Guest Post: Section 29 POCSO Act — From Guilty Presumptions to Proof of Guilt

(This is a guest post by Angad Kamath, a final year law student at NALSAR University of Law)

Presumption literally means “taking as true without examination or proof”. In Kumar Exports v. Sharma Exports (2009 2 SCC 513), the Supreme Court referred to presumption as "devices by use of which courts are enabled and entitled to pronounce on an issue notwithstanding that there is no evidence or insufficient evidence." In a lawyer’s dictionary, ‘presumption’ can have several meanings – each different from the other. The term is most commonly associated with statutory provisions that require a certain fact to be ‘presumed’ upon proof of other sets of facts – this is also known as a derivative presumption. It can also be used to allocate the burden of proof; the presumption of innocence, in this sense, can be expressed as the right of the accused to shift the onus to prove her guilt on the prosecution. This form of a presumption is described as a foundational presumption; a proposition that the court must initially accept without proof of any fact.

In this piece, I wish to explore the nature of the presumptive clause found in section 29 of the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act 2012 [POCSO]. I argue that Courts have failed to look beyond the commonly associated form of presumption, i.e., the derivative presumption in its interpretation of section 29. I further argue that the non-literal interpretation adopted by some courts has rendered the presumptive clause meaningless, effectively reducing it to a standard of proof clause.

Let's begin by constructing a general presumptive clause, giving it the framework of a derivative presumption.

Section XYZ – “If facts A, B, C are proved, then the court shall presume fact D unless the contrary is proved”. Examples of this type of presumptions can be found in section 139 of the Negotiable Instruments Act 1881 [NI Act], section 113B and 114A of the Indian Evidence Act 1872, and section 35 of the Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances Act 1985.

[General framework formulae: proof of foundational facts occasions separate fact to be presumed – fact presumed can be rebutted]

To further simplify, let us take the example of section 139 NI Act-

“139. Presumption in favour of holder - It shall be presumed, unless is proved, that the holder of a cheque received the cheque, of the nature referred to in Section 138, for the discharge, in whole or in part, of any debt or other liability."

A bare perusal of the section 139 NI Act would suggest that before the presumption (u/s139) becomes available to the complainant, he must show that he is holding a cheque which is ‘of the nature referred to in section 138’. Hence, the facts to be proved (basic or foundational facts) contained in section 138 are extracted below:

"... Provided that nothing contained in this Section shall apply unless: —

(a) the cheque has been presented to the bank within a period of six months from the date on which it is drawn or within the period of its validity, whichever is earlier;

(b) the payee or the holder in due course of the cheque, as the case may, makes a demand for the payment of the said amount of money by giving a notice in writing, to be drawer of the cheque, (within thirty days) of the receipt of information by him from the bank regarding the return of the cheque as unpaid; and

(c) the drawer of such cheque fails to make the payment of the said amount of money to the payee or as the case may be, to the holder in due course of the cheque within fifteen days of the receipt of the said notice."

Now, a conjoint reading of sections 138 and 139 would make it sufficiently clear that only upon proof of facts provided in clause (a), (b), (c) of s. 138, would the benefit of the presumption (that the cheque was issued in ‘discharge of a whole or in part of any debt or any other liability’) accrue to the complainant.

It can be noticed here that the facts proved and the fact presumed is independent and separate from one another, in accordance with our general framework set out above. The fact presumed is an inference drawn upon proof of independent and separate facts. The presumed fact can be rebutted by leading evidence to the contrary.

Now let’s proceed to examine the framework of the presumptive clause provided for in section 29 of the POCSO Act and compare it with our general presumptive clause:

Section 29 – Presumption as to certain offence

“Where a person is prosecuted for committing or abetting or attenuating to commit any offence under sections 3,5,7 and section 9 of this Act, the Special Court shall presume, that such person has committed or abetted or attempted to commit the offence, as the case may be unless the contrary is proved”

Upon a strict literal interpretation, the presumptive clause in s. 29 can be deconstructed as follows –

• Fact to be established/proved - person prosecuted for committing any offence under section 3,5,7,9
• Fact to be presumed - person has committed the said offences.

Put otherwise, if any person were to be ‘prosecuted’ for any offence under sections 3,5,7,9, then the Special Court shall mandatorily raise the presumption of such person having committed the offence unless any evidence to rebut the presumption can be led. 

But courts have taken extremely divergent stands on the interpretation of the word ‘prosecuted’, which falls under the foundational facts category in our general framework.

A division bench of the Calcutta High Court in a recent decision (27 Feb,2020) held as follows —

“The words appearing in section 29 of the POCSO Act "Where a person is prosecuted" embraces a complete exercise on the part of the prosecution to prove the prime allegation set out in F.I.R. corresponding to the charge framed against the accused person during the course of trial, which is of course rebuttable subject to developing a strong case, contrary to that established by prosecution during cross-examination by defence.”

Similarly, the Bombay High Court while examining the effect of the presumption under section 29 POCSO has held —

“It cannot be disputed that no presumption is absolute and every presumption is rebuttable. It cannot be countenanced that the presumption under Section 29 of the POCSO Act is absolute. It would come into operation only when the prosecution is first able to establish facts that would form the foundation for the presumption under Section 29 of the POCSO Act to operate. Otherwise, all that the prosecution would be required to do is to file a charge sheet against the accused under the provisions of the said Act and then claim that the evidence of the prosecution witnesses would have to be accepted as gospel truth and further that the entire burden would be on the accused to prove to the contrary. Such a position of law or interpretation of the presumption under Section 29 of the POCSO Act cannot be accepted as it would clearly violate the constitutional mandate that no person shall be deprived of liberty except in accordance with procedure established by law.” (emphasis supplied)

The position taken by the Calcutta HC and Bombay HC has been similarly adopted by the Madhya Pradesh High Court and Kerala High Court (See, Joy v State of Kerala (2019) SCC Online Ker 783)

On the contrary, in a bail petition filed for offences under POCSO and IPC, the Karnataka High Court, in a bail application, appears to have found favour with the literal interpretation of s. 29 presumptive clause. While denying bail to the accused, the court held as follows — 

“The POCSO Act came into existence in the year 2012. In order to protect children provision has been made under Section 29 of the Act that if once charge sheet is filed and the allegations are available, further the victim statement is recorded, under this factum the Court has to infer the said act has happened by drawing initial presumption. That has to be rebutted only during the course of full dressed trial.”

According to this interpretation, the presumption of guilt is to inferred once the charge-sheet is filed and victim’s statement is recorded, which essentially means, the presumption is raised at a pre-trial stage.

In State v. Tej Kumar @ Tinku the Special Court for POCSO cases (sitting in Delhi) was addressed the following arguments, inter alia, on behalf of the accused -

“ ... that presumption also lies in favour of prosecution in different statues like under Negotiable Instruments Act, NDPS Act, Indian Evidence Act, Prevention of Corruption Act but by the mere fact that some presumption in provided in the statute, complainant/prosecution can not be exonerated from their liability. Rather, it is well settled law that to draw a presumption in favour of complainant under Negotiable Instrument Act, complainant has to prove certain facts.”

