Source: https://indconlawphil.wordpress.com/category/free-speech/public-order/
Timestamp: 2019-04-21 21:06:55+00:00

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The Unlawful Activities Prevention Act (UAPA) was passed two decades after India’s independence in the year 1967 in order to keep a check on unlawful activities, terrorist organisations and other notorious groups. It also empowers the Central Govt. to ban organisations which are believed to be involved in unlawful activities. As public outrage against the erstwhile TADA and POTA grew stronger, the absence of Constitutional safeguards under counter-terrorism laws also came to be heavily criticised. In 2004, through an amendment, the safeguards under the UAPA were diluted, leading to the close resemblances between the POTA and the amended provisions of UAPA. These similarities were in the form of difficulty in obtaining bail, extended period of police custody etc. Over the last few decades the UAPA has assumed the place which the erstwhile terrorism laws such as POTA and TADA occupied and has become a potent law for prosecution of anti-state activities. It is not unusual for public security legislations to have maximum period in police custody, incarceration without a chargesheet and restrictions on bail. Yet, if one were to focus on the application of this law, a clear picture takes shape; of the invocation of the UAPA to curtail political dissent.
The laws which are instituted to curtail instances of sedition and disaffection against the state are couched in broad terms; for instance, Sec. 124A of IPC. It leaves the discretion of classifying acts falling within the category of offences under this law, to the authorities investigating such crimes. However, while interpreting the scope of such broad and overarching provisions a balance has to be struck between the intent and sensibility of the legislature while enacting the law and the freedom of individuals to be protected from abuse of such laws.
The recent arrest of activists following the Bhima Koregaon protests under the provisions of UAPA brings into perspective certain issues relating to interpretation of penal statutes and makes it imperative to examine the assistance provided by Courts in delineating the scope of national security and counter-terrorism laws. In the past, arrests have been made under this law for acts ranging from conspiring to commit terrorism to possession of Maoist literature and supporting unlawful associations and organisations.
A pertinent question arises in this regard. In a statute that confers a wide discretion to make arrests pertaining to various offences, how is the colourable use of discretion curtailed? The decision of Kerela High Court in case of Abdul Salam v. NIA is of some importance. The question was whether circulation of fake currency falls within the scope of ‘unlawful activity’ under the UAPA.
“Finance of the country is something different, having broader connotations and applications in the country’s economic set up, and it cannot be brought down to a narrow concept or object as property. So also, the term “security” occurring in Section 15 of the U.A (P) Act cannot be stretched by interpretative process to include economic security. To understand what exactly security is, as meant by the law, the whole section must be read and appreciated carefully.
[Note: The concept of economic security was only introduced in the amendment and the Court concluded that it cannot be read into the scheme of the Act prior to the Amendment.] This also shows that where there is dilemma between giving an expansive meaning to a statute as opposed to a restrictive meaning, the Courts favour a restrictive and conservative approach while interpreting penal statutes. Hence where the statute is ambiguous and unclear as to its precise boundaries, the Court can streamline police discretion using an essential tool of interpretation i.e. looking to the legislative intent and analysing if the alleged acts threaten to cause disruption to the peace and security of the country in the manner which the statute envisages and seeks to prevent. In this context, the question still remains as to what grants legitimacy to the arrest and detention of Prof. Shoma Sen or Sudha Bharadwaj under this Act and it needs to be seen how the judiciary reconciles such arrests with the purpose for which the statute was enacted.
While reviewing cases under the UAPA, Courts have encountered the issue of unwarranted application of the law and the consequential violation of fundamental freedoms. In such scenarios, Courts have looked into the violation of Fundamental Rights as a legitimate basis for curtailing the scope of the Act. In case of Jyoti Chorge v. State of Maharashtra, the Court interpreted the provisions of UAPA in light of fundamental rights of Jyoti who was arrested for possession of books containing Maoist literature. Justice Thipsay noted, “that possession of a particular social or political philosophy would amount to an offence, though such literature is not expressly or specifically banned under any provision of law, is a shocking proposition in a democratic country like ours.” Here, it was observed that the Govt’s interpretation of the law runs contrary to the freedoms and stated that the alleged act did not prima facie amount to an offence.
