Author: Prince Singh, School of Law, Christ University, Lavasa Campus, Pune
Introduction
Political discourse in India has been hogged in recent weeks by the Constitution (One Hundred and Thirtieth Amendment) Bill, 2025, brought in the Parliament by Union Home and Cooperation Minister Amit Shah. Coupled with the Union Territories (Amendment) Bill and the Jammu and Kashmir Reorganisation (Amendment) Bill, this constitutional amendment bill has initiated acrimonious debates. Its fundamental provision is straightforward but revolutionary: any minister—whether the Prime Minister, a Chief Minister, or one of the Cabinet members—if arrested for over 30 days in relation to an offence liable to five years or more, shall ipso facto vacate office.
On the surface, this bill appears progressive, even noble. It resonates with a familiar demand: cleansing politics of criminality and restoring the moral integrity of public life. After all, over 46% of the newly elected Lok Sabha MPs face criminal charges. To many citizens disillusioned with political corruption, this bill offers a straightforward solution.
But democracy seldom flourishes in terms of simplicity. Underneath the moral grandeur is a battery of risks that may destabilize governance itself. What appears to be a movement toward accountability can actually turn out to be an instrument against dissent, a means of diluting political opposition, and a direct attack against the principle of natural justice.
This piece contends that although the intention of promoting public morality is noble, the vehicle of this bill is fundamentally flawed. It threatens to legitimize unlawful detention, weaken judicial processes, and undermine democratic stability in a manner that can be far more detrimental than the illness it attempts to heal.
The Context: A Bill Born of Controversy
This bill did not happen in a political vacuum. It comes under the immediate context of Delhi Chief Minister Arvind Kejriwal’s arrest, where despite being in custody for long hours, he did not offer to resign. To many in the ruling class, this presented an uncomfortable question: should those facing serious charges, and unable to discharge their constitutional functions from prison, be allowed to occupy the highest executive offices?
Amit Shah styled the bill as a response to “raise the falling standards of morality in public life.” In intent, few would not concur. In practice, however, democracy is supported by institutions, not by intent. The issue is not the need for accountability to be enforced, but the perilously blunt instrument with which it intends to be enforced.
The Problem of Presumption: Innocent Until Proven Guilty
At the core of contemporary legal systems is a cardinal principle: innocent until proven guilty. The amendment, by acting on mere detention as a reason for removal, turns this principle upside down.
Consider the case of Satyendra Jain in the Delhi liquor policy controversy. He was detained for over a year and a half, only for the court to later find insufficient evidence even to frame charges. Had this bill been in place, Jain would have lost office long before the judiciary cleared him, rendering his political downfall irreversible despite legal vindication.
This is not a standalone risk. India’s judiciary is characteristically slow. The National Judicial Data Grid (NJDG) indicates bail pleas in criminal matters take an average of 6.12 months, and sessions court trials of serious offenses take an average of 4.65 years. Given this context, the bill’s 30-day deadline to obtain release appears less like protection and more like a trap.
The “Caged Parrot” Problem: Weaponizing Investigation Agencies
The risks are compounded when one takes into consideration the political abuse of investigation agencies. The Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) and the Enforcement Directorate (ED) have repeatedly been accused—even by the Supreme Court—of acting like “caged parrots,” their autonomy undermined by political pressure.
Recent instances are legion: Sanjay Singh, Satyendra Jain, and Hemant Soren have all been arrested who were subsequently questioned for insufficient tangible evidence. If ouster from office is linked to detention, the central government could practically decimate opposition leaders by pressuring agencies to obtain extended custody.
The amendment, rather than purifying politics, threatens to legitimize just this kind of abuse. It would provide a legal fig leaf for what is, in reality, a political tactic. And although ministers can in theory be reinstated after release, the political harm—lost impetus, besmirched reputation, reduced credibility—cannot be reversed.
Lessons from Abroad: Why Comparisons Fail
Proponents of the bill contend that such provisions are not unprecedented. In the United Kingdom, ministers are covered by a Ministerial Code that requires them to resign in case they are charged with criminal offenses. In France, the “Balladur Jurisprudence” follows similar expectations.
These analogies are however misleading. In those jurisdictions:
The judicial backlog is much smaller. A resignation on charge is not equivalent to political exile for years.
There is flexibility built into these. These are conventions, not constitutional strictures. These provide leeway for context, for discretion, and speed in judicial resolutions.
India, with its huge backlog, politically sensitive investigations, and lengthy trials, is a very different terrain. Transplanting alien practices without tailoring them to local circumstances can lead to constitutional chaos.