Upon a detailed comparison of the presumptive clause found in section 29 of POCSO Act and section 138 NI Act, the court, in line with the Karnataka High Court’s strict literal interpretation concluded as follows –

“But, presumption under Section 29 of the POCSO Act is not similar to the presumption as under Section 139 of NI Act ... To draw a presumption in favour of prosecution, prosecution has to establish that accused is prosecuted for committing or abating (sic) or attempting to commit any of the offences which are mentioned:-(i). under Section 3 of the Act i.e. Penetrative Sexual Assault.(ii). under Section 5 of the Act i.e. Aggravated Penetrative Sexual Assault.(ii). under Section 7 of the Act i.e. Sexual Assault.(iv). under Section 9 of the Act i.e. Aggravated Sexual Assault. Once prosecution is succeeded to establish the aforesaid pre-requisite condition, Special Court is bound to draw a presumption in favour of the prosecution that the said person i.e. accused has committed or abetted or attempted to commit the offence as the case may be unless the contrary is proved.Bare perusal of Section 29 of the Act reveals that the initially burden is upon the accused to show that he was not involved in the said case and once he is succeeded to raise a doubt over a prosecution case or to show his innocence by preponderance of probabilities, onus will be shifted upon the prosecution to prove the guilt of accused.”

If one takes a closer look at the presumptive clause under section 29, the requirement of foundational facts to be proved is conspicuous by its absence. As a corollary, it can be concluded that the presumptive clause under section 29 does not accurately fit in the framework of our general presumptive clause. The absence of clear and discernible legislative instruction on this aspect has led some courts to observe that mere prosecution is sufficient for raising the presumption, while others have opined that the literal and restrictive interpretation may render the clause constitutionally suspect. In order to avoid a potential constitutional challenge, some courts have read in the element of foundational facts having to be proved at trial for the presumption to come alive. In this way, courts have proceeded to interpret the textually different presumptive clause under the POCSO Act in the same manner as the general presumptive clauses found in the NI Act, Evidence Act, etc.

By reference to the cases surveyed above, there appears to be a clear conflict in the interpretation of s. 29 POCSO between different courts as regards the following issues –

1. At what stage does the presumption of guilt embedded in section 29 operate? Does it operate from the commencement of criminal prosecution (i.e. at the time of filing charge-sheet or filing complaint before a magistrate) itself or is it confined only to the trial?
2. What are the foundational facts, if any, that are to be proved for the presumption to kick in and reverse burden to apply?

The answer to issue 1 lies in finding the answer to issue 2 – i.e., we must, firstly, identify the foundational facts, if any, which ought to be proved for the presumed fact of guilt to be inferred. I use the words ‘if any’ consciously because the legislature might have preferred to incorporate a foundational presumption of guilt clause (think of the presumption of innocence – it does not require any facts to be proved for it to operate) as opposed to a derivative presumption (the general presumptive framework captured above is an example of a derivative presumption) that we so commonly find in various statutes. [I am not examining the constitutional validity of the literal interpretation in this piece.]

If the trigger for presumption lies in nothing but ‘mere prosecution’ (as literally interpreted by the Karnataka High Court and Delhi District Court), then the presumption of guilt may have a strong bearing on outcome of bail applications filed before the trial stage, apart from other serious consequences at the trial. The serious difficulty of obtaining bail in POCSO matters may just translate to impossibility if presumption arose upon mere prosecution.

With this background, let us grapple with issue 2 — In the case extracts cited above, it can be noticed that the courts having avoided the literal interpretation route have some commonality in their interpretation of section 29 presumptive clause. I have culled out the common features of their interpretive observations below –

• That the prosecution would have to mandatorily bring on record the facts which form the basis of presumption.
• Upon having brought the facts on record, the prosecution must proceed to prove the facts
• Having proved the facts forming the basis of presumption, the presumption is triggered and the burden to reverse the said presumption shifts upon the accused.

In summary, it can be concluded that initial burden has to be discharged by the prosecution, which can be rebutted by accused by adducing evidence to the contrary.

As observed earlier, in their attempt to save it from a constitutional challenge, courts have resorted to interpreting the unique presumptive clause found in section 29 in the same manner in which derivative presumptions are generally interpreted. No doubt, this interpretation holds the field when it comes to the reading of derivative presumptions (where X fact is to be inferred upon proof of Y fact). But before we apply it to section 29, we must be sure of whether or not the said section is of the nature of a derivative presumption or a foundational presumption (like the presumption of innocence), which has still not been authoritatively pronounced by any court, let alone the Supreme Court. Even if we were to assume for the sake of argument that section 29 is a derivative presumption, the courts have so far failed to articulate the finer details of the foundational facts that need to be proved: What constitutes the specific foundational facts, which if proved, will lead to an inference of guilt?

Generally, most courts have held that the trigger for presumption lies in proof ‘of the primary facts constituting the offence’. On the question of standard of proof, which needs to be met by the prosecution, a division bench of the Calcutta HC in Subrata Biswas v. State of West Bengal [(2019) SCC Online Calcutta 1815] has observed –

“A proper interpretation of the said provision in a case where the person is prosecuted under Section 5 and 9 of the Act (as in the present case) the prosecution is absolved of the responsibility of proving its case beyond reasonable doubt. On the contrary, it is only required to lead evidence to establish the ingredients of the offence on a preponderance of probability.” (emphasis supplied)

With this context, let us now consider if interpretation given to section 29 presumptive clause fits the general notion of a derivative presumption clause.

Three things are now clear. A) That the prosecution will have to discharge the initial burden of proving the foundational facts; B) Foundational facts in the POCSO context are the ingredients of the offence found in section. 3,5,7,9; C) The standard of proof to discharge onus is a mere preponderance of probabilities and not the usual beyond reasonable doubt standard.

Applying this logic, one would realise that if the prosecution is required to prove all the primary facts of the case, then why would a presumptive clause be provided by the legislature in the first place? Generally, if a particular offence has three ingredients to be satisfied – say, X, Y, and Z, a derivative presumption clause would require the prosecution to prove X and Y (foundational facts) upon which the fact Z would be presumed. The function of a derivative presumptive clause, in this manner, is to ‘give the prosecution a very helpful shortcut to proof of the presumed fact’.

We can now compare this with the earlier example of section 139 the NI Act. The complainant is not required to prove the factum of the cheque having been received in discharge of debt or liability if he can establish the foundational facts [Keep in mind that receipt of cheque in discharge of debt is a key element for conviction under s. 138 NI Act]. The burden then shifts on the accused-defendant to rebut the said presumption by leading evidence to the contrary.

Coming back to section 29, the presumptive clause will be rendered meaningless if the prosecution is required to prove of all primary facts of the offence, although to a lesser standard of proof.

What this effectively means is that the courts, in their attempt to save section 29 from a potential constitutional challenge, have read it in such a way that the spirit and underlying essence of the presumptive clause is completely lost. Through its interpretation, some courts have given it an altogether new meaning; the title — ‘presumption as to certain offence’ — has become nothing but a misnomer. Far from being a presumption clause, its functional purpose has been reduced by some to a lowering of the standard of proof required from beyond reasonable doubt to the preponderance of probabilities standard.