Where there is a prima facie violation of Fundamental Rights due to overbreadth in application of the law, an approach departing from literal rule of interpretation, (popularly applied to penal statutes) has also been adopted. In case of Sri Indira Das v. State of Assam, it was held that the offence under Section 10 of the UAPA, which on its plain language makes mere membership of a banned organisation a crime; has to be read down by departing from the literal rule of interpretation. Otherwise the said provision will become unconstitutional as it is violative of Articles 19 and 21 of the Constitution.
A rule of interpreting penal statutes is to construe it strictly. UAPA, being a stringent law, its provisions are to be interpreted more strictly. In R. Kalyani v. Janak C. Mehta, a case dealing with prosecution of individuals for affairs of the company, the Court examined whether vicarious liability can be fastened on individuals for offences of cheating and forgery if there is absence of the clear provision in the penal statute for the invocation of vicarious liability. This case is relevant because it was here that the Court enunciated a principle of strict interpretation which has resonated with various cases dealing with interpretation of penal statutes. The Court in this case, held that “we must be very careful in construing that section, because it imposes a penalty. If there is a reasonable interpretation, which will avoid the penalty in any particular case, we must adopt that construction. Unless penalties are imposed in clear terms, they are not enforceable. Also where various interpretations of a section are admissible it is a strong reason against adopting a particular interpretation if it shall appear that the result would be unreasonable or oppressive”. This principle, also affirmed in Abdul Salam’s case, casts a serious doubt on the unscrupulous arrests of members of Kabir Kala Manch a few years ago under various provisions of the Act. This only shows that there is a clear gap in the judicial understanding of the law and its understanding by police and investigative authorities.
Another principle which is likely to guide the interpretation of the critical sections of the Act is ejusdem generis. Section 15 defines a terrorist act and clause (a) states “by using bombs, dynamite or other explosive substances or inflammable substances or firearms or other lethal weapons or poisonous or noxious gases or other chemicals or by any other substances (whether biological radioactive, nuclear or otherwise) of a hazardous nature or by any other means of whatever nature to cause or likely to cause”. If not clarified, such areas are open to possible misunderstandings.
The phrase “by any other means of whatever nature to cause or likely to cause” needs to be interpreted in the specific context in which it is situated. As per ejusdem generis general terms following particular expressions take the colour and meaning as that of the preceding expressions. Applying this rule, the words will relate only to weapons of like nature and cannot be taken to connote anything more than that. Similarly in case of Ranjitsingh v. State of Maharashtra, the Court applied the principle of ejusdem generis while interpreting the term ‘other unlawful means’ in Section 2(1)(e) of Maharashtra Control of Organized Crime Act (MCOCA) which defines organised crime. The Court stated that the general words “other unlawful means” will have to be interpreted with reference to the objects of MCOCA for which it was enacted i.e. prevention and control of criminal activity by a person or a gang and for matters connected and incidental to organized crime and organised crime syndicate.
The principle of ejusdem generis attempts to reconcile the general terms used in the statute with the more specific terms. It serves as an aid to discover the legislative intent behind enacting a certain provision. Hence where a provision is peppered with vague or general terminologies, looking to the legislative intent saves the provision from misuse or dereliction in interpretation.
The reason why UAPA is of importance is because it compromises on certain crucial rights by virtue of provisions raising a strong presumption against bail. A broad interpretation of the law has led to, among other things, a pattern of classifying terror related offences on shaky grounds, diluting the threshold for establishing criminal conspiracy and constantly expanding the scope of ‘unlawful activities’ which can be brought within the ambit of the Act. UAPA, being a penal statute should be construed more cautiously to prevent this from happening.
