The Wolf in Morality’s Clothing

**Sarthak Gupta

On 20 August 2025, the Indian Parliament witnessed the introduction of the Constitution (One Hundred and Thirtieth Amendment) Bill, 2025 (“Bill”). The Bill, if enacted by the constitutionally required two-thirds majority, would alter Articles 75, 164, and 239AA of the Constitution of India. It mandates the automatic cessation of office for the Prime Minister, Chief Minister (Head of State), and Ministers detained for thirty consecutive days on allegations of offences punishable with imprisonment of five years or more, irrespective of whether they continue to command the confidence of their legislative house. At first glance, this Bill presents itself as a guardian of constitutional morality, integrity, and probity in public life. The accompanying Statement of Objects and Reasons argues that leaders accused of serious criminal offences should not continue in positions of high public office, lest they “thwart or hinder the canons of constitutional morality” (emphasis mine) and weaken public trust. The Bill thus parades as a corrective reform, a sheep clothed in the language of constitutional morality.

Yet beneath this veneer of reform lies a troubling constitutional project. Drawing on David Landau’s theory of “abusive constitutionalism”, in this post, I propose an argument that the Bill is a paradigmatic example of abusive constitutionalism. It threatens to undermine the basic framework of representative democracy, the presumption of innocence, and the principle of accountability to the legislature by using the rhetoric of integrity to mask its potential for abuse. My argument unfolds in four parts. First, the Bill is situated within Landau’s framework of abusive constitutionalism. Next, the Bill destabilises democratic structures by creating pre-trial disqualifications and shifting accountability away from representative institutions. Following that, I examine comparative examples to show that similar morality-based provisions have been deployed in countries to weaken democracy. Finally, I conclude with a caution that the language of morality, when constitutionalised without safeguards, risks transforming the Constitution into an instrument of democratic erosion.

Landau’s Abusive Constitutionalism and Its Theoretical Framework

David Landau defines abusive constitutionalism as the use of formal constitutional change, through amendment or replacement, to make a system significantly less democratic than before. Unlike classic coups, abusive constitutionalism employs legal mechanisms to entrench power, disable checks, and reduce electoral competition while still maintaining the appearance of constitutional legitimacy. The danger, as Landau observes, is that these changes are harder to detect and harder to resist precisely because they wear the cloak of legality and often invoke noble-sounding values such as stability, morality, or public trust.

The Bill fits this mould. On the surface, it claims to fortify democracy by protecting constitutional morality and integrity in governance. However, by embedding a mechanism of automatic removal based on allegations and detention, before guilt is established, it erodes democratic norms. The wolf here is the potential abuse of criminal process as a political tool, hidden beneath the sheep’s wool of morality.

How the Bill Erodes Democracy? 

One of the cornerstones of constitutional democracy and the rule of law is the presumption of innocence. The Bill does not wait for conviction; mere detention for thirty days on an allegation of a serious offence triggers automatic removal. In India’s context, where investigations and detentions are often politicised (See here, here, and here), this mechanism empowers ruling authorities to eliminate rivals through selective arrests rather than through democratic contestation. (See here) 

The foremost difficulty lies in its creation of a semi-disqualification regime targeted exclusively at executive office holders. A Minister must, by constitutional design, be a member of either House of Parliament or the State legislature. Under the existing framework, mere arrest or detention does not disqualify an individual from legislative membership; only conviction for certain offences triggers disqualification. The Bill, however, imposes a harsher standard on those holding executive office. This asymmetry raises an internal contradiction that an MLA or MP may continue in office despite serious criminal proceedings, but the moment that individual is chosen as a Minister, the same proceedings may disqualify them upon detention. It undermines the logic of parliamentary democracy, where the executive office derives from legislative membership.

Under Articles 75 and 164, the Prime Minister and Chief Ministers hold office “during the pleasure” of the President or Governor, but this pleasure is constitutionally understood to be coextensive with their command of the majority in the legislature, as affirmed in Shamsher Singh v. State of Punjab (1974). By introducing automatic disqualification through detention, the Bill displaces legislative confidence with an executive-controlled criminal process. It makes a mockery of parliamentary confidence. In a Westminster system, a Prime Minister or Chief Minister holds office so long as they enjoy the majority’s confidence in the House. Neither the President nor the Governor can remove a leader who commands such support. Yet the Bill effectively transfers this core constitutional principle to the contingencies of police action. A Prime Minister with a full majority could be removed by virtue of detention, thereby handing the decisive lever of executive tenure not to Parliament but to law enforcement officers or, indirectly, the judiciary. The symbolism is striking: where Parliament cannot remove, a police officer can. This echoes Landau’s warning that abusive constitutionalism rarely abolishes democracy outright, but tilts the playing field, converting opposition politics into a high-risk enterprise. 

Further, the Bill undercuts the essential prerogative of a Prime Minister or Chief Minister to constitute their Council of Ministers. The ability to select and dismiss Ministers is a fundamental element of parliamentary democracy. While political morality may demand that Ministers resign when arrested, codifying automatic removal distorts this discretionary equilibrium. The insertion of Clause 5A after Article 75(5), Clause 4A after Article 164(4), and Clause 5A after Article 239AA(5) politicises the process. For thirty days, the Prime Minister or Chief Minister may shield an ally by withholding advice; thereafter, automatic removal ensues. This framework embeds ministerial accountability in the vagaries of partisan calculation rather than the clear logic of legislative confidence.

