Punjab: A democracy functions best when its judges think openly—for justice, after all, is born not from silence but from dialogue. A quiet, almost unnoticed, shift has taken place in Indian courtrooms. Judges are no longer content to simply speak from written orders; they speak in the moment, loudly, sometimes passionately, and always with moral urgency. Their questions are sharper, their thoughts deeper, and their anxiety more palpable. However, every word now transcends the courtroom walls—repeated repeatedly, in parts, sometimes distorted—making judicial thought a spectacle for the public. Yet, beneath this noise lurks a question of constitutional philosophy: Should judges think openly?
This question becomes essential not just for show but in everyday life. Consider what recently transpired inside Court No. 1 of the Punjab and Haryana High Court during the appeal of Khadoor Sahib MP Amritpal Singh to join the Lok Sabha. Chief Justice Sheel Nagu wasn’t satisfied with mere procedural exchanges; he demanded constitutional responsibility. Speaking to senior lawyer RS Bains, he pointedly asked: “What are your preparations? How will you participate? What is your research work? You’re talking about your rights. Now, we’ll also talk about your duties as an MP… What are you going to discuss there? Or will he just be a mute spectator?”
The courtroom wasn’t listening to opinions; it was witnessing constitutional education—a reminder that democratic rights flow from democratic accountability. The same bench didn’t shy away from administrative candor. When Punjab tried to explain the delay in the construction of judicial officers’ quarters, the Chief Justice clarified that he wasn’t denigrating the state, but rather highlighting an institutional reality: “We’ve seen how the state works in Gurugram. We’re still waiting for the Tower of Justice to be handed over—waiting for years. Haryana is doing better than you. If they can’t, how can you?” This wasn’t a rebuke to the public; it was a constitutional demand for efficiency. Other hearings tell a similar story. On the Tribune flyover issue, the bench questioned the very foundation of the project: “The master plan screams that the flyover won’t be built. How are you doing it?”
In another case involving the filthy Sector 26 market, the Chief Justice said in open court: “Have you seen the filth there? You can’t even step into that market.” None of these comments were judgments—each was a demonstration of constitutional discretion at work. These examples further reinforce this point: spoken words are not anger; they are laboratories of reason. They test hypotheses, expose governance failures, and demand accountability in a way that written orders alone cannot. The Court has repeatedly made it clear that spoken words do not constitute law. They are a means of investigation, not a tool for forming opinions. Suppressing them for fear of misinterpretation would undermine the democratic framework of adjudication. American legal philosopher Lon Fuller emphasized that the moral force of law lies not just in the outcome, but also in the process—that is, how justice is done. American legal professional and philosopher Ronald Dworkin’s “Judge Hercules” would never have been thought to remain silent. The legitimacy of law derives not from suppressed understanding, but from open thinking. In our constitutional framework, this openness is not superficial—it is fundamental. Article 19(1)(a) may belong to citizens, but democracy is stifled if judges are forced into mental silence. Open justice is more than the right to enter a courtroom; it’s the right to observe the judicial mind at work.
Of course, there’s a danger in the age of instant reporting. A sentence taken out of its forensic context can inadvertently take on a political tone. Yet, the solution cannot be to prohibit outspoken thinking. A constitutional republic cannot mature if its judges fear that every question could become a headline. The answer lies in public literacy—in recognizing that comments examine, while judgments adjudicate. Indian constitutional history upholds judicial candor. The doctrine of basic structure grew not only from the opinions written in Kesavananda Bharati, but also from the heated, hearsay debates that preceded them. Constitutional law has always evolved from what judges dare to ask—not just from what they ultimately wrote. Yes, candor must be disciplined. A judge’s strength lies not in silence, but in control—the art of conducting an investigation without preconceived notions. As Lord Denning warned, a judge must say what justice requires, even if the words sting—but he must also know when to stop speaking and let the law speak.
Punjab: When the Constitution speaks through its judges