Some Thoughts on the Ordinance to Protect Health Care Workers

On 22.04.2020, Ordinance No. 5 of 2020 was passed to amend the Epidemic Diseases Act, 1897. It was a response to the most recent pleas by medical professionals for greater legal protection against physical attacks. I say most recent because this issue has been raised on many a prior occasion, but it only seems to have assumed critical importance for the Union Government now (and saw the results within one day) as doctors threatened not to go to work in the midst of a pandemic.  

Attacking doctors for doing their job is unacceptable and the Ordinance certainly sends out a strong message to anyone who might do so. After all, while regular offences punishable under the Epidemic Diseases Act only attracted punishments of up to six months (at best), the Ordinance has added new offences which carry a jail term of up to five years for standard cases and up to seven years for cases with grievous hurt. There is also a stiff fine and the obligation to pay double the cost of any property damage suffered by the health workers. Surely, anyone would think twice before getting violent with doctors now.

A Temporary Solution

But, before we start high-fiving ourselves on this great new law, let's give it a more careful reading. For starters, this is not a permanent answer to the problem of violence against doctors. The Ordinance will only help doctors if they are working in times of an "Epidemic" as declared under the Epidemic Diseases Act. But, as has been mentioned above, the problem of violence against doctors is one that is not restricted to the extraordinary times we find ourselves in. 

Thus, what we actually have is a very temporary solution to what is a serious and lasting problem. And this temporary solution will become a bigger problem the moment states begin to declare that the Epidemic Diseases Act will no longer be applicable. Then, we will have a strange scenario in which the doctors in some areas will have better "protections" than others.   

The Problem with Criminalising

The fact that doctors and healthcare professionals have been the target of violence across various parts of India is a problem. But passing a law that makes such violence punishable with extremely harsh jail terms and monetary fines is hardly the answer. That healthcare professionals in India have become a soft target for violence suggests many underlying issues. It could reflect a declining trust in doctors. Or even an extreme reaction to doctors' perceived lack of respect for patients, who could be paying through their noses for medical services, and may thus be placed in an already tense situation, both emotionally and financially. 

In the context of Covid-19, the aggressive physical reactions could very well be the consequence of the disinformation that surrounds the disease and the containment measures being adopted to tackle the same. Imagine if you have just got back home after an arduous journey and have, potentially, lost your job because of the lockdown that has forced everyone indoors. You return to a setting where everyone can't stop talking about this virus, but nobody really knows what it does, or what happens to those who are found to be infected. There is no dissemination of verified information about what a quarantine means, or what the conditions of containment buildings are like. Now, if a team of persons flanked by the police come around to "test" you, is it wrong for an individual to try and avoid being tested? 

Criminalising conduct certainly sends a message. But it is a horrific answer to solve a problem that is not entirely of an individual's own making. It might quell incidents of violence against doctors, but it will not help address the mentality which is the cause of such a response. Doing something about the underlying causes would require much more effort than what it takes to simply sign off on a new law. For starters, it would require spending a lot of money on an active information campaign (something that is fairly achievable). In addition to this, it would require a governance of transparency that is open to questions, helps debunk fake news and, ultimately, forces the government to treat its citizens better (perhaps not so achievable given how the Union Government has managed the lockdown so far).  

The Problem with This Manner of Criminalising

Alas, what we are always left with is a law, which brings me to the provisions of the Ordinance. 

The new substantive offence itself is not very problematic. Section 3(2) punishes committing or abetting an "act of violence" against a healthcare service professional. The term "act of violence" goes beyond mere physical attacks and also covers harassment, and "healthcare service professional" goes beyond the medical professionals to all persons empowered under the Epidemic Act to take measures. Where the violence is of the level of causing "grievous hurt" as defined under Section 320 of the Indian Penal Code, Section 3(3) prescribes a harsher punishment. 

I will not speak here about the broad discretion on sentencing conferred by the Ordinance, nor the expropriation clause inserted to threaten individuals with seizure of their houses. Instead, my focus is purely on the problems posed by the procedure prescribed for investigating and prosecuting this new offence. 

Of course, such cases are made cognizable and non-bailable, i.e., the police can arrest persons without warrant, and bail is not a matter of right for them. Such powers are too normalised now to raise eyebrows. But, the same cannot be said about Sections 3C and 3D, both of which create presumptions about the illegal conduct in a manner almost entirely ignorant of basic criminal law and procedure.  

Section 3C

Section 3C requires that the court "shall presume" that a person committed the offence in a prosecution brought under Section 3(3) [grievous hurt caused by an act of violence committed against a healthcare service professional]. Yes, this is similar to Section 29 of the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act, 2012. It is also similar to the law that Maharashtra had introduced criminalising the possession of beef. But the problem is that in both of these examples (and others), such blanket clauses which effectively shift the entire burden of proving a crime onto the accused have been held unconstitutional. 

Instead, the prosecution has been required to prove certain foundational facts, such as whether or not grievous hurt was actually caused by the accused, after which the accused is required to prove her innocence [discussed in detail here]. Based on these judgments, I would argue that Section 3C should be struck down. Even if it is not, courts rarely convict purely on the basis of this presumption (I say this based on handling / reading judgments in child sexual assault cases), which would render Section 3C ornamental at best. 

Section 3D

What makes Section 3C even more peculiar is Section 3D, which requires that the court shall presume the existence of the culpable state of mind required for committing the Section 3(3) offence fo causing "grievous hurt". As I have explained above, this is the extent to which the reverse burden clauses in other laws have been held to be valid, and one would imagine that even in cases under the Ordinance it is Section 3D which will be more important. 

But, where Section 3D parts with basic criminal procedure is by prescribing that an accused person proves that she did not have any such mental state "beyond reasonable doubt". Normally, this is the standard of proof to which the prosecution is tested in a criminal trial. Is it fair, or constitutional, to require that the accused be tested on the same burden? The Supreme Court unequivocally held in Noor Aga [(2008) 16 SCC 417] that it was not. In Noor Aga, the Court looked at Section 35(2) of the NDPS Act, 1985 which carried similar language and specifically held that the accused could not be required to establish facts by meeting this strict standard. 

It beggars belief that the Union Government would be so unaware of basic criminal procedure, which then leaves two alternatives explaining why the Ordinance has Sections 3C and 3D: (i) it is an open challenge to the legitimacy of the Supreme Court, or (ii) it is a strategic move and the government knows the law, but is still using these provisions which look harsh to score brownie points and spread fear. Both of these two alternatives are extremely distressing. 

Even otherwise, it is not a "zero cost" issue if the government repeatedly passes legislation which is, on its face, contrary to law. For the same battles that were fought earlier must now be fought again. Valuable judicial time and effort, not to mention lawyers' fee, must be spent upon merely restating the law. Passing provisions totally shifting the burden of proof on the accused will lead to the police filing chargesheets within 30 days (as required under Section 3A) with little or not facts in support of their case.

