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Human Rights Supreme Court of India

“I know it, when I see it” – The limits of the law in finding illegality in obscenity

AparGupta_freedomofspeechThe recent legal prosecution of AIB, a stand-up comics collective, has thrown open the debate on obscenity standards. In its show, AIB used cuss words and made express sexual innuendos. It was plainly visible that they were challenging, even if unwittingly, not only the conventional social mores but also the thresholds of obscenity law. Many see their prosecution as unfair and unequitable and evidence of greater intolerance in Indian society. Many have also questioned the law that formed the basis for the prosecution. It has been described as vague, indeterminate, and providing a ground for complaint to the least tolerant.

This is properly a debate on the legal standards used to determine obscenity. As opposed to a debate on the necessity of the offence of obscenity itself. This article focusses on examining arguments for greater certainty in the legal tests for determining obscenity and seeks to build towards a more ambitious proposal, that legal tests and criteria cannot define obscenity to any reasonable certainty. Its moral desirability, even in the face of such subjectivity, is of course a choice left for the legislature.

The Hicklin test

The legal standards governing obscenity arise from the case of Ranjit Udeshi v. State of Maharashtra where the Supreme Court of India interpreted Section 292 of the Indian Penal Code, 1860. Though Section 292 only criminalises printed materials, its definition of obscenity is utilised in other criminal provisions such as Section 294, which criminalises obscene speech and songs. In Ranjit Udeshi, a five-judge bench of the Supreme Court of India adopted the Hicklin Test laid down in the case of Regina v. Hicklin by Justice Cockburn.

D.H. Lawrence's classic novel, the subject of controversy in Ranjit Udeshi's case.

D.H. Lawrence’s classic novel, the subject of controversy in Ranjit Udeshi’s case.

The test relies on gauging the content with respect to its tendency to deprave or corrupt. This depravity is reasoned to result from the content evoking or opening a person’s mind to any eroticism or sexual arousal. Finally, the test is not gauged from the perspective of an adult, but those minds which are open to such “immoral” influences. In a sense, its objective remains the infantilising of an adult mind. Our Supreme Court, while adopting this test, made slight modifications indicating that, “community standards” have an important bearing in adjudicating the legality of content as well. The case acknowledged that such obscenity can be part of a longer movie or song, but it had to, “remain in the shadows”. It is not without reason that old Bollywood movies contain visual innuendos, of a shaking bush or a rocking bed to represent love making.

The test by itself, on its very face, seems vague and incomprehensible and this seemed to be within the contemplation of the judges as well. They wrote in the decision itself that the “court must, therefore, apply itself to consider each work at a time.” In a sense, this revolts against the necessity of giving adequate notice to authors and artists.

This subjectivity became visible when the Supreme Court, in the case of C.K. Kakodar v. State of Maharashtra, applied the Hicklin Test. To gauge the obscenity in a story, it examined the theme of the story, the main protagonists, and the “artistic merit” in it. Explaining its approach, the Court stated that its duty was to “ascertain whether the book or story or any passage or passages offend the provisions of S. 292”. This implicitly recognises that it requires highly trained judicial minds which seek to balance competing interests to gauge whether a work is not obscene, and has, “artistic merit”. Again disposing of the petition and holding in favour of the author, the Court made reference to the contemporary morals of Indian society, which it also noticed, were “fast changing”. A convenient result therefore, backed by unfortunate reasoning.

Limiting the Hicklin test

It is not as if the criticisms of such an ad-hoc and content-by-content approach were not felt by the Court. In the same year as the Kakodar case, the Supreme Court made express reference to Udeshi’s case, when called to adjudge the legality of the pre-censorship of movies. The petitioners in K.A. Abbas v. Union of India argued that the mandatory certification necessary to any prior exhibition by the Cinematograph Act was unconstitutional as a prior-restraint. The Court, while holding the Act constitutional, laid down some guidelines that in its view, afforded reasonable safeguards. In its penultimate paragraph however, it contained some criticism that indicated a small but significant realisation that the law by and large contained vague obscenity standards. Its prescription revolted against any liberal conception of censorship, stating that Parliament should legislate more, as if to clinically separate the obscene from the moral. As we go along, we will discover the limits of law and of judicial eloquence to regulate the arts.