The history of UAPA is only a hint of the political relevance of this law. However harrowing instances such as Dr. GN Saibaba’s case make it difficult to reconcile with the guarantee of basic freedoms and fundamental right to equality and due process. In G.N Saibaba’s case, a judgment of the Gadchiroli Court running over 800 pages contains numerous procedural and evidentiary drawbacks raising grave concerns pertaining to the fairness of procedure. However, in order to further my argument, I shall restrict my critique to a single aspect of the judgment focusing on his association with the organisation Revolutionary Democratic Front (An alleged front organisation for the CPI(Maoist) which is a banned organisation under the UAPA. Dr. Saibaba, along with five others were prosecuted for the offence punishable under sections 13, 18, 20, 38, 39 of the UAPA (primarily to hatch criminal conspiracy to wage war against India, reduce faith in democratically elected government, spread secessionist and rebellious thoughts and to continue the unlawful activities of the CPI(M) through its frontal organisation-RDF).
Firstly, there is no provision in the law for declaring an organisation to be a frontal organisation and it is uncertain how the Sessions Court derived the power to declare the RDF as a front for another banned organisation in order to prosecute Dr. Saibaba given that there is no gazette notification to this effect by the Central Government. Again, as compelling as it might be to highlight the treatment of evidence, overstepping of jurisdiction by the Sessions Court and procedural inadequacies, I shall not delve into them as they are not particularly relevant for this argument and moreover, there is a sincere belief that these defects will be cured in appeal. However, the convictions of Dr. Saibaba and others for the offence of being a member of a terrorist organisation (Section 20, 38), supporting terrorist organisation (section 39), conspiring to commit terrorist acts (section 18), committing unlawful acts (Section 13) are fundamentally premised on support, advocacy and sympathy for the frontal organisation of CPI(M) which is a scheduled terrorist organisation in the Act. From the provisions of the Act, the inference of criminal conduct does not require the authorities to establish a connection with actual commission of crime or even an attempt to commit the crimes which the Act seeks to prohibit. This is problematic as mere membership of an organisation does not lead to any of the consequences which the Act envisages in its preamble to be a ‘terrorist or unlawful act’. Perhaps this is an inherent flaw in the law which needs to be remedied urgently. The ability to prosecute someone for association with an ideology or even an illegal or harmful organisation, allows the authorities and Courts to draw sweeping conclusions and inferences regarding the ‘criminal’ nature of their association. While the decisions suffers from a flawed notion of ‘association fallacy’, there is little that Courts can do to help the situation apart from striking down the provision altogether.
In the past, Courts have struck down provisions of penal statutes on account of vagueness and uncertainty when they have led to the misuse of penal provision, harassment and encroachment of fundamental rights. Even though, UAPA is a specimen of similar forms of misuse and suffers from vague and broad legal drafting, such intervention of Court is unlikely in case of UAPA because of the nature of this law. UAPA, being a counter-terrorism law presupposes the need for certain legislative overbreadth and imprecise definitions since the protection of national public requires a scale of discretion in the hands of public authorities.
In Arup Bhuyan v State of Assam, the Appellant was being prosecuted under Section 3(5) of the TADA which criminalises the membership to a banned organisation. The Court stated that “although the appellant has denied that he was a member of ULFA, even assuming he was a member of ULFA it has not been proved that he was an active member and not a mere passive member.” Borrowing from the case of Clarence Brandenburg v. State of Ohio, the Court observed that advocacy of criminal syndicalism or violence as a means of achieving political reform is not per se criminal. It will only transcend into the illegal sphere if it incites imminent lawless action. Unlike the US Supreme Court in the above case, the Court did not go to them complete length of saying that statute criminalizing mere association with banned organisations, is invalid. Yet, it still drew inspiration from the principles of upholding personal liberties enunciated in the US case. The Court held that “Section 3(5) cannot be read literally otherwise it will violate Articles 19 and 21 of the Constitution. Hence, mere membership of a banned organisation will not make a person a criminal unless he resorts to violence or incites people to violence or creates public disorder by violence or incitement to violence.” This approach might help curb the overbreadth that Dr. Saibaba’s case suffers from.