Conclusion

The new Ordinance with its harsh punishments for violence against healthcare service professionals is a great solution for governments which remain non-committal to heavy spending on social justice issues and remain antithetical to values such as transparency in governance through a crisis which has upended the lives of crores of citizens. And even though all that is required in passing a law is putting pen to paper, the Ordinance suggests that the Union Government was either ignorant of existing law or actively chose to ignore it — both of the alternatives equally damning.

Of course, the Ordinance will help prosecute persons who commit violence against doctors. But what the Ordinance has also done is tell the citizens that their fears, apprehensions, and misgivings about Covid-19 — created in no small measure due to the failure of governments to spend money and be transparent — are exclusively their problem. Any untoward (though unjustified) reactions arising as a result will not bring the government to account, but will require the citizen to prover her innocence in court. The Ordinance channels the feeling that the Maharashtra police put across bluntly: there are only two choices, lockdown or lockup.

The Complex World of Bail in India's Criminal Justice System

On January 24, 2020, a bench of the Supreme Court comprising Rastogi & Malhotra, JJ, delivered its judgment in State of Kerala v. Rajesh [Crl. Appeal Nos. 154-57 of 2020]. The State of Kerala had challenged an order of the High Court granting bail to persons in a case under the Narcotics, Drugs & Psychotropic Substances Act of 1985 [NDPS Act], arguing primarily that the order was bad since Section 37 of that statute had been ignored by the High Court. The Supreme Court agreed, and set aside the High Court's order.

This Blog has discussed the provisions which impose a burden on an accused to prove innocence at the bail stage, such as Section 37 of the NDPS Act, in some detail (See: here, here, here, and here). Our view is clear: such provisions are a blot on any legal system, let alone a system that purports to guarantee a right to personal liberty and professes a belief in the presumption of innocence. 

Given that the NDPS Act itself takes away that presumption and replaces it with a presumption of guilt, the results in Rajesh should not appear as very surprising. But even so, what is truly remarkable is how the Supreme Court took a legal provision that made it very difficult to get bail, and read it in a way that made it even harder, to a point where the idea of bail is rendered almost illusory in statutes containing such a provision. This scandalous burial of the presumption of innocence takes merely one paragraph (Paragraph 21) and, by the end of it, one wonders whether the Court really considered the consequences of its eagerness to add the veritable bite to the law's bark.

In a scathing assessment, Gautam Bhatia argues that this legal approach reflects the Supreme Court's support for blend of "punitive constitutionalism" that he sees reflected in other areas of the Court's recent work. Reading Rajesh, I would also argue that the decision is a reflection of another tendency of the Supreme Court which is of an older vintage. 

This is the tendency to overemphasise the allegations by considering the "gravity" of the offence and treat them as controlling while deciding an application for bail. Thus, when faced with a case involving allegations of a serious offence, one finds that the rhetoric often becomes eerily reminiscent to conversations people end up having on the lines of "How can you release murderers / rapists / etc. out on bail?", completely ignoring that at the bail-stage what we have are only allegations, and not proof of guilt. Rajesh, for me, is symptomatic of this approach. The moment you read that the case involved a haul of over ten kilos of drugs, and over Rs.13 lakhs in cash, there seems extremely little chance of any other outcome in a bail application, especially where the investigation was still ongoing. 

I wholeheartedly support the position that this approach of the law on the subject of a person's liberty is improper, privileging, as it does, allegations of criminal conduct, and rendering them sufficient to hold persons in custody almost indefinitely. But, at the same time, one must also acknowledge that these features of our "broken" criminal process end up taking a toll on those who knock on a court's door as victims. Indeed, as has been discussed elsewhere, in many instances we find that because the courts know that a conviction is lightyears away, they end up using the bail stage as a way to render justice to the victim by playing up the retributive tendencies. 

In fact, today, in an era of economic crime, there are many prominent examples of courts using the bail stage to secure compensation for a victim. Take, for instance, cases where a court rejects bail to the promoters in various Builder Companies that are being prosecuted by aggrieved homebuyers, unless the accused take steps to compensate the aggrieved victims (as in the case of Unitech). Or, of a person arrested on allegations of having duped countless persons into parting with their savings, where the court makes bail conditional on the accused depositing 50% of the allegedly cheated amount in a fixed deposit to ensure that the ultimate conviction of an accused does not bring a hollow sense of justice. 

How does one understand these cases? Is a court's willingness to go beyond the "alleged" nature of the facts at the bail stage always an instance of the judiciary behaving like executive courts rendering "punitive constitutionalism" and burying liberty? Or, are these actually instances of courts carefully doing justice to litigants in a broken criminal justice system? For me, you cannot look at a decision like Rajesh without also considering these questions, to which there are no easy answers.

Restrictive Bail Conditions in Indian Criminal Procedure: Lessons From History

The law on bail in India has often been discussed on the Blog. Most recently, we analysed the Indian Supreme Court's decision in Zahoor Watali, which revolved around Section 43-D of the Unlawful Activities Prevention Act 1967 [UAPA]; the provision which imposes conditions upon grant of bail in UAPA cases that go beyond the set of conditions laid out in Section 437 of the Criminal Procedure Code of 1973 [Cr.P.C.].

Section 43-D of the UAPA is far from the only example of Parliament creating a law that makes it more difficult to get bail. Indeed, on an earlier occasion, the Blog had offered an indicative list of the statutes carrying such provisions. But a lot was left out in that earlier post in the interests of brevity. Since the preference for such provisions is only increasing with each passing year, it's worthwhile to revisit the subject of restrictive bail conditions in Indian criminal procedure. 

This post takes a look at the first instance of such a provision being used in independent India, when it was added to the Essential Supplies (Temporary Powers) Act of 1946 [ESA] by an amendment in 1950 by the Provisional Parliament. 

Context: Scarcity in Independent India  

It is an undeniable fact that the overall quality of life has seen an increase for a majority of people in India since independence. Keeping that in mind, it is not easy for many of us to imagine the drastic scarcity in essential supplies, such as food and fuel, that India faced in the first two decades after independence. In an effort to manage the limited amount of these essential supplies, the Government chose to continue with a War-time measure of controls that entailed a system of intense state control over both production and distribution (Rohit De offers a window into this world in a chapter of his recent book). The ESA was one of those War-time measures that had been allowed to continue even after independence. 

But each passing month suggested that managing such a vast network of controls was proving too difficult. Thus, rather than curb prices and ensure fair distribution, the intense state control ended up contributing to a thriving black market. Here, supplies would be sold to the highest bidder and so profit would be much higher than what the trader would stand to get by selling material at artificially reduced prices. And this "blackmarketeering" happened by hoarding your supplies; telling customers that there isn't anything left when in fact a certain quantity of supplies was held back to be sold in the black market.

Basically, it became profitable to flout the law. But the costs of this were felt by everyone except the limited minority who could afford to spend large sums of money on the black market. This, naturally, meant that a large majority of the citizens of independent India were increasingly disaffected with the government that promised fair prices for goods and supplies. What was the point of independence, if it meant staying without food? This background helps understand the severity of the problem in the eyes of Parliament, and why it was felt necessary to amend the ESA in 1950 to introduce a stricter penal regime for those flouting the law (among other things).

