I am grateful to Professor Mathew John for his deep and rigorous engagement with A People's Constitution: The Everyday Life of Law in the Indian Republic, and to the editors of this journal for giving me the opportunity to be in dialogue with some of the questions he raises.
A People's Constitution examines the ways in which the Constitution of India 1950 (hereinafter ‘the Constitution’) came alive in the popular imagination almost immediately after its promulgation, so that ordinary people took meaning from its existence, took recourse to it, and argued with it. By focusing on the citizens’ use of constitutional remedies against new state regulations seeking to transform both society and economy, the book shows how laws and policies were renegotiated from below using the state's own procedures.
Firstly, the book demonstrates that the Constitution, despite being a document largely written by political elites in a language that was spoken by a miniscule percentage of citizens, came to structure everyday life. Secondly, it highlights that large numbers of ordinary Indians, often belonging to minorities and marginalized groups, actively engaged in this process, and that a significant number of these constitutional encounters were produced through the new state's attempts to regulate networks of production and consumption.
In his review, John engages critically with the deployment of two of the three concepts highlighted in the title, ‘the people’ and ‘the procedural constitution’. In this essay, I argue that these two need to be understood through the lens of the third concept, that of the ‘everyday life of the law’, which requires a rethinking of how we understand constitutional histories.
A People's Constitution uncovers the deepening reach of the Constitution in the 1950s by focusing on four sets of constitutional encounters arising out of the new state's attempts to transform some aspect of everyday life, be it dietary practices or sexual behaviour. John asks, to what extent are these encounters representative of ‘the people’ who were laying claim to the new Constitution? Are they statistically representative of the people making constitutional claims? Are they ‘exemplars’ of marginal or subaltern groups? Or does their very ability to be adept at using the law to interrupt state policy render them non-marginal? To paraphrase Gayatri Spivak's famous formulation, if a subaltern can speak (and be heard), do they cease to be a subaltern?Footnote 1
John's second set of questions centre on whether constitutional engagement is by itself remarkable. He argues that it is only to be expected that enterprising individuals or groups would always make use of available institutional options when their rights are abridged by elite interests. This set of questions rests on the assumption that social structures and behavior are universalizable across time, geographies, and social contexts, and that once this is modelled, it can be used to explain situations around the world. John searches for a theory that is generalizable, but instead finds a ‘historian's caution for grand arguments that fly in the face of the archive’.
How can the ‘care and attention lavished to ethnographic detail’ offer conceptual tools to understand constitutional transformations? This requires paying attention to how people use or do not use the constitution, rather than making idealized assumptions about behaviour and noting deviations. Doing so requires us not to expect that enterprising individuals or groups always make use of available options, but instead to observe what groups or individuals do when their rights are abridged. How do they see their rights? How do they understand the institutional options? How would we understand ‘enterprising’ in the given context? Why are some groups more ‘enterprising’ than others? At first glance, the challenge by women engaged in sex work against the anti-trafficking laws on the grounds that it violated their right to engage in a trade or profession seems to be an obvious legal argument. Yet, as A People's Constitution notes, these arguments were only made in court by sex workers in countries with a much longer history of judicial review and greater literacy several decades after they were made in India. Also, while women described as prostitutes appeared before the courts in colonial India, their claims had not been framed around the ‘right to work’.Footnote 2 Why did a specific language of constitutional rights get employed by a particular group at the moment of constitutional transformation? What does it mean for sex workers to continue to make the argument in the streets and against the state, even after the Supreme Court explicitly held that the right to trade and profession did not extend to sex work?Footnote 3 As I hope to show in the next section, getting to these questions requires us to think outside the canonical approaches to understanding constitutional law, and to pay attention to everyday life.