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After an interregnum of about five years, the Supreme Court, in Samaresh Bose v. Amal Mitra, again faced its precedent and marked a significant departure from it by seeking to limit the applicability of the Hicklin test. Rather, it sought to make community standards the overreaching or controlling criteria to gauge obscenity. The Court in its inquiry, first focussed on certain prongs devised under a community standards grouping and only after this, did it proceeded to a pure analysis of obscenity under Section 292 and the Hicklin test. This was achieved by the Court stating that in order to determine the offence of obscenity, the judge should first place themselves in the position of the author to gauge the literary and artistic merit and thereafter place themselves in the position of a reader of every age group, not only children and those open to influences. Only after this should the inquiry on the Hicklin test proceed. This test or the tiered approach to gauge illegality appears persuasive, however again, in practice, requires subjective, content-by-content determinations.

bandit-queen-movie-poster-1994Even though the test in Samaresh Bose has not been followed, courts have evenly sought to apply its variations to gauge the artistic merit in a work while determining obscenity. In Bobby Art International, Etc v. Om Pal Singh Hoon, the Supreme Court, while adjudicating the appropriateness of the movie Bandit Queen being given a Central Board of Film Certification (“Censor Board”) certificate with an “A” rating, exhaustively analysed the theme of the movie. The Court held that the objections of the Censor Board that the movie depicted social evils could not be sustained as it was unavoidable in a movie which showed the consequent harm caused by it. Further, in Director General, Directorate v. Anand Patwardhan, the Supreme Court directed Doordarshan to screen the respondent’s documentary Father, son and Holy War and in doing so, sought to expressly apply “community standards” while not expressly overruling the Hicklin test.

The resultant confusion in standards which may be applied to obscenity is evident from the Supreme Court’s reasoning in Ajay Goswami v. Union of India. These tests, which are chronologically listed, are prefaced in the judgement as “broad principles”. Not only are these principles broad, but their girth seems to have increased with time. Though the judgement in terms of legal articulation correctly notices past precedent, it also makes it evident that India, for a long period of time, had several legal standards to gauge obscenity, permitting subjectivity and preventing adequate notice of illegality to artists and authors.

Express adoption of community standards

This position in law seems to have undergone a dramatic change last year, with the Supreme Court ruling in Aveek Sarkar v. State of West Bengal. The ruling expressly discards the Hicklin test, stating that it is not good law. In its place, it adopts the more liberally oriented “community standards” test. However, the manner in which the Court applies the community standards test itself gives cause for concern. If one reads the judgement, the Court again examines the content in question and the social merit in the publication. Again, the result may be liberal, but the reasoning itself may only be a modest improvement on the Hicklin Test.

This is not to say that the express adoption of the community standards test in the Aveek Sarkar case is not cause for hope, however its promise is limited. While it does signify an express statement from the Supreme Court recognising the need for the greater liberty of artists and authors, it maintains the necessity for “artistic merit” or social need. The application of the community standards test can also be criticised on several other grounds but the major criticism is that it again permits subjectivity and a value-driven assessment by our higher judiciary.

Again, it needs to be emphasised that the High Court of Delhi has in two recent cases, by the application of Aveek Sarkar, refused to prohibit the exhibition of movies with Censor Board certificates. In both instances however, the Court gave substantial credence to the legality of the movies on the basis of the certificate for exhibition issued by the Censor Board. In the first case, Nandini Tewari and Another v. Union of India, the Court was asked to prohibit the exhibition of the movie Finding Fanny due to the name of the movie itself. The Court examined the term “fanny” as well as the term as it appeared in the dialogues of other movies in the past. It not only applied the Aveek Sarkar case but even earlier precedent to implicitly form a “community interest” and an “anticipated danger” test.

In the second case, Ajay Gautam v. Union of India, the High Court examined the contents of the movie PK, which the petitioner complained, mocked the Hindu religion and hence should be prohibited from exhibition. The Court again substantively appreciated the movie in question, heavily relying on the prior existence of a Censor Board certificate, and the nature of the movie, that is, a parody. Though the case is not per se concerned with obscenity, precedent on obscenity is bundled with larger free speech jurisprudence including the, “clear and present danger” test.

