Not My Type

** Sarthak Sahoo

[W]here designer, compositor and printer have all done their jobs, no matter how many thousands of lines and pages they must occupy, the letters are alive. They dance in their seats. Sometimes they rise and dance in the margins and aisles. 

Robert Bringhurst QC
The Elements of Typographic Style (1992)

In a tasteful, though probably unintentional, nod to its common law roots, the Supreme Court of India recently adopted its first ‘insignia’. Before this, the national emblem was its impress, along with the other branches of government. While some may have reservations to an organ holding a flag and insignia for itself exclusive of the others, this represents a necessary shift for the court to consider its presentation to the people. 

In keeping with this, it is necessary to give urgent consideration to another matter of aesthetics crucial to the court’s appearance. This, of course, is typography: the visage of the pages on which decisions are handed down. 

Typography is a delicate craft. And as advocates, law students, and clerks know alike, the text, layout, and fashion of judgments have direct and material effects on their readability and clarity. Therefore, improving the typography across all courts in India should be more than a trivial sundry. Dare it be said, typography should be a serious concern of public policy.

To that end, this essay shall first describe the India’s typographical laxity. Secondly, it shall argue why typography should be taken seriously. Thirdly, it shall examine certain objections to these reforms. Lastly, it shall suggest select practices for Indian courts to follow.

Setting the ruler right

Since 2021, the Supreme Court has mandated the use of Times New Roman at font size 14 (and 12 for quotations) in documents submitted to it. Notwithstanding the excessive font size and unimaginative font choice, this uniformity is a good start. 

However, the Court has not taken this practice upon itself. Judgments can be found in a plurality of fonts—see here, here, and here, for example— unbecoming of the highest court of the land. 

Worse yet is the e-SCR, the Court’s own reporter, which uses a sans-serif typeface. The same goes for high courts, which prescribe their typefaces for documents submitted to it, but scarcely follow up themselves. All of this is excusing the occasional use of multiple fonts – including Comic Sans – in an order having force of law.

If a symptom of national complacency, our official documents have been a cause of international concern as well. In the extradition proceedings of Vijay Mallya, Judge Arbuthnot of the Westminster Magistrates’ Court stated that (para ¶32), ‘the evidence produced by the [Government of India] in the case was poorly paginated and indexed.’ 

If that were not enough, even in the Nirav Modi extradition proceedings, Judge Goozée of the Westminister Magistrates’ Court, in his judgment (¶12), stated that, ‘the evidence produced by the GOI in the case, through no fault of Counsel, was poorly presented and very difficult to navigate.’ He ‘hope[d] [India] take these observations on board in relation to future requests.’ 

That said, this question has not gone wholly unnoticed in India. Take Justice GS Patel of the High Court at Bombay. His judgments bore a beautiful typeface (I suspect it is the Harvard Law Review’s Hoefler Text), finessed cause title and parties pages; and a diligent attention to blockquotes and indentations. Individual endeavours such as these are necessary.

A few justification(s)

It may be important to consider why such grandiose presentation is important. To this, I submit that there is one value-laden reason and one practical reason why we should prioritise typesetting in law.

The first is majesty. Constitutional courts, especially when in exercise of their contempt power, are often concerned with their ‘majesty’. When once asked about the heavy caseload across Indian courts Chief Justice DY Chandrachud (as he then was) started his response (00:53) by stating that it indicating public trust in the courts. 

Even those who criticise particular uses of the court’s contempt jurisdiction, often do so on the grounds of public legitimacy and ‘errant’ notions of majesty. Clearly, both bar and bench value the majesty of courts alike. 

But if majesty means anything beyond the agreeability of reasons, it must indulge in ostentation. It must distinguish itself from mere opinion or allegation. The higher the station of the authority, the more majesty its enjoinments must be.

Part of majesty is our notion of the court as an impartial institution. The judgment and its text, beyond their effect, are also symbols of the state. These symbols, when expressed appropriately, elevate the prose of the court to the sovereign. 

Therefore, the expressions of the court, must be distinguished from commonplace notices or circulars. Whereas the latter are empowered by the sovereign, the court, especially when it is interpreting the constitution, is speaking for the sovereign. That apart, justice delivery itself is a sovereign function. Thus, its form should convey authority. 