ESA Debates in the Provisional Parliament: A "War" Against Hoarders

The ESA Amendment Bill was introduced and debated in the Provisional Parliament on August 14, 1950 (Page 1013, Left Column). The Minister for Food and Agriculture was K.M. Munshi, a lawyer who had played an important role through the drafting of the Constitution. 

After reading the different administrative aspects of the Bill, Munshi turned to the penal regime. Besides introducing a new offence with stringent punishment, the Bill also sought to make two changes to prevent persons from taking "advantage of the provisions of the Criminal Procedure Code" and drag out trials. One method was day-to-day trials for ESA crimes. The other, and the one that concerns this post, was introducing Section 13-A and a stricter regime on bail. He acknowledged that the Defence of India Rules were the inspiration for this provision, under which "bail cannot be given unless the prosecutor is heard and the Magistrate is satisfied that there are reasonable grounds for believing that [the accused] is not guilty." He further acknowledged, that "this puts the burden on the other side", but justified the measure as being an "emergency legislation" of some importance and this being a tool to deter people from hoarding. (Page 1020, Right Column).

The proposal did not go uncontested. Jaspat Roy Kapoor — who famously said that the Chapter on Fundamental Rights should have been renamed "Fundamental Rights and Limitations Thereon" — moved a motion to amend the clause which he argued was "against all elementary principles of law and equity" (Page 1097, Left Column). His changes to proposed Section 13-A were twofold:

• Rather than requiring that the prosecution be heard before granting bail, he suggested that the clause only require that the prosecution be given an opportunity to be heard. 
• Rather than require a court be satisfied that the accused is not guilty of the crime before to grant bail, he suggested that the clause should require that a court be satisfied that the accused was guilty of the crime.

The proposed changes were small but of substantial import. By requiring that the prosecution only be given an opportunity of being heard, rather than actually be heard, Kapoor sought to prevent cases where a wily prosecutor might create unnecessary delays to extend incarceration. Similarly, by asking that the court be satisfied about an accused person's guilt before granting bail, rather than be satisfied about her innocence, Kapoor sought to ensure that the clause was in harmony with the presumption of innocence:

It is for the prosecution to make out a prima facie case and not for the arrested person to establish his innocence when nothing has been made out against him. That is — I again submit at the risk of repetition — something astounding and offends against our sense of justice and jurisprudence. You may have a hard law, but let it not be a lawless law. Let it not appear to be ridiculous. After all that is not the way in which legislation should be enacted in a highly democratic Parliament. (Page 1100, Right Column).

The eminent lawyer Thakur Das Bhargava, another veteran of India's Constitutional journey, rose in support of this suggestion and condemned the proposed Section 13-A as "against all canons of justice and law" (Page 1101, Left Column). Naziruddin Ahmad also rose to support the attack on proposed Section 13-A, though, he was not troubled by the negation of the presumption of innocence as much as he was troubled by a fear of selective enforcement of this harsh tool (Page 1104, Right Column). 

The government response was telling. The Minister argued that the measure was hardly against all canons of jurisprudence as it had been part of Emergency legislation in India for a number of years. Removing this stringent bail provision, he argued, would weaken the whole legal apparatus (Page 1103, Right Column). When reminded that the Emergency legislation had been passed in times of War, Munshi boldly replied that "This is a war against hoarders" (Page 1104, Right Column).

Ultimately, Jaspat Roy Kapoor withdrew his amendment, stating that it was "sacred" to him and he sought to "spare it from defeat" (Page 1105, Left Column). Still, the suggested change with respect to giving prosecutors an opportunity to be heard was amended, as was a minor modification suggested by Bhargava on the degree to which a Court must be satisfied of innocence for granting bail. As a result, Section 13-A was brought on the ESA in the following form:

Notwithstanding anything contained in the Code of Criminal Procedure 1898, no person accused or convicted of a contravention of any order under Section 3 relating to food-grains which is punishable under the proviso to Sub-Section (2) of Section 7 shall if in custody, be released on bail or on his own bond unless

(a) the prosecution has been given an opportunity to oppose the application for such release, and 

(b) where the prosecution opposes the application it appears to the Court that there are reasonable grounds for believing that he is not guilty of such contravention. 

The Lasting Legacy of Section 13-A

K.M. Munshi was a supporter of expansive fundamental rights in the Indian Constitution. He was a proponent of having a "Due Process" clause, and when the phrase was culled from the text by the Drafting Committee, he was instrumental in securing its re-introduction through what is today Article 22 of the Indian Constitution. He was part of a group of persons which displayed tremendous ability to imagine an India different from the one they had inherited. One of the key features of this vision, was reducing the scope for individual oppression at the hands of government, by way of guaranteeing fundamental rights. 

At the same time, when faced with a problem of hoarding and food scarcity — which Government policy had partly created — Munshi and the other members leaders of an independent, democratic, republic of India displayed a telling lack of imagination and turned to the War-time measures of a colonial regime that simply invested greater powers with executive officers, while at the same time reducing the potential for checking abuses at the hands of such officers. 

This contradiction between legislative deeds and constitutional vision has continued to repeat itself often in Indian history, and especially if we choose to narrowly focus on the creation of new criminal statutes. Provisions with restrictive conditions on bail are one such example. Again and again, India seems to find itself in an "emergency" situation that needs a harsh procedure to prevent persons from getting bail too easily. Sadly, the government never comes around to telling us just how useful the "lawless laws" were in achieving any of the stated objectives.

The Lawlessness of Land Grabbing Laws? - Part I

In 1982, the government of what was then undivided Andhra Pradesh passed the A.P. Land Grabbing (Prohibition) Act to "curb the unlawful activity of grabbing Government land, a local authority, a religious or Charitable Institution or Endowment including Wakf or any other private property". A central means of achieving this was to create a new offence of "land grabbing" and to create "Special Courts" for dealing with land grabbing cases that would finish them within six months. Inspired by the A.P. model, similar Land Grabbing laws have been introduced in the states of Assam (2010), Odisha (2015 ordinance), and Karnataka (2016). In 2011, in a much-politicised incident the Madras government relied on similar ideas for "better" enforcement of existing laws but chose not bring a new legislation into effect.

This two-part series discusses some problems with the Karnataka version of the Land Grabbing Act. The problems are not restricted to issues with the constitutional validity of the law, but cover more ground that touches broader policy issues. Before proceeding further though, a caveat. Surprisingly, it seems that the constitutional validity of these statutes has rarely come up for scrutiny before the state High Courts. Searching for cases, I only came across constitutional challenges to how the Special Court is constituted under the A.P. law. I couldn't find anything from Odisha or Assam. Thus, whatever I argue here is based on an assumption that the issues have not directly come up before a court yet. If they have, please share the judgment! 

What is "Land Grabbing"? How Serious is it?