I. RETHINKING CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY: THE CASEBOOK OF EVERYDAY LIFE
Constitutional law in the common law world is taught and understood through a set of canonical cases and debates. Constitutional histories are largely understood as an arena of high politics, and the business of legislators, ministers, and judges. Unsurprisingly therefore, the leading histories of the Supreme Court of India have been dominated by the politically high-profile clashes between the judiciary and the executive,Footnote 4 or around central political questions like land reforms and free speech.Footnote 5 Constitutions are imagined to be mainly about dramatic questions of high politics, not quotidian events like tram ticket prices and vegetable vending licenses. Indeed, this is perhaps what prompts John to ask about the omission of canonical civil liberty cases ‘involving subaltern citizens’, like AK Gopalan v Union of India.Footnote 6
The omission, as A People's Constitution explains, is deliberate (though I have explored how the Constitution transforms the field of political civil liberties elsewhere).Footnote 7 As Kim Lane Scheppele describes, the goal of a ‘constitutional ethnography’ is to ‘better understand how constitutional systems operate by identifying the mechanisms through which governance is accomplished and the strategies through which governance is attempted, experienced, resisted and revised, taken in their historical depth and cultural context’.Footnote 8 Thinking about constitutional law and everyday life would require looking beyond spectacular political cases involving politicians like Gopalan. Rather than work with existing categories through which constitutional law is understood, such as ‘free speech’ or ‘freedom of religion’, I chose to look at the emergence of the postcolonial regulatory state through its efforts to transform economic and social life.Footnote 9 The Constitution was not merely a charter of freedoms from the state or an organizational map of power, but it sought explicitly to empower the state to address social justice and economic equality. A People's Constitution argues that it is these goals that often shaped the wording of fundamental rights and the nature of Indian federalism.Footnote 10 Sunil Khilnani observed that the postcolonial state ‘was enlarged, its ambitions inflated, and it was transformed from a distant alien object into one that aspired to infiltrate the everyday lives of Indians, proclaiming itself responsible for everything they could desire, jobs, ration cards, educational places, security, cultural recognition’.Footnote 11 New instrumentalities were created to plan, review, and monitor these programs, and thousands of new laws were enacted by all levels of government, a majority of them dealing with social and economic regulation – in contrast to less than five percent of colonial legislation which dealt with the same subject matter.Footnote 12
Thus, the ‘people’ who become visible in the book emerge from the archive. As John suggests, it is worth asking what they represent, and who is absent. As A People's Constitution indicates, the clusters of litigants discussed in detail were a few of many who challenged the idea of the court being solely the domain of the wealthy and dominant groups.Footnote 13 I echo John's call for more quantitative-based studies of litigation; while underlying the difficulties in doing so, given the poor record-keeping by courts, and the fact that unreported or dismissed cases are almost impossible to trace.Footnote 14
I take John's invitation to explain what is meant by the ‘people’, when these Parsi journalists or Marwari traders have greater wealth and status than, say, the Muslim prostitutes and vegetable vendors, who are closer to what John identifies as subaltern. I argue that ‘marginality’ cannot be reduced merely to class status, but instead has to be understood with specific reference to the conditions of setting up a republic where claims are tied to electoral representation. Thus, the petitioners are indeed ‘electoral minorities’ who find little space in party manifestos or public consciousness, and who belong to groups that are vilified in public discourse.Footnote 15 These groups which had advanced rights claims, rooted in property or customary rights, in the time of colonial India found their options limited after independence. Constitutional law allowed them a mechanism to frame their particular concerns as a general problem. As groups with livelihoods and security at stake, they made adept at using the legal mechanisms, thereby building precedents and pathways for rights which could be used by other petitioners in the future.Footnote 16 As John notes, no constitution can work without some elite who exercise power in the name of the ‘people’. However, what I show is that the Constitution allows for certain marginal groups to reclaim the framework of the ‘people’ from the state in unexpected ways.Footnote 17
This is not to suggest that all marginal groups could engage equally with the Constitution. In a largely agrarian country, peasants and landless labourers are massively underrepresented outside of land law litigation.Footnote 18 That said, the state's presence in rural areas was limited in the 1950s and 1960s, and peasant-based electoral mobilization became a key method for political engagement. As other scholars are beginning to show, the field of constitutional engagement deepened over time to include tribals, Dalits, women, and Muslim backward caste groups.Footnote 19