The Bill provides that once released, the Prime Minister or Minister may be reappointed. While this appears to mitigate harshness, in practice, it is illusory. Removal during pre-trial detention carries a powerful stigma, delegitimises leaders before conviction, and may fracture legislative coalitions irreparably. The inconsistency between legislators and Ministers complicates matters further. Legislators are disqualified only upon conviction, yet Ministers would be forced out on mere detention. A paradoxical situation may emerge where a legislator convicted of corruption continues as a member until disqualified under the Act, while a Minister accused but not convicted of a lesser offence is forced to resign. The asymmetry purports to elevate standards for the executive, but in practice, it undermines fairness and coherence in constitutional treatment. It may deter capable individuals from taking ministerial responsibility, aware that they face disproportionate consequences compared to their legislative peers.  Since the Bill permits reappointment once a detained leader is released, cycles of resignation and reinstatement become possible. A Chief Minister arrested for thirty-one days could be compelled to resign, only to be reappointed upon release on bail. 

Far from cleansing politics, the Bill could deepen opportunism. The bluntness of the Bill’s mechanism thus reveals its authoritarian potential. It transforms the moral project of tackling criminalisation in politics into a structural assault on parliamentary democracy. Its cloak of integrity is the sheep’s clothing of abusive constitutionalism.

Comparative Lessons: Morality as a Tool of Abusive Constitutionalism

The Bill is not unique. Across the globe, authoritarian-leaning regimes have used constitutional amendments clothed in morality or integrity to weaken opponents. In Venezuela, as Landau discussed, Hugo Chávez convened a Constituent Assembly under the rhetoric of restoring “popular sovereignty” and cleansing corruption. The result was a new constitution that dismantled checks, consolidated executive power, and paved the way for indefinite re-election. In Hungary, the Fidesz government pushed through constitutional changes under the pretext of restoring constitutional morality. (See Halmani) In reality, the amendments disabled courts and independent institutions, entrenching single-party dominance. (See Jakab) In Japan, Prime Minister Shinzo Abe’s attempt to lower amendment thresholds in 2013, though unsuccessful, reframed constitutional discourse in ways critics considered erosive. In Egypt, the Muslim Brotherhood’s constitutional drafting process sought to entrench majoritarian dominance but was interrupted by military intervention. 

Within India itself, the history of amendments reveals both successful abusive interventions, such as the 42nd Constitutional Amendment during the Emergency, and thwarted ones, such as the 99th Amendment (National Judicial Appointments Commission), struck down by the Supreme Court. These examples, which Landua also discussed in his work, show that abusive constitutionalism begins not only with enacted changes but also with proposals cloaked in legitimacy. 

Constitutional Morality as a Double-Edged Sword

The idea of constitutional morality, first articulated by Dr. BR Ambedkar in the Constituent Assembly and later elaborated in Kesavananda Bharati v. State of Kerala (1973) and Navtej Singh Johar v. Union of India (2018), is a central but contested principle in Indian constitutional law. (See Nayak) It denotes fidelity to the deeper values of the Constitution, justice, liberty, equality, and fraternity, beyond mere textual obedience. Courts have invoked it to strike down practices and laws inconsistent with constitutional ethos, such as the criminalisation of homosexuality or the denial of temple entry on grounds of caste. In this sense, constitutional morality functions as a progressive, emancipatory force. Yet, as this Bill demonstrates, constitutional morality is also a double-edged sword. When invoked without safeguards, it risks being instrumentalised to legitimise authoritarian measures. By converting morality into a rigid and automatic disqualification mechanism, the 130th Constitutional Amendment Bill weaponises constitutional morality against its own spirit. Instead of empowering institutions to check abuse and enabling deliberative accountability, it reduces morality to suspicion and custody, replacing democratic confidence with police action. The moral vocabulary of integrity is thus hollowed out into a legal tool for destabilisation.

Implications for Indian democracy, therefore, extend beyond this proposal. The Bill invites the weaponisation of detention laws, especially under draconian statutes like the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act, 1967, Prevention of Money Laundering Act, 2002 or preventive detention powers. Political rivals may (and will) be dislodged from ministerial office not by parliamentary vote or electoral accountability, but by judicial or executive custodial orders. In this way, morality becomes the language through which democracy is undermined. Conceptually, the Bill illustrates how abusive constitutionalism can begin even at the stage of proposal. Landau’s account stresses enacted constitutional changes, but the Indian case suggests that the tabling of such proposals itself shifts political imagination. Normatively, the very presentation of this Bill leaves a residue in public discourse: it normalises the notion that parliamentary confidence, the bedrock of Westminster democracy, can be supplanted by custodial status as the determinant of executive legitimacy. Even if rejected, the Bill unsettles democratic imagination, opening the door for future erosive reforms to be justified in similar terms.

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

The 130th Constitutional Amendment Bill is not a mere measure of moral reform. It is a constitutional parable, demonstrating how authoritarian impulses disguise themselves in the sheep’s clothing of integrity. By displacing parliamentary confidence with custodial disqualification, creating inconsistencies between legislative and executive offices, and opening the door to cycles of instability and politicized detention, the Bill exemplifies indirect, abusive constitutionalism. Landau’s concept illuminates the dangers of enacted authoritarian amendments; the Indian case demonstrates that the danger begins even earlier, with proposals that destabilise democratic norms. Abusive constitutionalism does not always arrive through sweeping, enacted changes. It often first appears as a suggestion, a possibility, a “wolf” dressed in the language of virtue. The Bill is such a moment. Its failure, if it comes, should not be seen as insignificant but as an instruction: democracies must guard not only against authoritarian wolves that have entered the fold but also against those that prowl at the gates cloaked in morality.

**Sarthak Gupta is a New Delhi-based lawyer who is currently serving as a Judicial Law Clerk to Justice Sandeep Mehta at the Supreme Court of India. He is also an Editor at the Global Freedom of Expression at Columbia University. He was not involved in the case in any capacity, and all views expressed are his own, not those of the Court.

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