The limits of law

A review of legal precedent suggests that both the Hicklin test and the community standards test are not only fallible in some isolated instances but by their very nature permit subjectivity and value-based assessments. It has been my firm belief that any moral harm that is supposed to originate from movies, songs, paintings, or any other form of creative art is illusory. This moral harm is at the core of any justification for the offence of obscenity. Even if such an outlook is not shared by others, it is evident that obscenity to a large degree is a vague concept which will rely on a case-by-case determination, dependent on the facts of each case, in which a judicially trained mind (as opposed to an artistically inclined one) will examine the artistic merits and the potential illegality.

Though Indian case law to a large degree has drawn inspiration from the First Amendment precedent of the United States Supreme Court, it has failed to notice the dissent of Justice Brennan in Paris Adult Theatre I v. Slaton. Justice Brennan’s eloquence lays evident the limits of law, as it seeks to balance any purported moral harm with the liberty of artists. To end it is quoted below:

“Of course, the vagueness problem would be largely of our own creation if it stemmed primarily from our [p84] failure to reach a consensus on any one standard. But, after 16 years of experimentation and debate, I am reluctantly forced to the conclusion that none of the available formulas, including the one announced today, can reduce the vagueness to a tolerable level while at the same time striking an acceptable balance between the protections of the First and Fourteenth Amendments, on the one hand, and, on the other, the asserted state interest in regulating the dissemination of certain sexually oriented materials. Any effort to draw a constitutionally acceptable boundary on state power must resort to such indefinite concepts as “prurient interest,” “patent offensiveness,” “serious literary value,” and the like. The meaning of these concepts necessarily varies with the experience, outlook, and even idiosyncrasies of the person defining them. Although we have assumed that obscenity does exist and that we “know it when [we] see it,” Jacobellis v. Ohio, supra, at 197 (STEWART, J., concurring), we are manifestly unable to describe it in advance except by reference to concepts so elusive that they fail to distinguish clearly between protected and unprotected speech.”

(Apar Gupta is a partner at Advani & Co., and was recently named by Forbes India in its list of thirty Indians under thirty years of age for his work in media and technology law.)

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Human Rights

“Under which law?” – A village responds when the gram sabha’s consent is sought for a mining project

CommunitiesAndLegalAction_KanchiKohliLate in the morning on an autumn day, a group of villagers had gathered under the shade of huge Mahua tree for a meeting called by Hemant, a community extension worker associated with a local NGO who had developed a great rapport with the villagers over the years. He was there to discuss the latest set of government schemes that had been declared specifically for tribal areas.  Tea and biscuits arrived and he spelt out the details.

He was a bit confused. Otherwise a vibrant and spirited gathering, the villagers were pensive today. Keeping his papers aside, he asked if there was a problem. After a few murmurs, Laxmi, who was usually a quiet one, spoke up. The Sub Divisional Magistrate (“SDM”) had visited their village yesterday with a representative from a large mining company and other government officials from the revenue and forest departments.

“So”, asked Hemant, “what did they say, why were they here”? Restless, Laxmi got up from his seat and said, “Brother do you see that Jhirmiri hill range? Remember we have climbed it so many times to reach the origin of the Jhirmiri stream? Where we have eaten so many wild foods? The SDM said the mining company had received a contract to extract iron ore from there and that we need to call for a gram sabha (village assembly) to give our consent.”

What is a gram sabha?

Hemant was puzzled and asked if the government officials had told them why they want the gram sabha to be called and if they had given any documents to explain the circumstances. Kishore promptly got on to the cycle and rode off to the panchayat office located about ten minutes away to get the document. While waiting for Kishore to return, Hemant began to explain what he knew from his understanding of the legal procedures.

Under the Constitution of India, a gram sabha is a “a body consisting of persons registered in the electoral rolls relating to a village comprised within the area of a Panchayat at the village level.” He added that the tribal hamlet they were all part of was one of five hamlets that were part of the village panchayat, that is, the local self government.

In fact, the Scheduled Tribes and Other Traditional Forest Dwellers (Recognition of Forest Rights) Act, 2006 (“FRA”) elaborates the definition of the gram sabha. It is “a village assembly which shall consist of all adult members of a village and in case of States having no Panchayats, Padas, Tolas and other traditional village institutions and elected village committees, with full and unrestricted participation of women.” So the full gram sabha of the panchayat is actually all the people who belong to that panchayat, including the hamlets, which are called by different names, like padas or tolas, in different parts of the country.