Land Grabbers [defined under Section 2(e) of the Act] are persons who engage in Land Grabbing, or abets others in doing so. Land here means land belonging to the government, essentially [Section 2(d)]. As defined under Section 2(f), "Land Grabbing" means:

... every activity of grabbing of any land, without lawful entitlement and with a view to illegally taking possession of such land, or enter into or create illegal tenancies or lease and licences agreements, construct unauthorised structures thereon for sale or hire, or give such lands to any person on rental or lease and license basis for construction, or use and occupation, of unauthorised structures ... 

The definition is not very helpful. It contains a clear "physical conduct" requirement: there must be "grabbing of any land without lawful entitlement". But there must be an associated mental state with this conduct that makes it criminal. Here, this is grabbing land to which you have no title, with a view to (i) take illegal possession, (ii) create illegal tenancies / lease / license deals, (iii) build structures for sale / hire, (iv) hand over the land to someone else to do all of these things. Since you would rarely end up "grabbing" any land which you don't own without wanting to take illegal possession over it, one would think that it isn't too difficult to prove this crime. But more on that later.

This is not the only offence under the statute. Section 5 lists "Penalty for other offences in connection with land grabbing" and criminalises other acts, such as (i) selling grabbed land / advertising about it, (ii) instigating or inciting someone to grab land, (iii) uses grabbed land for any purpose, or knowingly permits it to be used, (iv) enters into deals about constructing on grabbed land, (v) "causes or procures or attempts to procure any person" to do any of the above. Again, one wonders why this was needed given the massive overlap between the two provisions.  

Land Grabbing and all other offences in connection with it, are punishable with at least 1 year and potentially up to 3 years in prison, along with a fine which could go up to Rs. 25,000 [Sections 4, 5]. If that doesn't sound serious enough, note that all offences are cognizable [Section 13]: which means that law enforcement can arrest persons without warrant on suspicion that an offence was committed.  Moreover, since the statute does not provide whether the offence is bailable or not, the Cr.P.C. makes it non-bailable by virtue of it being punishable up to three years in prison. Why would such broad powers be given to states? The definition of "Land Grabber" gives a hint. It is not only talking about persons who take illegal possession. Rather, it focuses on the idea of organised activity geared towards land grabbing. It speaks of "a group of persons or a society" engaging in this, or giving "financial aid" to another for grabbing land or illegally constructing upon it. The definition even speaks of persons "collecting or attempting to collect" money from occupiers of grabbed land by "criminal intimidation", again hinting at organised crime.* It is quite common for organised crime to not be limited to just one activity, which is why allowing police powers of arrest for these things may help them get dangerous persons off the streets. 

That is the logic behind having these powers, but as we know, it is quite common for such powers to be misused. That is a serious concern given how loosely the definition is crafted, and how widely the net is cast. Take a hypothetical: someone tells the police that X is illegally occupying some land. Since illegal occupation would rarely mean that it is not done with a view toward illegal possession, that is enough for police to arrest. Someone needn't even tell the police that actually, as they can do it themselves. The problem goes further: the act penalises a person who "causes or procures or attempts to procure" anyone to engage in land grabbing. This is not a regular law that penalises attempting to commit a crime. It penalises attempting to get someone to attempt the crime - "attempts to procure any person to do any of the above". That theoretically means anyone can be arrested and sent to jail, and practically means that the police have a tool to arrest and jail persons on the pretext of allegedly committing this offence. [See here, and here, for earlier posts that discuss this issue].       

Proving "Land Grabbing" in Court - More Reverse Burdens

Section 11 of the Karnataka Act provides that in any proceedings under the Act, if the government can prima facie prove that the land in question was government owned, then the Special Court shall presume that the person is a Land Grabber, and the burden to prove she is not guilty of the crime lies on the person accused. Using reverse onus clauses - where the state does not have to prove guilt - to make it easy for the government to get convictions is now very common. It is a practice blessed by the Supreme Court, which has held them legal as long as the government proves initial facts to shift the burden on to the accused. Here, the government is asked to prove something: that the land was government owned. Does this justify the shifting of burdens? I am not so sure.       

First, the provision here applies to all proceedings under the Act: which means that at every stage such as bail, initial remand, and the start of the trial, the accused will be contesting innocence. This, at the stage of bail where the accused may not yet have the means to assemble a defence, make the bargain particularly unfair. Second, the state needs to prima facie prove something. But what does it mean to prima facie "prove" anything? The Evidence Act in Section 113-B asks the state to "show" facts, and usually the law asks it to "prove" facts. But prima facie proof suggests a lower standard. If the state already doesn't need to prove guilt, is it legal for the burden to prove initial facts to be even lower than proper proof beyond reasonable doubt? Third, Section 11 asks the government to prima facie prove that the land in question was government owned. Is this enough? Logically, one imagines that the state will also need to prove that the land was being occupied by the accused. Assuming this condition is incorporated into the provision, we come to the remainder of the offence-requirement. The accused would then have to prove that her occupation of the land was not illegal. That seems fine - property documents etc. should be with the accused and this would simply require her to bring them to court. But poor persons often don't have property documents, despite paying good money for being able to live on land which may not even be government land. Eventually then, they are the ones who stand to suffer.      

Summing Up and Next Post 

This post took up two issues with the Karnataka Land Grabbing Act - how it defines the crime of "Land Grabbing" and how it provides for enforcement of the law by the police and by judges. A common theme that emerged was that while the purely legal objections to the statute might be easy to deal with, the real-world problems that the law brings remain unaddressed. Since there is no legal basis to challenge the classification of offences as cognizable and bailable, it means courts cannot act as a check on police powers of arrest and detention. When the legislature confers these powers on the police for the enforcement of vague crimes, which cover not only attempts to commit the crime but attempts to attempt, it invites rather than merely allows misuse. Similarly, reverse burden clauses are now something we can justify as fair when it seems that the accused is not being asked to prove too much. But in imagining this idea of what is "too much", we are assuming a kind of accused person who might be prosecuted: someone who can offer that proof. In context of land grabbing, and many other offences that rely on documentation, the truth is that several people cannot offer those papers. Not because they are violating the law, but because they are poor and vulnerable to oppression by the state machinery which denies them their rights. Does this render a law bad? Unfortunately not.            

The next post will take up issues with the "Special Court" created under the Land Grabbing Act and how it prosecutes and tries offences.

*The definition of Land Grabber is curious. It speaks of collecting rent by "criminal intimidation" as a problem, but does that mean collecting rent without this is not a problem? Going by the definition of Land Grabbing, and associated offences under Section 5, one suspects that the statute is not going to be limited this way.