While subjecting the UAPA to a successful constitutional challenge might be ambitious, Courts examining the constitutional validity of erstwhile POTA have stated that those exercising authority under this law are expected to prevent acts of terrorism within the constitutional bounds. Even though the Courts have consistently maintained that they are precluded from treading into questions of policy, as guardians of fundamental rights, they can contribute in two ways; Firstly, by vitiating the acts which blatantly transgress upon the right to fair trial of citizens and secondly, by clarifying the scope of exercise of police powers by interpreting the law in a manner that is most consistent with the fundamental rights and freedoms. In fact, the extended periods of pre-trial incarceration without bail (as witnessed in cases such as Chadrashekhar Azad Ravan), warrants the intervention of the Courts in clarifying the manner in which this law is to be applied to offences, conditions mandating the grant of bail, prerequisites for extending custody. In such a widely applied law, the scope of misuse further revives the discussion on the necessity to periodically review such precarious statutes. The absence of a sunset clause in the UAPA is thus a major cause for concern since that is the only legitimate claim to review the Constitutional validity of a law which is otherwise outside the ambit of judicial scrutiny and placed snugly within the parliament’s hands.
The distinction between “advocacy” and “incitement” is one that is familiar and important for constitutional courts world over. Advocacy of dangerous and subversive ideas is constitutionally protected, unless it rises to the level of incitement to violence, or to lawless action. In India, the distinction has had a troubled history, but it was endorsed most recently last month by Justice Nariman in Shreya Singhal vs Union of India, while striking down S. 66A of the IT Act for its failure to distinguish between the two concepts. Four years ago in 2011 though, the Supreme Court had already distinguished advocacy and incitement in a little-publicised, but extremely important case: Arup Bhuyan vs State of Assam.
The case involved a challenge to the appellant’s conviction under Section 3(5) of the now-repealed Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act [“TADA”], which criminalised “membership” of a terrorist gang or organization. This provision is in pari materia Sections 10 and 20 of the Unlawful Activities Prevention Act [“UAPA”], which replaced the TADA as the umbrella legislation for prosecuting terror suspects. While setting aside the conviction, Justice Katju read down S. 3(5) to save it from unconstitutionality on the grounds of Articles 19 and 21 of the Constitution. He did so by distinguishing passive from active “membership”, and restricted the latter to actual commission of violence, or incitement to violence. This distinction, naturally, closely tracks the difference between advocacy and incitement.
The importance of this jurisprudence cannot be overstated. In India, where trials for terror cases drag on for years, bail is perhaps the most crucial safeguard of personal life and liberty. But its importance is perhaps matched only by its fragility, evident upon evaluating the effect of the decision on bail jurisprudence in terror cases.
Section 43D(5) of the UAPA restricts the discretion of courts in granting bail: the accused “shall not be released on bail or on his own bond if the Court, on a perusal of the case diary or the report made under section 173 of the Code is of the opinion that there are reasonable grounds for believing that the accusation against such person isprima facie true.” In May 2011, the Anti-Terrorism Squad arrested six members of the cultural group, the Kabir Kala Manch, for offences under the UAPA. It was alleged that the KKM had close links with the banned Communist Party of India (Maoist), which was sought to be proved through the recovery of allegedly “incriminating literature and propaganda”. Accordingly, the Sessions Court refused to grant bail.
In conclusion, it is also important to note that the State has asked for a review of Arup Bhuyan. In light of the discussion above, it is submitted that setting aside or watering down Arup Bhuyan will present a grave risk not just to free speech jurisprudence, but more directly and immediately to the right to personal liberty and fair trial under the Constitution.
(a) The cases that it relied upon – Novva Ads and In re Noise Pollution – were not decided on 19(2) grounds. Novva Ads, a case about hoardings, was decided within the framework of time/place/manner restrictions, which meant that 19(1)(a) was not attracted at all. In re Noise Pollution was decided under Article 21.
(b)(i) In holding that the issue of proliferating political posters that could become “eyesores” was an issue of “public order”, the Court went against long-established Supreme Court jurisprudence, according to which “public order” is a term of art, and refers to the maintenance of public peace and tranquility that is one level beyond simply maintaining “law and order”, and preventing ordinary law-breaking. Public order is not a question of cityscaping or of architectural aesthetics. Such an interpretation would expand 19(2) so widely, that it would denude 19(1)(a) of any relevant content.