(Left) A hillock in Orissa where mining has been proposed and (right) a meeting, similar to the one described in the article, is in progress . Both photographs are by Kanchi Kohli.

(Left) A hillock in Orissa where mining has been proposed and (right) a meeting, similar to the one described in the article, in progress. Both photographs are by Kanchi Kohli.

Why was the gram sabha being called?

In recent years, the role of the gram sabha has been recognised under different laws, which have a bearing on the transfer of land for a mining operation, industry, or an infrastructure project. “It needs to be understood”, Hemant explained, “under what law the gram sabha is being called”. The villagers were clueless.

He knew at least three critical laws under which the consent of the gram sabha is prescribed. The SDM may have come to the village to satisfy any of these processes.

The first, he said, was the Panchayat Extension to Scheduled Areas Act, 1996 (“PESA Act”). The Jhirmiri Hills are among the tribal areas that have been defined as Scheduled Areas under Clause (1) of Article 244 of the Constitution. In addition to the environment, forest, and land acquisition related safeguards prescribed under specific laws, these areas have specific constitutional protections. Under Section 4(i) of the PESA Act, the gram sabha needs to be consulted “before making the acquisition of land in the Scheduled Areas for development projects and before re-settling or rehabilitating persons affected by such projects in the Scheduled Areas.”

“But Hemant bhai”, remarked Kusum, “the SDM was mentioning something about a consent. He did not use the word consultation. So are you sure it would be under the PESA?” Even as Hemant was thinking about explaining the requirements under the FRA, Kishore returned with the sheet of paper, which the SDM had brought with him. A loud reading of this hand written notice revealed that the government officials and the mining company representatives had come to the village hamlet asking the residents to call for gram sabha to give their consent for the diversion of forest land for mining purposes.

“Ah!”, sighed Hemant, “this is how they are implementing the circular of the Ministry of Environment, Forests and Climate Change dated August 3, 2009.” He explained that the FRA is a law through which individual and community rights of people over an area of forest has been recognised. The process of diversion of the same forest land for a non-forest use such as mining however, is determined under another law, the Forest Conservation Act, 1980. While the FRA is implemented under the Ministry of Tribal Affairs, the Ministry of Environment, Forests and Climate Change is the holder of the FCA and the August 3, 2009 circular.

“The SDM had come to you because your forest rights are still under process and the 2009 circular clearly states that the forest land cannot be given to this company till the process of recognition is complete and the gram sabha consent has been received.” “Oh Ho!”, said Kusum, she signaling to the hillock in the backdrop. “Looks like the hand written letter that they have given us is to reduce the consent process to a mere administrative tick off for Jhirmiri hills! This is totally unacceptable, Hemant Bhai”, she added.

So how should the village respond?

“Yes. It is important for all of you together across the main revenue village and the five hamlets to understand the repercussions of this before you call the gram sabha.” He also told the villagers that the requirement for consent was also part of the Right to Fair Compensation and Transparency in Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation and Resettlement Act, 2013 which was recently diluted through an ordinance awaiting parliamentary approval.

While this law did not mention gram sabha, it had required the consent of seventy to eighty per cent of the affected people in the case of acquisition of land for public-private partnership projects and private sector projects respectively. He promised that he would explain that procedure to everyone the next time he was in the village. However, he left behind the photocopies of the bare text of the law with Kusum, Laxmi, and Kishore who promised to try and read it.

All the villagers gathered there realised that the gram sabha was being called by the SDM to ensure that he can send a report to the MoEFCC, stating that the villagers have no objection for the mine to start, that they either stake no rights or claims on the forests or that would be agreeable to receive ‘compensation’ in return.

They were now clear what to say to the SDM when he returned the next day. None of them wanted to give up their thriving agricultural practice and the livelihoods dependent on the Jhirmiri Hills. Moreover, “this was home”, as Kusum said. “Why would I want to just get up and leave just because someone want to dig underneath and around? Consent can’t be constructed like this!”

