By K Raveendran
The government’s proposal to automatically remove ministers who spend more than a month in jail on serious charges may look like a corrective to an extraordinary spectacle—Delhi Chief Minister Arvind Kejriwal attempting to run his government from behind bars. But what appears as a moral stand against jailed ministers could end up dragging the judiciary into the thick of politics, destabilising governments, and distorting constitutional balance in ways not fully anticipated.
The draft bill introduces a blunt rule: a minister who remains in custody beyond thirty days automatically loses office. It bypasses conviction, parliamentary debate, or the prime minister’s discretion, and makes judicial custody the decisive factor. This means that a magistrate’s decision to deny bail—or simply extend custody—could reshape cabinets and even topple governments. Overnight, routine bail hearings would become political turning points.
Chief Justice B.R. Gavai’s recent observation that lower courts are as vital as the Supreme Court now sounds prophetic. With this bill, magistrates and sessions judges, already overburdened, would find themselves in the hottest of political spotlights. Their orders would be dissected not just for legal merit but for political consequence, making them unwilling referees in partisan battles.
The thirty-day window compounds the problem. Complex cases rarely move so fast. Charge sheets are filed weeks or months after arrest. Bail hearings get delayed by packed court schedules. Expecting courts to settle matters in such compressed timelines is unrealistic. More likely, hurried decisions will be taken under political pressure, opening judges to charges of bias or incompetence.
The presumption of innocence, central to Indian law, is another casualty. Under the new rule, a minister can be removed without ever being convicted. In India’s political climate, where opposition leaders are often arrested around election time, this creates fertile ground for misuse. Arrest, remand, delay in bail—these procedural steps could be enough to finish a political career, regardless of eventual acquittal.
The proposed law may not even pass constitutional muster. Article 75 gives the prime minister or the chief minister discretion in ministerial appointments, subject to the President’s formal approval. Automatic disqualification triggered by custody could be struck down as legislative overreach. The doctrine of separation of powers, part of the Constitution’s basic structure, also stands implicated: can the judiciary, even indirectly, be made to determine the composition of the executive?
The judiciary itself may view this as a poisoned chalice. Judges are trained to decide cases on law and evidence, not political impact. Yet if this law passes, every extension of custody will be seen through a partisan lens. Was bail denied because the case demanded it, or because the judge favoured one side? Once courts are seen as political actors, their neutrality—and public trust in their independence—will suffer.
The practical fallout is just as troubling. Courts are already struggling under a backlog of more than 50 million cases. Adding a requirement to prioritise politically sensitive custody cases and decide them within thirty days will divert scarce judicial resources. Ordinary litigants will find their cases pushed further back. Worse, rushed judgments in high-stakes political cases may not withstand appeal, eroding credibility further.
The political implications are equally stark. Today, the ruling party may welcome the law as a tool against jailed opponents. Tomorrow, it could be their own ministers at the mercy of magistrates. In coalition governments, where numbers are fragile, the ability to dislodge ministers through arrests and delayed bail could become a weapon of blackmail. Far from cleansing politics, the law may fuel instability.
Political morality cannot be legislated through mechanical deadlines. A tainted minister could survive by securing bail within 29 days; an innocent one could be ousted because of a court’s scheduling delays. The law risks punishing procedural happenstance more than actual wrongdoing.
Yet the symbolism of the proposal is potent, and that explains its traction. The ruling party will frame it as a bold stand for clean governance, challenging the opposition to explain why they would protect ministers in jail. The opposition will argue it is an assault on constitutional norms, designed to weaponise arrests. Both sides will invoke high principles, but the fight will be waged in the court of public perception.
One thing is clear: the judiciary cannot avoid being drawn in. Whether it wishes to or not, the new law makes the courts central to the political drama of the nation. From the humblest magistrate to the Supreme Court, judges will find their orders parsed not just for legal soundness but for political consequence. Chief Justice Gavai’s reminder of the equal importance of all judges may have been meant as a philosophical reflection. In the coming months, it could become a hard reality.
The bill may solve one political embarrassment but at the cost of creating many more. By turning judicial custody into a political guillotine, it risks weaponising the justice system, destabilising governments, and unsettling the delicate balance of powers. In India’s volatile democracy, where law and politics already bleed into one another, this proposal could redraw the line entirely—and not in ways its framers might have intended. (IPA Service)
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