(b)(ii)(I): It sanctified the heckler’s veto, which was expressly rejected by the Supreme Court in Rangarajan’s Case.
(b)(ii)(II): In relying upon Ramji Lal Modi for the “tendency” test, it ignored all the Supreme Court decisions after 1957 that insist upon a close proximity between speech and public disorder. No matter how short the fuses of Delhites might be, and how many parking disputes might escalate into violence, there is simply no warrant for holding that there is the required degree of proximity between putting up political posters on one’s own property, and public disorder.
(c) The Court’s framing of the decency exception is also incorrect. It relied upon Kunte’s Case, but there, the Supreme Court expressly interpreted “decency” to refer to constitutional values (such as secularism). None of those values are implicated in political speech on my own property.
(2) The Court also erred in holding that political speech was a form of commercial advertising, and therefore might not have constitutional protection. Again, it erred in two respects: first, the distinction between political speech and commercial advertisement is well-accepted in Indian free speech jurisprudence, and secondly, following Tata Press, even commercial advertisements are accorded 19(1)(a) protection.
(3) The Court’s suggestion that because the conduct of elections is governed by a statute, any political speech with respect to elections falls beyond Article 19(1)(a) is not only illogical and a non-sequitur, but eviscerates Article 19(1)(a) of its central meaning: the purpose of free speech is to ensure a thriving democracy by free exchange of political expression.
Let us now consider a crucial issue: that of time/place/manner restrictions upon free speech. This is important because, notwithstanding its deeply problematic reasoning, the Court concluded by directing the municipality to ensure that its policy would be “content-neutral”. Content-neutrality requires the State not to restrict speech on the basis of its communicative content, or its message. It does allow the State to restrict speech on the basis of its effects, insofar as those effects are independent of its content. To take an example: we have laws against arson not because we disagree with a pyromaniac’s philosophy, which he tries to communicate by burning buildings, but because the State has a legitimate interest in protecting property against destruction. Content-neutral restrictions are also called “time/place/manner” restrictions, because they tend to regulate when, where or how persons might exercise their right to free speech without censoring its message.
There are many ways to disseminate a political message. Some, like television and newspapers, are capital-intensive. Others, like leafletting and putting up political posters, are not. Well-financed political parties are in a position to avail of the former media much more than newer, more poorly-funded parties. Correspondingly, newer/poorer political parties must – of necessity – resort to the latter media. We can therefore see how a formally neutral, T/P/M regulation nonetheless casts differential burdens upon different speakers and, correspondingly, privileges one form of political message over another (readers will note the similarity with disparate impact in discrimination law).
At the heart of the Court’s opinion is the following idea: while government may regulate the time, place or manner of speech, it cannot foreclose an entire medium of communication. This is especially true when the medium in question is an important and vital artery for participation in public and political debate, especially for people who would not otherwise be able to do so. In this context, the petitioners’ argument – that, belonging to a new, poorly-funded party, this was their only realistic method of political communication – acquires strong constitutional force.
So while the Delhi High Court insisted that the municipality’s policy must be content-neutral, it failed to consider the fact that sometimes regulating a medium itself sacrifices the ideal of neutrality. Given the tenor of the rest of the judgment, this is not very surprising, but it the Court’s refusal to engage with an issue that has crucial 19(1)(a) implications is disappointing.
City of Ladue vs Gileo was cited by the petitioners. The Court chose to dismiss it in a line, on the ground that the American First Amendment is absolute while Article 19(1)(a) is not. As we pointed out in the previous post, that is quite simply incorrect. And as this post should make clear, Gileo represents a deep and thoughtful discussion of issues that are as germane to Article 19(1)(a) as they are to the American First Amendment. It bears repeating once more that this disturbing trend of refusing to even engage with American First Amendment jurisprudence on entirely unpersuasive grounds of textual difference is constitutionally damaging. We do not have to follow, or even agree with, American cases. But the least we can do is to take seriously the arguments and debates that are equally relevant to Article 19(1)(a), and address the issues that they raise.