Hemant heard the discussion, smiled and decided to leave. The bag full of forms meant for a loan subsidy scheme did not seem to matter today. He knew he had a target to achieve, and would come back in a couple of days when the mood was different. Today, the people of Jondhia Pada of Kaskala Panchayat living around the Jhirmiri Hills had a different engagement with the state.  When larger questions of constitutional powers, rights related to consent, and questions around displacement were at stake, an income generation scheme could surely wait.

Kanchi Kohli (kanchikohli@gmail.com) is an independent researcher and writer.

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Human Rights Litigation

Arvind Narrain and Usha Ramanathan – an uncertain unfolding of professional destiny

AtreyeeMajumder_CraftingLawCareers

Modern India has witnessed many public lives arranged around the vocation of a lawyer. We find repeatedly that many people with strong public voices within native debates about social reform and in striking conversation with imperial forces are lawyers.

The lawyering profession has had several new influences in the current socio-economic milieu in India, not least significant of which has been the opening of the economy in 1991, and the emergence of a range of collaborative lawyering firms and other institutions that assist that range of new private enterprises. A large number of young minds are directed to legal education and the lawyering profession to enter these channels of lawyering services to assist the expanding business arena.

Exploring the terms on which the vocation is practised, I reached out to four legal professionals who have run very different combinations of litigation, advocacy, research, and teaching in their professional lives. These were professionals who obtained their law degrees before and after the cusp of 1991. Harish Narasappa and Arvind Narrain got their degrees in the mid and late 90s, and Amba Salelkar got hers in the 2000s. The three of them got their degrees at the National Law School of India University, which led the trend in producing five-year-law graduates who penetrated the new avenues of the legal profession in the post-1991 era. Usha Ramanathan took her law degree in the late seventies in Chennai, followed it up with an LLM in Nagpur, and found herself visiting the Supreme Court and Indian Law Institute regularly, in the early eighties.

(Clockwise, from top) Amba Salelkar, Usha Ramanathan, Arvind Narrain, and Harish Narasappa

A most senior law researcher

I find it instructive to use Usha’s legal biography to sketch out the contours of what it might mean to be a lawyer by vocation, in India, across the last two decades. We know that a large number of professional channels are now open for people with law degrees to pursue in the shaping of a career – between corporate firms, tradition court practice, tribunal practice, NGOs, policy think tanks, and in-house legal work within companies. Having begun at a time where most of these institutions were absent or present in smaller scale, Ramanathan found herself hovering around a range of judicial spaces in Delhi in the eighties, waiting for her ‘impulse to settle’. She turns a combination of humility and curiosity into a toolkit.

Her first job is as a copy-editor at the Eastern Book Company in Lucknow. She edited Upendra Baxi’s books Indian Supreme Court and Politics and Crisis of the Indian Legal System. She interacted with Justices Krishna Iyer and Bhagwati and read indiscriminately at the Indian Law Institute. She joined a team brought together by Professor Chhatrapati Singh from the Indian Law Institute that travelled through Tamil Nadu collecting data on wastelands. As a by-stander in a child rights case, she helped put together a report on children of prostitutes which was submitted to the chair of the court-appointed committee. She went along with a group comprising different civil society actors to Uttarkashi after the earthquake of 1991 and helped put together a report. These were vastly different issues. Over time, the overarching question that came to inform her work was about the nature of poverty and impact of legal institutions on it. Thus, slowly acquainting herself with the skills of law-informed research, she shaped a profession that she has come to call ‘law researcher’ – someone who collected facts, reported back with data and insight to judicial and administrative bodies, and discussed these insights in the public domain. Along the way, she collected a Delhi University PhD, but still, does not consider herself an academic. Her colleagues joke with her saying at least she should call herself a ‘Senior Law Researcher’.

Ramanathan’s more recent writings and energies have been around the Unique Identification Number and reflections on the thirtieth anniversary of the Bhopal disaster. She is clearly one of the most energetic legal intellectuals of today’s India, someone whose thought and writing forms an important bridge between the theory and the practice of law. She remains steadfastly distant from institutional folds though, in an attempt to conserve her freedom.