[Disclaimer: This post was written with inputs from Ms. Nayanatara B.G., a practising advocate who is part of the legal team challenging the legality of the Karnataka Land Grabbing (Prohibition) Act before the High Court of Karnataka, at Bengaluru]

Bail Provisions of Section 45 PMLA Struck Down - Some Hits and Misses

Two days ago, a Two Judges' Bench of the Indian Supreme Court decided a batch of writ petitions led by Writ Petition (Crl) No. 67 of 2017 titled Nikesh Tarachand Shah v. Union of India & Anr. [Nikesh Shah] in which it struck down the parts of Section 45 of the Prevention of Money Laundering Act 2002 [PMLA] which concerned the grant of bail. The Court held that these parts violated Articles 14 and 21 of the Constitution - guaranteeing a right to equality, and protection against deprivation of the right to life and personal liberty by a procedure not established by law. The effect of this judgment is that bail petitions earlier subject to a stringent standard under Section 45 PMLA will now be tested on the less taxing standards of Sections 439 and 437 of the Criminal Procedure Code 1973 [Cr.P.C.]. This post has four parts - (i) explaining how money laundering and the PMLA work (which I'd urge you to skim through even if you're a lawyer, because at times the judgment reflects some lack of knowledge on the Court's part), (ii) charting out how the Court did what it did, (iii) showing where the Court goes wrong, and finally (iv) what this judgment might mean for the many other statutes with similar clauses that have not been examined by the Court yet. 

What is the PMLA, What are the Schedules, and What does Section 45 do?

The PMLA is India's answer to its global commitment to tackle money laundering, which (at the cost of oversimplification) means representing assets obtained through illegal acts as untainted. In line with global standards, the PMLA covers all kinds of conduct connected with this process of representing black as white (doing, aiding, abetting, attempting etc), as long as one knowingly did so [Sections 3 and 4]. The PMLA not only makes this is an offence but also triggers connected civil actions of attaching and confiscating the tainted assets themselves [Sections 5-8]. 

Notice how the entire idea of money laundering is linked to some underlying illegal act which results in generating some proceeds - cash or kind. While some countries don't require that illegal act to be a crime, India does, and the PMLA calls it a 'Scheduled Offence' [Section 2(y)] i.e. offences that are part of the Schedules to the PMLA. There are three Schedules - A, B, and C - and Schedule A contains the bulk of offences and Schedule C is basically the same thing applied in a transnational context. Schedule B contains only one offence - Section 132 of the Customs Act 1962 which criminalises making false declarations before customs officers. Importantly, when the underlying offence is one from Schedule B, the PMLA will only apply if the allegations involve a value of at least one crore rupees. There is no such minimum monetary limit for cases with Schedule A offences. It wasn't always like this, and the history behind these Schedules became quite important in Nikesh Shah which requires me to discuss it here.

When the PMLA came into force in 2005, Schedule A only had two paragraphs carrying offences punishable under the Indian Penal Code 1860 [IPC] for waging war against India and nine offences from the Narcotics, Drugs and Psychotropic Substances Act 1985 [NDPS Act]. Schedule B contained the bulk of offences, along with a lower minimum threshold of thirty lakhs for the value of allegations. Then around 2010 India wanted to join the Financial Action Task Force [FATF] as a member. The FATF is a global body created by the G-8 for money laundering and membership is a big deal [India is the only South Asian member state till today]. When the FATF conducted its evaluation of Indian money laundering laws, it heavily criticised the monetary limit for the cases in Schedule B [paragraph 167 of the linked report]. The logic was that the limit would allow money laundering to escape under the radar as people would just deal in smaller tranches over a slightly elongated period of time. So the FATF recommended the limit be abolished [paragraph 175]. The government sought to do this by simply moving all Schedule B offences to Schedule A, which was done through the 2013 Amendment, leaving Schedule B empty for the time being.

In all this moving around offences, nobody thought fit to look at what impact it would have on the rest of the PMLA - specifically, on Section 45 which spoke about bail. Since the money laundering offence was tied to the Scheduled Offence, Section 45(1) looked at that underlying offence and this decided how difficult it would be to get bail. If it was a Schedule A offence with a sentence of more than three years, the law placed two additional conditions for getting bail: (i) the public prosecutor had to be given a chance to oppose bail, and if the prosecutor chose to oppose bail, then (ii) the court had to satisfy itself that the defendant was "not guilty of such offence" and was not likely to commit any offence on bail, and the burden fell on the defendant to satisfy the court. For all other Schedule A offences, and all Schedule B offences, the regular bail clauses from the Cr.P.C. continued to apply. You can see how the 2013 amendments to the Schedules completely changed the look of Section 45 - the exceptional process became the norm. This new normal was under challenge before the Supreme Court in Nikesh Shah.

SC on Section 45 - Violates Articles 14 and 21
Petitioners argued that the constitutional protections of Articles 14 and 21 were violated by Section 45 PMLA, and the Court agreed to both contentions. Rather than address arguments first and then move to the Court's appreciation, I discuss both together for brevity.

Article 14
The Petitioners argued that linking the stringent bail clauses to offences in Schedule A that carried at least a three year maximum sentence was creating several irrational and arbitrary classifications which the Court encapsulated through examples [Paragraphs 24-27, and 35]. The Court found no basis to differentiate the harsh treatment meted out under Section 45 from the following hypothetical cases which according to the Court did not attract Section 45:

• When there is only the PMLA charge as the trial for the Scheduled offence was complete;
• When the PMLA allegation is based on a Schedule B offence;
• When the PMLA allegation is based on a Schedule A offence carrying a maximum sentence below three years;
• When a person is tried for a Part A offence with at least a three year term (versus a joint trial where the same person is tried together with the person with PMLA charges);
• When the person is released on Anticipatory Bail under Section 438 Cr.P.C. for allegations of the Scheduled Offence, before the PMLA charge was brought in. 

The Court was of the view that the seriousness of money laundering cases depended on the amount of money involved [Paragraphs 29-30]. Since Schedule A had no monetary limits, the Court concluded that the likelihood of being granted bail was being significantly affected under Section 45 by factors that had nothing to do with allegations of money laundering [Paragraphs 26-27]. When the Attorney General attempted to defend the scheme by painting the classification as a punishment-based one, the Court easily rebuffed his argument. First, the Court suggested there was no such scheme, but noted that even then, the idea should have something to do with the object of the PMLA. The Court showed how Schedule A had many offences that didn't seem related to money laundering [taking particular objection in Paragraph 34 to offences under the National Biodiversity Act being there], leaving out others that might have more rational connections to money laundering such as counterfeiting currency [Paragraphs 29-30]. The Court also adversely commented on how Schedule A had lumped different NDPS offences together, at the cost of ignoring how the parent Act treated those offences differently [Paragraph 32-33].

The Court noted also that Section 45 of the PMLA was different from other laws that carried similar requirements such as Section 20(8) of the Terrorism and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act 1987 [TADA]. The 'such offence' in TADA required a court to be satisfied that the defendant was not guilty of the TADA offence in question before granting bail. But in the PMLA, 'such' offence referred to the Scheduled Offence instead of the PMLA offence. So, the restrictions imposed by Section 45 PMLA were held to have no connection to the objects of the PMLA itself and thus the rational classification, if any, violated Article 14 [Paragraph 28].