Time/place/manner jurisprudence, with all its attendant complexities and nuances, is still at an embryonic stage in India. While the Delhi High Court decision deals it a severe set back, we can continue to hope for course-correction at a future stage.
Yesterday, in Anil Bhatia vs NCT, a division bench of the Delhi High Court held that under the Delhi Prevention of Defacement of Property Act, the State may prohibit people from putting up political posters upon their private property, without the prior consent of municipal authorities. Insofar as the Court also clarified that the regulation of posters on private property must only be on content-neutral grounds, it is arguable that the case arrives at a correct outcome (for reasons which will be explained). Nonetheless, the judgment suffers from numerous conceptual confusions, which effectively continue and accelerate the creeping expansion of Article 19(2) (and correspondingly, the creeping evisceration of Article 19(1)(a), which has long been a staple feature of Indian free speech jurisprudence.
Section 3 of the Defacement Act penalises the defacement of property “in public view”. Defacement is defined as “marking with ink, chalk, paint or any other material”. Section 6 authorises the Lieutenant-Governor to order the erasure of any such defacement. It was argued by the petitioners – members and volunteers of the Aam Aadmi Party – that in light of Article 19(1)(a) of the Constitution, the Defacement Act was not applicable to the act of putting up political posters on the walls of their own homes – and that in the event and to the extent that it was, it was unconstitutional.
At this point, it is important to pause and notice a crucial distinction between two kinds of speech-regulation. First, there is content-based regulation, that restricts speech on the basis of its communicative message. Obscenity laws and hate speech laws are classic examples of content-based speech restriction. Secondly, we have time-place-manner regulation, which is content-neutral, but regulates speech on the basis of its effects. For instance, a rule prohibiting loudspeakers in a park after 10 PM is content-neutral, because it is not based on what a person is saying, but on the fact that there is a legitimate State interest in maintaining tranquility in public spaces after a certain time. To take a more extreme example – laws against arson are content-neutral not because they prohibit a pyromaniac from “expressing” his philosophy, but because they are aimed at protecting public property.
The last example shows us that a content-neutral law is not, strictly speaking, a restriction (in the constitutional sense) upon the freedom of speech. It affects how one can speak (what medium one can use, in which spaces and at what times), in service of State purposes that are entirely independent of what the speaker is saying. The distinction is not absolute, because the more extensive time/place/manner restrictions become, the closer they get to actually restricting vast swathes of free speech; it is also possible to justify most content-based restrictions under some time/place/manner grounds. The enquiry, therefore, must be sensitive to fact and context.
The core point, however, is that once a restriction is classified as a content-neutral, time/place/manner regulation, then the issue of 19(2) does not arise. 19(2) tells us when the State may, by law, place reasonable restrictions upon the freedom of speech; T/M/P regulations, however, ex hypothesi are not restrictions upon the freedom of speech, but regulations determining the method of its exercise. This explains why in Novva Ads and In Re Noise Pollution, the two Supreme Court cases the High Court relied upon, 19(2) was not at issue. In Novva Ads, the regulations on public hoardings were justified on T/P/M grounds, and consequently there was no 19(1)(a) violation; in In Re Noise Pollution, the Court held that the right to live in a tranquil environment was an Article 21 right, and therefore, the freedom to use loudspeakers could be curtailed in the interests of protecting the citizenry’s Article 21 rights.
If the Court had limited itself to classifying the Defacement Act as a T/P/M, it would have remained over-broad and problematic, but legally defensible. However, the Delhi High Court then proceeded to justify the Defacement Act under Article 19(2). This raised an immediate problem, because 19(2) categories were never meant to deal with T/P/M restrictions. Consequently, the Court was required to perform numerous contortions to fit the Defacement Act within the contours of 19(2). It did so through an expansion of “public order” and “decency”.