The Practical Impossibility of the 30-Day Rule
The bill presumes that a blameless minister can readily get bail within 30 days, but this is almost fantasy. India’s judicial process is not so speedy—it moves at glacial speed, frequently slowing to a crawl under the sheer weight of unresolved cases.
Applications for bail in criminal offenses are decided in 6.12 months on average. Even a simple plea for bail typically entails several hearings, adjournments, and the convenience of prosecution as well as defense.
More incriminating is the serious criminal cases figure in sessions courts, which get an average of 4.65 years to be disposed of. So a case that makes a serious charge—exactly the type of cases that this bill aims at—would, on average, last longer than the duration of a legislature.
In this context, the 30-day requirement of the bill is not only unrealistic, it is almost unreal. It creates a bar that even the justice system itself is incapable of crossing. The ministers would, in effect, be penalized not for their wrongdoing, but for the inevitability of tardiness of India’s courts.
This is what is so unsettling: it establishes a constitutional mechanism presupposing a degree of judicial efficiency that India simply does not have. The end result would be wholesale removals from office for reasons other than established wrongdoing, but rather for systemic backlog and investigative delay. Rather than raising the bar of morality, this would bring governance down to a game of judicial luck.
The Alternative: Fast-Track Courts, Not Arbitrary Removals
If the actual intention is to stem criminalization of politics, there are other options. One viable option is creating speedy courts specializing in elected representatives’ cases.
Rather than validating detention as a reason for removal, these courts could provide for quick trials and judgments. This would bring accountability in line with judicial decisions, not suspicion. This type of court has been tested in India previously, and expansion could serve the same moral objective without compromising natural justice.
The Risk to Democracy: Destabilizing Governance
The wider threat of this bill is to the governance of the country. Picture a situation in which opposition leaders are targeted en masse and arrested. Within a month, they are out. Even if the courts later acquit them, the harm is already done. A crippled opposition cannot serve as an effective check on government authority. Worse than that, constant sacking of ministers may destabilize state and central governments, bringing about a revolving door government where policy continuity is an impossible dream. Democracy doesn’t just live on elections but also on stable institutions capable of weathering arbitrary shocks. This bill imperils just that stability.
A Cure Worse Than the Disease
The Constitution (130th Amendment) Bill of 2025 aims high: restoring political integrity, cleansing corruption, and setting new standards of morality. But noble intentions cannot justify dangerous mechanisms. By equating detention with guilt, by ignoring India’s judicial realities, and by empowering politically compromised agencies, the bill risks becoming a cure worse than the disease.
Yes, India has to face the unpleasant reality that almost half its legislators have criminal cases against them. But the answer cannot be to cut short due process. It has to be to enshrine the rule of law, speed up trials, and make sure justice is not only done but done in a timely manner.
Democracy, as B.R. Ambedkar reminded us, is a “top dressing on an undemocratic soil.” Patient tending of institutions and not expedience can alone ensure its survival. The proposed amendment, instead of cultivating that soil, has the potential to poison it. In trying to restore morality, it may destroy justice.
FAQS
Q1. Isn’t it good to have a strict law that removes tainted politicians quickly?
It may sound good in theory, but in practice this bill punishes ministers based on detention, not conviction. Given the slow pace of India’s courts—where bail takes about 6 months on average and serious cases nearly 4.65 years—the “strictness” becomes arbitrary. It targets individuals before they’ve had a fair trial.
Q2. But don’t other countries like the UK and France have similar rules?
Not really. The UK’s ministerial code and France’s Balladur jurisprudence are conventions, not rigid constitutional mandates. They work because those countries have much faster judicial processes and fewer pending cases. Importing them wholesale into India ignores the reality of judicial delay and politically motivated investigations.
Q3. Can’t ministers just return once they are acquitted or released on bail?
Technically, yes. But politics doesn’t wait. A minister removed for months or years loses political momentum, credibility, and public trust. Even if acquitted later, the political damage is often irreversible.
Q4. What about the fact that 46% of MPs face criminal charges? Doesn’t that justify this bill?
The criminalization of politics is indeed a crisis. But the solution should be fast-track courts that decide such cases swiftly and fairly—not automatic removal after 30 days of custody. This approach preserves due process while ensuring accountability.
Q5. Could this bill be misused by the ruling party?
Yes, and that is the biggest risk. With investigative agencies often accused of being politically influenced, the ruling party could have opponents detained for prolonged periods to engineer automatic removals. This would tilt the balance of democracy dangerously in favor of those in power.