Article 21
The Petitioners argued that requiring defendants to satisfy the court that they were not guilty of 'such' offence violated Article 21 by reversing the presumption of innocence and required the defendant to disclose her defence at the outset of the case. In the judgment the Court doesn't really address Article 21 independently - instead the Court suggest that because the provision violates Article 14 it cannot be 'procedure established by law' and therefore violated Article 21. Towards the end of the decision the Court begins discussing the argument though. It labels Section 45 a "drastic provision which turns on its head the presumption of innocence which is fundamental to a person accused of any offence." [Paragraph 38]. In the same paragraph it goes on to observe that "before application of a section which makes drastic inroads into the fundamental right of personal liberty guaranteed by Article 21 of the Constitution of India, we must be doubly sure that such provision furthers a compelling state interest for tackling serious crime. Absent any such compelling state interest, the indiscriminate application of section 45 will certainly violate Article 21 of the Constitution. Provisions akin to section 45 have only been upheld on the ground that there is a compelling state interest in tackling crimes of an extremely heinous nature."  

Hits and Misses
There are two questions that were at stake here: (i) did any part of Section 45 offend the Constitution, and if so, (ii) did the Court have no other option but to strike down the provision. Reading the decision, it seems like the Court felt there was so much wrong in the PMLA scheme it decided to throw the kitchen sink at one point rather than explain the issues. The Court answered both affirmatively but never explained to us whether any argument dispositive, or does every case need this sort of broad argumentation to succeed.

Classification and Article 14 first. After reading the legislative history behind the 2013 amendments and the FATF argument, do you think that the Court is right in concluding that higher the monetary allegations, more serious the PMLA case? I'm not so sure. Nor do I think there is much to be gained by placing emphasis (like the Court does) on how Schedule B today has a higher limit than the initial thirty lakhs to suggest that this is in fact the case. It is far more plausible that the one crore limit was placed keeping in mind the underlying offence (false declarations to customs officials in an enquiry) and the concerns of the export industry, which is already subject to Schedule A through Section 135 of the Customs Act 1962 (evading customs duty). Rather than attempt at answering what might be the basis for such a classification for the PMLA (and indirectly giving hints to the government on what might pass muster), the Court would have done well by restricting itself to answering whether the present classification between (i) PMLA allegations based on a type of Schedule A offences versus (ii) all other PMLA cases was intelligible and connected to the objects of the PMLA. As there was enough to show that the original intent (if any) behind Section 45 had not kept apace with the subsequent amendments to the Schedules in 2013, the Court could strike down this classification. But did that require striking down the whole clause?

This brings us to the other part of what did that classification achieve. If it sought to serve as a filter for PMLA cases when it came to administering a strict bail clause, we are left with no filter. Does that mean no PMLA case is serious enough to warrant an application of the clause, or will the clause apply to every PMLA case? Deciding this would need the Court to decide whether clauses such as Section 45 that required a court to find defendants 'not guilty' at the bail stage were constitutional. Rather than directly address this, the Court turned to how the text of Section 45 was flawed, as it referred back to the Scheduled Offence on deciding bail petitions. Since the scheduled classification had been struck down, there was nothing to refer to, and so the clause had to go. While there is little to fault this approach, I remain unconvinced that the Court had no option but to strike down the clause because of the text. The Court has performed far greater feats of legislative reconstruction than being asked to read 'such offence' in Section 45 PMLA as referring to the PMLA allegations rather than only the Scheduled Offence. After all, it stands to reason that a bail provision in the PMLA would want a PMLA special court to consider the PMLA allegations. In fact, many High Court decisions show this is how they were doing it. Heck, this is how the Court itself was doing it in Rohit Tandon at the start of November [Paragraphs 21-23 of the link]. I think this course was adopted as it helped secure two objectives. Not only did this take care of the PMLA clause which this bench of the Court clearly did not like much, it also helped to protect other statutes with similar clauses which the Court held met a 'compelling state interest' test.

This brings me to one last bit about Article 21 and the Eighth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution. The Court cites a previous decision in Rajesh Kumar v. State (NCT) of Delhi [(2011) 13 SCC 706] for the proposition that Article 21 of the Indian Constitution has incorporated the Eighth Amendment and its protection against excessive bail [Paragraphs 13, 19 of Nikesh Shah]. The Court also cites two American decisions [Paragraph 37] on bail for good measure. This is, unfortunately, wrong. Rajesh Kumar cited previous precedent in Sunil Batra to suggest that even though India did not have the Eighth Amendment or the 'Due Process' clause, the consequences were the same to prevent cruel and unusual punishment. Not only did both those decisions not mention the excessive bail clause, the references to the cruel and unusual punishment clause itself are highly contentious as an earlier bench of the Supreme Court had held it couldn't be pressed in India, and that decision continues to be cited. 

Conclusion
The slapdash manner in which the PMLA Schedules were amended in 2013 to appease the FATF had already caused some High Courts to address this issue of Section 45. The closest it came to striking down the clause was the Punjab & Haryana High Court's decision in Gorav Kathuria v. Union of India & Anr. where it held the bail provisions would not apply retrospectively to offences previously in Schedule B [Paragraphs 43-45 of Nikesh Shah]. When the Court declined to hear an appeal against the High Court order in Kathuria I thought that it had indirectly affirmed the validity of Section 45. The judgment in Nikesh Shah comes as a surprise, and marks the first occasion when the Court has looked at any part of the PMLA through a constitutional lens. There are other parts that are equally problematic - the asset forfeiture scheme and the compulsion on witnesses to make truthful declarations, for instance - that litigants may take to the Court being encouraged by this judgment.

As for the future impact of Nikesh Shah on other statutes that carry the same 'drastic provision', the stage is set for some litigation on that front as well. The Supreme Court has only approved of the TADA and the MCOCA provisions in the past, leaving the many others open to scrutiny on this new test of whether the provision furthers a 'compelling state interest'. The Court never answered that for the PMLA context while deciding the petitions in Nikesh Shah. Do you think it might conclude that the PMLA does not meet the test? What about the other statutes? I've re-pasted my list of statutes containing the clauses below after accounting for the ones that are not relevant anymore. Comments, as always, are welcome.

1. Section 437(1), Cr.P.C. (in cases of death and life imprisonment).
2. Section 12AA (inserted in 1981), of the Essential Commodities Act, 1955.
3. States of Punjab and Tripura inserted this provision as Section 439-A to the Cr.P.C. so applicable within their territory, in 1983 and 1993 respectively. This restricted bail to persons accused of certain offences, inter alia Section 121, 124-A IPC.
4. Section 37 (amended in 1989) of the Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances Act 1985 [NDPS].
5. Section 7A (inserted in 1994) of the Anti-Hijacking Act, 1982. 
6. Section 6A (inserted in 1994) of the Suppression of Unlawful Acts against Safety of Civil Aviation Act 1982. 
7. Section 8 of the Suppression of Unlawful Acts against Safety of Maritime Navigation and Fixed Platforms on Continental Shelf Act 2002.
8. Section 51A (inserted in 2002) of the Wildlife Protection Act, 1972.
9. Section 43D (inserted in 2008) of the Unlawful Activities Prevention Act, 1967 [UAPA] (nearly identical).
10. Section 36AC (inserted in 2008) of the Drugs and Cosmetics Act, 1940.