Court work, public engagement, and fact-finding

We find the other legal professionals who start their careers a decade or more after Ramanathan, also making creative endeavours to juggle various institutional roles. Narrain came back from Warwick after a Masters, and got involved with founding the Alternative Law Forum in 2002, on the heels of the Gujarat riots. Initially an inchoate space where public interest law would be practiced and researched, an incident of two sex workers being picked up by the police in Bangalore on New Year’s Eve, propelled him and his colleagues to appear in court and argue a bail petition — quite a different route into courts from the usual ones taken by young lawyers to learn courtcraft. His work veered into the realm of sexuality rights and eventually the long drawn judicial battle over the constitutional legitimacy of Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code. A political stance, a legal skill, and the presence of a professional and intellectual space lent to the emergence of this wide public and judicial debate over sexuality rights. Narrain cites the example of Gandhi’s lawyering to show the main tenets of human rights law practice – courtwork, engagement with the wider public, and fact-finding activities.

I find it important to see Narrain’s and Ramanathan’s sensibilities in consonance – the attempt to create and retain an inchoateness in their early career. Both are convinced that they wish to intervene in the legal domain, in public interest, but the exact methods and content emerge over a set of serendipitious meetings and events (though in Narrain’s case the organisational initiative was an important milestone). It is their patience and ability to handle an uncertain unfolding of a professional destiny that should be valuable for young lawyers and law students to learn from, if not emulate. In a series of essays over the next few weeks, I will juxtapose these four legal personalities to show the different ways of crafting one’s presence and influence in legal arenas – in courts, in the public domain, in advocacy with governments, in academia.

(Atreyee Majumder is an anthropologist. She teaches at the School of Development, Azim Premji University.)

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Human Rights Supreme Court of India

The freedom to convert: time to revisit the decision in Stanislaus

VeraShrivastav

Many incidents of mass conversion have taken place in India since Independence. Half a million Dalits, under the leadership of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, embraced Buddhism in Nagpur in 1956. In 1981 in Kanyakumari, hundreds of families turned to Islam citing social reasons and in Delhi in 2002, thousands of Dalits, overcoming several political obstacles, converted to Buddhism. Last year in Agra, 57 Muslim families were converted to Hinduism, allegedly coerced by political factions.

Freedom to ‘propagate’ religion

The contemporary debate about the introduction of a national anti-conversion law begs us to re-examine Article 25 of the Constitution, the bedrock of the freedom of religion in India. Article 25 states that every person has the fundamental right to freedom of conscience and the right to freely profess, practice, and propagate any religion of his choice. This right applies equally to all religions and the only restrictions placed on it are the restrictions of public order, health and morality, and that it must not violate other fundamental rights.

The issue of whether the controversial ‘right to convert’ falls within or outside the ambit of the expression “propagate” is a question of fundamental importance to determine the constitutionality of any anti-conversion law. A few revered members of the Constituent Assembly were of the view that “Propagation does not necessarily mean seeking converts by force of arms, by the sword, or by coercion. But why should obstacles stand in the way if by exposition, illustration and persuasion you could convey your own religious faith to others?” This would constitute the very essence of our fundamental right to freedom of religion. Another member was of the view that even if the word “propagate” were absent from the Article, it would be open to any religious community to persuade others to join their faith using their fundamental right to freedom of speech. It is only when conversion is tainted with undue influence such as money or pressure by other means, should the state step in to regulate such activities. It is abundantly clear that the intent of the drafters of our Constitution was to recognise conversion by the free exercise of the conscience.

State anti-conversion legislation

Five states – Madhya Pradesh, Orissa, Gujarat, Chattisgarh, and Himachal Pradesh – already have anti-conversion laws in force. Enacted with the objective of preserving freedom of religion, these laws do little to curtail forced conversions and are in fact an impediment on the freedom of choice and conscience of individuals wishing to convert freely.

A 19th century lithograph depicting the conversion of the Paravas, a fisherfolk caste from southern India, to Christianity by St. Francis Xavier.

These state laws attempt to ban conversions that occur by force, fraud, allurement, and inducement. With these terms defined vaguely or not at all, they leave much scope for abuse. For instance, under the Orissa Freedom of Religion Act, 1967, the grant of any benefit, either pecuniary or otherwise, is considered as allurement and the charitable work done by religious organisations could easily fall under the definition of “allurement”. Other laws, such as those in Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh, require consent from a magistrate before a conversion. Such provisions give too much power to state authorities and curtail the individual’s fundamental right to freedom of religion.