II. HOW TO READ A CONSTITUTIONAL CASE HISTORICALLY?
Much of the scholarship on constitutional law is written for the lawyers and judges who practice it. Thus, the emphasis is on distilling doctrine, leading to an emphasis on the Supreme Court, bench composition and strengths, and building a linear narrative of precedents by highlighting victories and erasing losses. The focus on judgments erases competing narratives, contingent arguments, and other visions of constitutional order, but also primarily focuses on the identity and ideology of the judge over those of the litigant. Unsurprisingly, the key debates in Indian constitutional law have focused on the role of a judge in a democracy.Footnote 20 Even critical scholarship which engages with social and political forces seeks to explain constitutional patterns through the composition and predilections of judges as a class or as individuals.Footnote 21
A People's Constitution argues that to understand how constitutional law works in India, it is necessary to understand what people (whether they are legal officials or ordinary citizens) believe law is, and what they do with this knowledge as they make decisions in their daily lives. While it is tempting to ask ‘who won the case?’, this is reductive and often unhelpful in explaining people's repeated engagement with law.Footnote 22
It is helpful to return to John's discussion of the Qureshi judgment that forms the basis of chapter 3 in A People's Constitution. The Qureshi case, which challenged a series of cow slaughter bans, is perhaps the best known of all the decisions discussed in the book and was, at its time, the longest decision of the Supreme Court. However, the fact that it was a class action case brought by over 3000 petitioners was rendered invisible. As A People's Constitution shows, this strategy ‘was made possible’ because the question of cow slaughter directly affected the livelihood and economic wellbeing of the Qureshi community of hereditary butchers, and it was not purely a question of religious expression or cultural identity for many elite Muslims. Thus, while elite Muslim political leaders signed on to the cow slaughter bans in north India in a brokered compromise, the Qureshis had no such luxury. Their legal strategy evolved after much experimentation before the district courts and trial courts, where they failed to get remedies because their petitions were not deemed representative enough.Footnote 23 The fact that the Qureshis were a well-networked caste and professional group gave them the resources to draft such a petition.
As we can see, the reappearance of three thousand invisible butchers is not a mere novel fact. It requires us to pay serious attention to why they went to court and what they sought as a remedy. The Supreme Court upheld the validity of the cow slaughter bans in general, provided they were not ‘absolute bans’ applicable to all cattle. It provided a narrow form of relief to the Qureshis by holding that a ban on the slaughter of older and unproductive cattle would be unconstitutional, as it violated the constitutional language that required the ban to be in the economic interest. Given that the bulk of Indian beef came from older or uneconomical dairy animals, rather than cattle bred specifically for beef, this protected the immediate business interests of the petitioners. John echoes much of the existing commentary on the case by suggesting that we should not make too much of this legal victory, noting that the Qureshi butchers could only ply their trade with the threat of interference by state officials.Footnote 24
While I share the critique of the majoritarian reasoning adopted by the judges, which does not make for a liberal or transformative narrative of the Constitution, I would like to pay greater attention to what the parties, who had real stakes in the outcome, made of it. We know that the cow protectionists who had pushed for the ban were incensed with the judgment and circulated several critiques of it.Footnote 25 We also have evidence that the Qureshis repeatedly returned to court for recourse, either when state legislatures tried to evade the prohibition on an absolute ban by fixing an artificial age limit,Footnote 26 or in order to defeat attempts at prosecution when caught with beef. Attempts by the cow protectionists to secure an absolute ban through elections, popular protests, hunger strikes, demonstrations, and violence proved unsuccessful.Footnote 27 The absolute ban was only held constitutionally permissible in 2005 when, after three decades of unsuccessful litigation, the cow protectionists were able to convince the Supreme Court that the cow remained economically valuable for the entirety of its life.Footnote 28 Thus, both the Qureshis and the cow protectionists had to finally mobilize the economic logic behind cow protection to secure their ends. Both the Supreme Court judgments in 1958 and 2005 also underline the structural limitations of constitutional processes in engaging with questions of substantive evidence such as the economic value of cattle.
A People's Constitution does not set out to prove that the Constitution was emancipatory or repressive, but instead to show how it provided a language and a set of processes through which the citizen could communicate with the state and require it to respond. At a time when hundreds of thousands of Indians from all walks of life, particularly minorities and women, are stepping onto the streets, leading mass readings of the preamble and demanding that the Constitution be protected in the face of executive aggrandizement and judicial abdication, it is important to understand the genealogies through which this became possible.Footnote 29 Why does the Constitution, despite its limited framework of rights, the lack of compliance by the state, and the often conservative interpretations by the judiciary, continue to exercise rhetorical power and to shape people's imagination and ethics? The answers cannot be explained merely by the older canons of political theory and doctrinaire analysis, but instead require new non-linear histories and sited ethnographies.