Not only does good type convey vertical authority, it has an inextricable links with identity. A unique fingerprint is what confers ownership and personality to the court. A horizontal understanding of judgments being inherently our own as Indians is crucial. Take, for instance, the signature wide-margin, in-text citations fill, and silent lettered headings of SCOTUS decisions:

But perhaps, most importantly, the presentation of judgments is important because it ties into our notions of justice. Take, for example, Judith Resnik’s example of a judge flipping a coin to decide an accused’s sentence. While this would be a clear abdication of the judicial role, popular opposition (as well as instant sentiment) did not impeach the rightness of the sentence. Instead, it cared for the fact that the process of justice had gravitas.

Be it putting a man to jail for a large chunk of his life, or to award custody of a child to his mother. These events, like all judicial relief, has an outsized impact in the community it attempts to adjudge for. Therefore, it must be treated with a certain amount of ceremony. 

This is why, when the capital punishment was legal in the United Kingdom, judges would adorn the black cap when sentencing a man to the gallows. It is this intuition that compels our judiciary to ensure their hand down their verdicts with great care, both in substance and form. 

While these values arising from majesty – authority, identity, and gravity – are to a large extent overlapping, they may not be persuasive for those with a more functional view of judicial reforms. For them, I submit that a better typeset judgment is useful and better for the law.

A core feature of our inherited judicial tradition is that ignorance of law is no excuse to its violation. We aspire for the citizenry to read judgments, and judges to write them accessibly.  Above aspiration, we expect lawyers to be abreast of the law, and assist courts in reaching just decisions. Similarly, those who draw up documents try to catch the limited attention of the judge, and perhaps persuade them. 

All of these are based on the functional necessity of readability. It is a trite fact that better typeset judgments are more readable and better comprehensible. They make paragraphs, as representatives of thought, distinct and easier to grasp. 

Indents and bullets guide the reader’s mind to the force of authority, and colour of legal dicta. And careful use of font and spacing makes even the unfamiliar reader glide in comprehension. As Matthew Butterick states, ‘Good typography can help your reader devote less attention to the mechanics of reading and more attention to your message.’

Objections and alignments

The first objection that may arise to such changes is that it is reliant on abstract notions too divorced from the immediate necessities of policy. This objection fails to account for the value of legal symbolism. 

For example, the original Constitution is written with beautiful calligraphy, on a royal colour scheme, with vivid illustrations of India’s civilisation’s heritage. These choices were made, not only because of the numerical rarity of constitutions, but because of its importance as a symbol for how Indians were to conceptualise their country.

Similarly, the Preamble is, legally speaking, a symbol that cannot be enforced. Nonetheless, lawyers and schools frame it in their precincts, politicians tout it for dissent, enthusiasts battle on its semantics, and judges use it to shape the constituent power. 

Perhaps the objection with most rhetorical force is accessibility.  For example, in 2021 the Supreme Court of the UK switched from using the historic Times New Roman to the newer and blander Calibri—ostensibly to make them more accessible to ordinary citizens. 

This is misplaced for a few reasons. First, this was justified by some based on dubious claims that people with visual impairment would find sans serif fonts to be more readable. 

Second, even if true, the state’s obligation for accommodation should not be used to paradoxically abdicate maximal accessibility in the first place.  As Elijah Granet said of the UKSC’s move, ‘[i]f the Supreme Court were to switch to Open Dyslexic, that would be bad for accessibility because for non-dyslexics […], that typeface is hard to read.’ 

Instead, the state has independent obligations to ensure accommodations. Perhaps ensuring HTML renditions of judgments like the UK may be way to go. E-SCR has already started doing so for some judgments, but this must be substantially scaled up.

Lastly, some may contest that this move is of little external consequence. In a country with rife inequality, threats to personal liberty, and poor state capacity, what true good do a better font or para-numbers do?

This perhaps remains undisputed. No type can remedy or restrain evils that it may be used for. To these trying expectations, Bringhurst’s words in his seminal Elements of Typographical Style may be of some solace. It is true that one must not be one of ‘those who think that putting chairs and air-conditioners in hell will make it just as good as heaven.’ (pg 366)

But, as he himself says, ‘Typography, like language, is more important to me for what it allows to happen than for anything it accomplishes on its own.’ (pg 365) Maybe we cannot secure a better polity by type, but it be a sure enabler in that endeavour.