Rev. Stanislaus v. State of Madhya Pradesh and Kokkinakis v. Greece

Provisions of the Indian Penal Code, such as those dealing with criminal intimidation (Chapter XXII) and forcible attempts in the name of religion (Section 153), already provide adequate remedies to curb forcible conversions. In light of the available remedies, the landmark ruling of the Supreme Court in the case of Rev. Stanislaus v. State of Madhya Pradesh (1997), where the Court considered the constitutionality of the Orissa Freedom of Religion Act, 1967 and the Madhya Pradesh Dharma Swatantraya Adhiniyam, 1968 is a disappointing one. The two acts prohibit forceful conversion and make it a punishable offence. Even though the Orissa High Court ruled that the expression ‘propagate’ includes the right to convert, making it a fundamental right, the Supreme Court overruled that decision and upheld the constitutionality of both the acts presumably with the bona fide intention to curtail forceful conversions. The Supreme Court held that the Article does not grant the right to convert another person to one’s own religion but only to transmit or spread one’s religion by an exposition of its tenets. What is freedom for one is freedom for the other in equal measure and there can, therefore, be no such thing as a fundamental right to convert any person to one’s own religion”.

Perhaps the introduction of a national anti-conversion law will give the apex court the chance to revisit and overrule its past decision and uphold the tenets of secularism, religious liberty, and the freedom of conscience in India. While doing so, the law makers of this country and the judiciary will be well advised to refer to India’s international obligations under the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, all of which recognise the freedom of religion and freedom of conscience as an inalienable right. The decision of the European Court of Human Rights in Kokkinakis v. Greece (1993) is also relevant. In contrast to the Stanislaus Case, the European Court held that the right to try to persuade one’s neighbor in matters of religious belief is included in an individual’s right to freedom of religion under Article 9 of the European Convention.

While it goes without saying that any act of forceful religious conversion must be met with harsh sanctions, we cannot allow any infringements on our fundamental right to freedom of religion and freedom of conscience which will be a likely consequence of the proposed national anti-conversion law.

Vera Shrivastav, an Associate at the Legalogic law firm, is also a researcher and writer and was awarded a Junior Research Fellowship in 2014.

Categories
Human Rights Supreme Court of India

On Shreya Singhal: Section 66A is too broad, vague, and will chill free speech

GautamBhatia_SupremeCourtofIndiajpgIn the second half of December 2014, the Supreme Court began to hear a series of challenges to various provisions of the Information Technology Act of 2008 (“IT Act”). Hearings will commence again when the Court reopens in January after the winter break. The batch of petitions, clubbed under Shreya Singhal v. Union of India, impugn – inter alia – the constitutional validity of Section 66A of the IT Act.

Section 66A has attained a degree of notoriety in recent times, having been used to arrest people for posting (and liking) Facebook comments, for critical political speech, and so on. Section 66A is largely borrowed from the English Communications Act (the scope of which has been severely curtailed after allegations of abuse), and was originally intended to tackle spam and online harassment. It hardly bears repeating that its implementation has gone far beyond its objective. Beyond poor implementation, however, there is a strong case for the Court to hold at least part of Section 66A unconstitutional, on the ground that it violates the freedom of speech guarantee under Article 19(1)(a) of the Constitution.

Among other things, Section 66A criminalises the sending, by a computer resource or a communication device, any information that is “grossly offensive” or has a “menacing character” (S. 66A(a)), as well as the sending of “any electronic mail or electronic mail message for the purpose of causing annoyance or inconvenience.” The components of the offence, therefore, include online speech that is “grossly offensive”, “menacing”, or causes “annoyance” or “inconvenience”.

Legitimate restrictions permitted on the fundamental right in Article 19(1)(a)

The State’s authority to legitimately restrict speech can be sourced to Article 19(2) of the Constitution, which allows for the State to impose, by law, “reasonable restrictions on the freedom of speech in the interests of the sovereignty and integrity of India, the security of the State, friendly relations with foreign States, public order, decency or morality or in relation to contempt of court, defamation or incitement to an offence.” S. 66A’s restrictions might be connected with three of these concepts: public order, decency or morality, and defamation.