With due respect, this is utterly absurd. A building that is an “eyesore” for someone else has nothing to do with public order! Public order is a term of art, and in a series of decisions in the 1950s and 60s, the Supreme Court clarified its meaning. In Ram Manohar Lohia, for instance, the Court famously propounded its concentric circles theory: “security of the State” belonged within the genus of “public order”, which, in turn, belonged within the genus of “law and order”. This makes it clear that “public order” is a term that is about preventing public disturbances and maintaining public peace.
It is hard to imagine a more callous attitude towards core civil liberties, like the freedom of speech. In Rangarajan’s Case, the Supreme Court had made it clear that the heckler’s veto could not be a ground of restricting speech; here, the Court constitutionally sanctifies the heckler’s veto by holding that the “short fuses” of Delhi’s residents constitute a ground for restricting political posters.
The Court’s invocation of the 1957 Supreme Court judgment in Ramji Lal Modi as the only authority for this proposition is baffling, because much water has flown under the bridge in the fifty-eight years after Ramji Lal Modi was decided. In Modi, the Court rejected the argument that there must be a proximate link between speech and public disorder for it to be legitimately restricted. Three years later, however, in Ram Manohar Lohia, the Supreme Court reversed its position, and held (correctly), that 19(2) authorised the State to make restrictive laws not simply “in the interests of public order” (which was a boundless and boundlessly manipulable standard), but satisfying the requirements of “reasonableness” as well. This requirement could be fulfilled only by demonstrating a proximate connection between speech and public disorder. This position has been consistently upheld since Lohia, in cases such as O.K. Ghosh and Kameshwar Prasad; in Rangarajan’s Case, the Court explicitly said that the requirement of proximity must be like that of a “spark in a powder keg”, and in Arup Bhuyan’s Case, the Court adopted the American standard of “incitement to imminent lawless action”. It is submitted, with respect, that no matter how short the fuses of Delhites might be, and however many violent parking disputes might take place, putting up a political poster upon the walls of one’s privately-owned property is neither incitement to imminent lawless action, nor a “spark in a powder keg” towards public disorder. In relying solely upon Ramji Lal Modi for the proposition that Delhites’ short fuses imply that political advertisements will have a “tendency” towards public disorder, and that therefore the State can restrict them, the Court simply ignores the reasonableness requirement under Article 19(2), and all the cases that have interpreted it.
Decency, therefore, refers to constitutional decency – that is, conforming to the standards and values espoused by the Constitution. It is unclear what the Court intends it to mean here, but it does not seem to match what the Supreme Court actually said in the case that it relies upon.
This strange and twisted interpretation eviscerates the distinction between political and commercial speech, that has been accepted by the Court (with some modifications) from as far back as Hamdard Dawakhana’s Case, in 1959. Supreme Court cases, without exception, have recognised the crucial importance of political speech to a thriving democracy, which rests upon informed political decision-making. Sometimes, the Court has held that commercial speech also deserves a similar protection to political speech, because it plays the crucial role of informing consumers in a market economy (Tata Press vs MTNL). So there is some authority for the proposition that the protection accorded to commercial speech can be scaled up; here, however, the Court decides to scale down the protection accorded to political speech because, in its opinion, it is simply identical to hawking a product on a market. Whatever the normative arguments for and against this proposition, it is entirely inconsistent with the idea of republican democracy, that lies at the heart of Article 19(1)(a), and has been so held consistently by the Supreme Court.
Ultimately, in paragraph 37, the Court asked the municipality to frame a policy regulating the putting up of posters on private property, and required the policy to be content-neutral. Depending upon how the policy is ultimately framed, the actual damage to free speech might not be great. The Court’s reasoning, on the other hand, recklessly expands the scope of Article 19(2) to an extent where Article 19(1)(a) retains little meaning.
Before concluding, two brief points: in paragraph 27, the Court rejects relying upon an American precedent, on the ground that the American First Amendment is absolute, while Article 19(1)(a) is subject to reasonable restrictions. It is astonishing how deeply this canard has taken hold in Indian free speech jurisprudence. The American First Amendment is not absolute. It authorises obscenity laws, consumer fraud legislation, medical malpractice laws, copyright, laws prohibiting true threats and blackmail, and fighting words. With respect, refusing to engage with carefully reasoned American judgments on the basis of a cosmetic difference in text is no more than intellectual lethargy.
