The Indian Constitution, often revered as the bulwark of democratic governance, is once again at the centre of contentious debate. The introduction of the Constitution (One Hundred and Thirtieth Amendment) Bill, 2025, in the Lok Sabha has triggered a storm of legal and political argument. The Bill seeks to amend Articles 75, 164, and 239AA of the Constitution, extending its ambit to Union Territories and the sensitive region of Jammu and Kashmir. On the face of it, the proposal promises to strengthen constitutional morality by insisting that Union or State Ministers, including Chief Ministers, must step down if they remain in custody beyond thirty consecutive days on charges that carry a potential sentence of five years or more. Yet beneath this ostensibly moralistic reform lies a dangerous potential to erode the very democratic values it claims to protect.
The premise is deceptively simple: if a minister is detained beyond thirty days, resignation becomes mandatory. The government argues that such a mechanism will uphold the sanctity of public office, prevent those facing serious allegations from clinging to power, and reassure citizens that their leaders remain above reproach. At a time when public trust in politics is waning, such promises resonate with a weary electorate disillusioned by corruption scandals and the apparent impunity of the political class. However, while the intent may appear noble, the implications reveal themselves to be deeply problematic.
The proposed amendment creates what might be termed a constitutional “kill switch” for regime change. In practice, it means that an opposition Chief Minister or Union Minister, if arrested and held in custody for thirty-one days, must vacate office, regardless of whether guilt has been proven or trial has commenced. In India’s volatile political landscape, where electoral margins are often thin and governments precariously balanced, the consequences could be seismic. Arrests could become the preferred tool of political manoeuvring, reducing governance to a game of strategic detentions. Judges, tasked with granting or denying bail, would find themselves at the heart of political calculations. Lawyers, already key actors in high-stakes litigation, would assume disproportionate influence in shaping political outcomes. In essence, police officers, judges, and lawyers—institutions meant to remain impartial—would become unwilling participants in partisan combat.
The dangers are particularly acute for opposition leaders heading into elections. History shows that such provisions are rarely applied against ruling parties. Instead, the primary targets would be opposition Chief Ministers, who, once arrested, would not only be prevented from campaigning but also risk leaving their parties rudderless. Legislators deprived of leadership would become vulnerable to inducements and intimidation, potentially altering electoral outcomes. Consider a scenario where a popular opposition Chief Minister is arrested weeks before polls. Even if later released, the damage would be irreparable, as elections would already have been fought and lost without their participation. The precision timing of arrests under such a regime would allow rivals to manipulate democratic outcomes with chilling accuracy. The amendment also exposes India to the dangers of institutional erosion seen in other democracies. Pakistan offers a cautionary tale. Nawaz Sharif, disqualified by Pakistan’s Supreme Court in 2017 on charges widely seen as politically orchestrated, remains a case study of how legal instruments can hollow out democracy. Imran Khan, once the darling of Pakistan’s establishment, later faced imprisonment and exclusion from politics, despite retaining mass popular support. The judiciary, by becoming complicit in political vendettas, weakened democratic processes rather than safeguarding them. In both cases, legal morality cloaked political manoeuvres, weaponising constitutional provisions to delegitimise opponents. India risks sliding down the same slope if this amendment transforms judicial and police authority into instruments of regime engineering.
Proponents argue that the measure is necessary to ensure ministers do not misuse office while under legal scrutiny. They contend that if leaders are genuinely innocent, they can return to power after being acquitted. But this argument ignores the realities of India’s protracted judicial system, where cases can drag on for years, if not decades. To mandate automatic resignation on the basis of prolonged custody is to punish without conviction. In doing so, the amendment undermines a fundamental tenet of democracy: the presumption of innocence. Arrest and custody are not proof of guilt; yet under this law, they would suffice to alter political destinies irreversibly.
Moreover, the Constitution already provides remedies to address ministers facing serious charges. Portfolios can be reshuffled, duties reassigned, and legislatures held accountable to voters. Democracies thrive on self-correcting mechanisms, not draconian constitutional shortcuts. The proposed amendment, in its pursuit of political expediency, risks destabilising the separation of powers, placing disproportionate authority in the hands of enforcement agencies, and emboldening ruling parties to exploit the law for partisan gain. Another troubling aspect is the symbolism of normalising arrest as a political tool. When democracy is reduced to a cycle of incarcerations and disqualifications, the public perception shifts dangerously. Citizens may begin to see leadership as determined not by ballots, but by police stations and courtrooms. The corrosion of trust in democratic institutions can be more devastating than the misconduct of any individual minister. Once entrenched, this perception creates an enduring cynicism, one that no constitutional provision can easily reverse.
Supporters insist that the Bill represents a promise of clean politics. Yet critics counter that such promises often cloak attempts at power consolidation. The line between prosecuting corruption and silencing dissent is notoriously thin. To use constitutional amendments as tools for political engineering risks transforming the supreme law of the land into an instrument of vendetta.
India must therefore tread carefully. The lessons from Pakistan are stark: when unelected institutions such as courts and enforcement agencies are weaponised to dislodge popular leaders, democracy does not strengthen—it collapses. The Constitution should safeguard citizens’ rights, not provide shortcuts for political rivals to eliminate competition. If passed, the amendment may prove to be a remedy worse than the disease. The true strength of a democracy lies not in eliminating its opponents through incarceration, but in confronting them in the electoral arena. Rulers come and go, but institutions must endure. India’s founders designed a Constitution robust enough to weather crises without compromising its democratic core. It is this resilience that has allowed the republic to flourish for more than seven decades. Undermining that design for short-term political advantage could leave scars too deep to heal.
The proposed 130th Amendment thus stands at a crossroads: a choice between reinforcing constitutional morality and succumbing to political expediency. If the intent is indeed to uphold probity in governance, mechanisms must be devised that safeguard due process, judicial independence, and electoral fairness. Without such safeguards, the amendment risks transforming India’s proud democracy into a fragile polity where arrests dictate elections and legal battles decide governments.
At its heart, democracy is about the people’s right to choose their leaders freely, without coercion or manipulation. No amendment should compromise that principle. In the end, the ruler is not a police officer or magistrate, but the voter. Any law that forgets this truth threatens not just opposition parties, but the very fabric of India’s democratic experiment.
(the writer can be reached at dipakkurmiglpltd@gmail.com)
Dipak Kurmi
Friday, August 22, 2025