In a series of cases, the Supreme Court has made it clear that the connection between “public order” and a free speech restriction ought to be proximate, like that of a “spark in a powder keg”, and not far-fetched or remote. Clearly, while certain forms of offensive or menacing speech might, at some point, lead to a public order disturbance, the connection is anything but proximate. Similarly, the “decency and morality” prong has been invoked to deal with cases of obscenity, where the offending work appeals solely to the prurient interest, as seen from the point of view of the reasonable, strong-minded person. And lastly, the ingredients of defamation are highly specific, and much narrower than causing offence or annoyance – they are limited to lowering the reputation of the plaintiff in society (subject to certain defences).

Over-breadth and disproportionate restrictions

IMediaLawst is therefore clear that certain terms of Section 66A suffer from the vice of “overbreadth”, that is, they authorise the restriction of expression that the government is entitled to prohibit, as well as that which it is not. In Chintaman Rao v. State of Madhya Pradesh, the Supreme Court, while striking down certain restrictions on agricultural labour under Article 19(1)(g) of the Constitution, held that “the law even to the extent that it could be said to authorize the imposition of restrictions in regard to agricultural labour cannot be held valid because the language employed is wide enough to cover restrictions both within and without the limits of constitutionally permissible legislative action affecting the right. So long as the possibility of its being applied for purposes not sanctioned by the Constitution cannot be ruled out, it must be held to be wholly void.” In other words, as far as fundamental rights are concerned, over-breadth is constitutionally fatal to a statute. This conclusion is further buttressed by the fact that in State of Madras v. V.G. Row, the Supreme Court also held that a “reasonable restriction” under Articles 19(2) to (6) would have to satisfy the requirements of proportionality: “the nature of the right alleged to have been infringed, the underlying purpose of the restrictions imposed, the extent and urgency of the evil sought to be remedied thereby, the disproportion of the imposition, the prevailing conditions at the time, should all enter into the judicial verdict.” Proportionality and over-breadth are closely linked: if a statute proscribes conduct that is much broader than what is permitted under Article 19(2), on the ground that there is some – tenuous – connection between the two, there is good reason to argue that the restriction is disproportionate.

Vagueness

In addition to over-breadth, the provisions of Section 66A suffer from an additional problem: that of vagueness. “Menacing”, “annoyance”, “inconvenience” and “grossly offensive” are all highly subjective, and open to numerous varying interpretations depending upon individual and diverse standpoints. Their scope and boundary are both large and ill defined. Consequently, they create a zone of uncertainty for Internet users. What kind of speech might land you in trouble? It is hard to tell.

Vagueness is constitutionally problematic. In Kartar Singh v. State of Punjab, the Supreme Court – citing American precedent – observed that “it is the basic principle of legal jurisprudence that an enactment is void for vagueness if its prohibitions are not clearly defined. Vague laws offend several important values… laws should give the person of ordinary intelligence a reasonable opportunity to know what is prohibited, so that he may act accordingly. Vague laws may trap the innocent by not providing fair warning. Such a law impermissibly delegates basic policy matters to policemen and also judges for resolution on an ad hoc and subjective basis, with the attendant dangers of arbitrary and discriminatory application.” Thus, the twin problems of uncertainty and impermissible delegation to the executive, are inextricably connected with vague statutes.

Censorship
Image is from Tyler Menezes’ photostream on Flickr. CC BY-SA 2.0.

Vague and over-broad statutes are especially problematic when it comes to free speech, because of the chilling effect that they cast upon speech. As the Court put it in Kartar Singh, “uncertain and undefined words deployed inevitably lead citizens to “steer far wider of the unlawful zone … than if the boundaries of the forbidden areas were clearly marked”.” When faced with uncertain, speech-restricting statutes, citizens are likely to self-censor, in order to ensure that they steer well clear of the prohibited line.

In the Shreya Singhal petitions, the Supreme Court will be faced with the choice of striking down Section 66A, or reading it down and (perhaps) issuing guidelines aimed at checking abuse. There is no doubt that the objectives of preventing scam and protecting Internet users against cyber-harassment and online bullying are important. But there are other parts of Section 66 that can be used to curtail such activities. If the Court is not minded to strike down Section 66A in its entirety, it ought to at least sever the words that have the greatest and most unbounded catchment area, and are most prone to abuse, and excise them from the statute.

(Gautam Bhatia blogs at Indian Constitutional Law and Philosophy.)