At this point, one might ask: if propagating political ideology is not a fundamental right under Article 19(1)(a), then what is?
The Delhi High Court judgment in Anil Bhatia is deeply damaging judgment to civil liberties and – it is submitted – ought to be overruled.
The Bangalore Mirror reports that “Karnataka has brought most offences under the Information Technology Act, 2000, and Indian Copyright Act, 1957, under the ambit of the Goonda Act.” The Goonda Act allows the Government to detain a person for upto one year “with a view to prevent him from acting in any manner prejudicial to the maintenance of public order.” “Acting in any manner prejudicial to the maintenance of public order” is, in turn, defined (for a “Goonda”) as “when he is engaged, or is making preparations for engaging, in any of his activities as a goonda which affect adversely or are likely to affect adversely the maintenance of public order.” Under the new amendments, actions contrary to S. 67 of the IT Act – which proscribes publishing “any material which is lascivious or appeal to the prurient interest” – have been brought within the ambit of this legislation.
There are many reasons why prior restraint is considered especially damaging to the freedom of speech and expression. It places the censorial power in the hands of an administrative or executive authority (as opposed to a Court). It makes it much easier for the government to censor material (than it would be if it had to take upon itself the burden to approach a Court and demonstrate to the judiciary why said material needs to be censored). And unlike in cases of subsequent punishment for speech – where the speech or expression in question is already circulating in the public sphere – prior restraints choke off access to the public sphere itself. In other words, it gives the government exclusive control over what material can or cannot be allowed to enter the marketplace of ideas.
These cases demonstrate that the Supreme Court requires the State to demonstrate a very high threshold before it can justify restricting speech on public order grounds. The reasons for this are very clear: ultimately, maintaining public order is the task of the State (via its police force). By preventing a citizen from speaking because public disorder will apparently result, the State not only curtails the exercise of constitutional rights, but also abdicates its own responsibility of maintaining public order, instead placing that burden upon the speaker. This is why public order restrictions are limited to cases where speakers are inciting already inflamed mobs to immediate violence (“spark in a powder keg”), because sometimes the extreme urgency of that kind of a situation might require the State to take immediate action against the speaker, both for his own and for general security.
The Goonda Act, with its wide-ranging preventive detention provisions for a whole host of offences (295A, 153A, 67 IT Act and so on) takes no account of the Supreme Court’s carefully crafted proximity requirement between speech and public order. Consequently, it is over-broad: i.e., it prohibits speech that it is entitled to prohibit (that bearing a proximate connection with public order), and that which it is not entitled to prohibit (all other kinds of speech). This makes it clearly unconstitutional. It is to be hoped that the Act will be swiftly challenged before the Courts, and struck down – or at least, the offending portions severed from the rest.
Reports today indicate that an FIR has been filed against a woman – Sheeba Aslam Fehmi – for remarks strongly critical of the prime-ministerial candidate, Mr Narendra Modi. The content of the remarks is available at the link posted above. We do not need to go into much detail here: our previous discussion about free speech on this blog – especially the public order restriction – indicates very clearly that the Supreme Court – in cases such as Ram Manohar Lohia, K.A. Abbas and S. Rangarajan, to name just three – has insisted upon a rigorous standard before a public order defense to restricting free speech can be sustained. Recall that in Lohia, a man expressly telling villagers to break the law by not paying taxes was found to be exercising his right of free speech; and in the film censorship cases, the Court insisted that the relevant public order test was akin to setting off a “spark in a powder keg” – which basically refers to situations such as inciting an excited mob to commit direct and immediate violence. Suffice it to say that S. 66A, IT Act must be interpreted within the bounds of 19(2), as must provisions of the Penal Code relating to disturbing communal harmony – and in no way do remarks critical – strongly critical, even virulently critical – of politicians, even if deemed “anti-national” – whatever that might mean! – can be stifled. This is a blatant violation of 19(1)(a), and will hopefully be dealt with accordingly.

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