A guide to a fresh page

In an ideal world, all officials document would use the same font across organs. For example, the UK Parliament uses a unique font commissioned for its legislative documents, one which Granet has recreated as ‘Palatine Parliamentary’. This is too much to expect from our jurisdiction just yet. 

Until then what is necessary is uniformity within courts at the earliest. The late Justice Scalia once said that ‘[t]here are times when even a bad rule is better than no rule at all.’ (pg 1179) This is certainly one of them.

Crucially, I think that these prescriptions should not be uniform across state jurisdictions. All courts of record, including the High Courts, should continue to independently decide their typography choices suitable for them. 

Decentralisation, in this behalf, has two functions. It shall allow signature styles to be attached to institutions (rather than temporary occupant judges), that may foster a culture of their own. Second, it shall create an effective ‘market’, wherein no one set of rules may inhibit more novel, readable, and aesthetically pleasing ones to develop and take over. This constant churn is crucial to not fall into typographical anachronism. 

This, by itself, is an ambitious ask from the judiciary. Nonetheless, if push comes to shove, I suggest a few particularities on type that may be heeded to by those who design these rules. 

To begin with, submissions to the court and its judgments should bear an identical typeface. It should ideally be a serif one. Even within them, disfiguredly large fonts like ‘Verdana’ (Karnataka HC) and ‘Bookman Old Style’ (Calcutta HC) must be dispensed with at the earliest.

Crucially, the font recommended should not require a paid license. For example, the US Supreme Court’s push to mandate New Century Schoolbook was resisted for requiring a license; and today the Court only needs the font to be from the Century family (rule 33). This avoids technological and financial barriers for lawyers who will have to submit documents in that typeface. 

The face must also look well in italics, given how much courts may switch to that option. I personally recommend the popular ‘EB Garamond’ or the rarer ‘Constantia’ as ideal starting points. 

Particular attention should be paid to not falling into typewriting’s old habits, which we no longer remain bound by in the modern age. So underlining text for emphasis may be replaced by the italics of today. Em dashes (—) and en dashes (–) replace iterant hyphens (–). And monospaced fonts may see their last days. 

One may eschew the (thankfully) anonymous addenda to the judgment in M Siddiq (pg 929 et seq). Written in a monotype, its contents are practically incomprehensible without stone and hammer. Above all, we may banish at once this typewriter font—no matter how quaint it may be; its use for court orders itself is sufficient blood spilt.

Font sizes should be small, no more than 11 or 12 based on the text proportions. This is especially necessary in the High Court of Himachal Pradesh, which requires a 16 point size for text and 18 for headings. 

Content should be justified, and not left aligned. Margins may be ‘Wide’ or ‘Normal’, but abnormally leaving half the page blank on one side (in theory for binding reasons) is hardly important today given digital penetration. 

To ensure uniformity in submissions, these may be treated as defects. While this is supposed to be done even today for the Times font, it is not as strictly enforced. Similarly, judicial staff may be entrusted with such uniformity.  While these are elementary beginnings, and there is much to change and beautify – for the community of lawyers to take this concern seriously remains first in order.

Conclusion

In writing this blog, I’d given much thought on how to make converts out of agnostics. This explains the aforesaid ‘rational’ list of reasons to have more consistent and readable typography in court documents. 

However, the bottom line remains that beauty is an axiomatic good. We may find it difficult to articulate reasons for it that are distinguishable from metaphysical invocations, but we certainty cannot think of a reason to not strive for a more gracious and majestic page. To justify them, is perhaps in some sense, to reduce their effect, vitality, and necessity. As Edmund Burke so precisely punched in his Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (pg 158):

Who ever said we ought to love a fine woman, or even any of these beautiful animals which please us? Here to be affected, there is no need of the concurrence of our will.

** Sarthak Sahoo is an undergraduate student of law at the Rajiv Gandhi National University of Law, Punjab. He is interested in legal theory, constitutional law, and public international law.

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this blog do not necessarily align with the views of the Vidhi Centre for Legal Policy.