation of a system which by its nature should function in an active and dynamic manner.”

The result was the development “a particularly crude and gendered form of inequality, which left women and children singularly marginalised and vulnerable” in African customary law which was “recorded and enforced by those who neither practised it nor were bound by it”. These people were white settler colonialists.

The Constitutional Court’s approach to these cases has therefore been to prefer to acknowledge the organic development of “living customary law” – which is developing in a diverse and dynamic manner constantly – instead of repeating the colonial approach of strictly imposing rules from the judges’ lofty positions.

The Court’s understanding of patriarchal power imbalances, combined with its recognition that “those who were bound by customary law had no power to adapt it”, has made it very receptive to women who have approached the court in search protection. It is also critical in dispelling the myth that black African cultures and customs are any more or less patriarchal then the rest of South African society. Patriarchy, the Court rightly observes, “has worldwide prevalence”.

Constitutional promises and constitutional realities

However, as is often the case, paper-based legal protection provides paper-thin protection to women in reality. As retired Justice Zakeria Yacoob has said, contrary to the popular belief of human rights lawyers and bourgeois elites in particular, “our Constitution did NOT create the society it envisaged”. In truth, no Constitution can. Such is the pernicious and ubiquitous impact of patriarchy amongst all customs, cultures and races in South Africa.

And so, almost 20 years after the formal recognition of customary marriages in terms of the Act, women such as Munyadziwa Netshituka bravely continue to approach South African courts clutching onto “the right to equal protection and benefit of the law”. They do so simply to access the rightful benefits of their marriages and life’s work. Sadly, they often also seek protection from both their marriages, families, communities and the law itself.

But translating the constitutional promise of gender equality into a constitutional reality cannot be the business of courts alone. A monumental societal shift is needed. Women like Ms Gumede, Ms Netshituka, Ms Bhe and Ms Shilubana all around South Africa are pushing for this change on daily basis. Too many men refuse to budge, accepting instead the continued spoils of patriarchy. For as long as we men – whether white Jewish men, black Venda men, or Indian Muslim men – continue to endorse and support patriarchy, women will have to continue to fight back using any means they have at their disposal.

To paraphrase the Constitutional Court’s rhetorical question in its judgment in Ramuhovhi, on of the key questions remains: “how many [men] would readily give up their position of dominance?” If the number does not increase dramatically, exponentially and urgently, for all the constitutional protection provided to women (and all the beautiful prose in the Constitutional Court’s judgments), they will continue experience the society in envisioned in the Constitution as elusive: more fiction than fact.