The Gilded Cage of Colonialism: Analyzing Archaic Symbolisms in the Indian Judiciary
For decades, the hallowed halls of the Indian judiciary have functioned not merely as centers of adjudication but as living museums of a bygone era. A recent petition addressed to the Chief Justice of India (CJI) by a concerned legal practitioner has reignited a long-smoldering debate: why does a sovereign, democratic republic continue to clothe its judicial process in the vestments of its former colonizers? The petition brings to the forefront the psychological and sociological impact of Raj-era symbolisms—ranging from the stiff horsehair wigs (now rare but symbolically present in spirit) to the imposing high-backed chairs and the ceremonial “My Lords”—which collectively serve to alienate the common citizen from the very institution designed to protect them.
As a Senior Advocate witnessing the evolution of our legal system, I believe it is imperative to dissect these symbolisms. They are not merely aesthetic choices or matters of tradition; they are structural barriers that reinforce a hierarchy rooted in imperial dominance rather than democratic service. The law must not only be done but must be seen to be accessible. When the environment of justice mimics a royal court of the 19th century, it creates a “majesty” that breeds intimidation rather than a “service” that invites trust.
The Architecture of Exclusion: High-Backed Chairs and Elevated Benches
One of the primary concerns raised in the petition is the physical layout of the courtroom, specifically the high-backed chairs and the significantly elevated benches. In the British architectural tradition of the Victorian era, the height of the judge’s seat was a direct reflection of the crown’s authority over its subjects. The judge sat “above” the people, not just metaphorically, but physically, to instill a sense of awe and fear.
In a modern democracy, the judge is a constitutional functionary, a “sevak” of the law, rather than a representative of a distant monarch. The extreme elevation creates a psychological distance. For a rural litigant who has traveled hundreds of miles to seek justice, the sight of a judge perched high above, framed by heavy wooden paneling and ornate furniture, can be paralyzing. This architecture of exclusion suggests that the law is a mysterious, unreachable force rather than a communal tool for dispute resolution. Reform in this area does not mean demeaning the judge’s office, but rather redesigning the space to foster a sense of inclusivity and equality before the law.
The Sartorial Burden: Wigs, Gowns, and the Indian Climate
Perhaps the most visible vestige of the colonial past is the judicial attire. While the Supreme Court and various High Courts have made strides in modifying dress codes, the persistence of heavy black gowns and formal neckbands remains a point of contention. The petition rightly points out that these garments are fundamentally unsuited for the Indian climate. Designed for the chilly courtrooms of Westminster, they are a source of physical discomfort in the sweltering heat of Delhi, Mumbai, or Chennai.
Beyond the discomfort, the gown is a symbol of professional elitism. It marks the lawyer and the judge as part of a “special class,” distinct from the “commoner.” While a certain degree of formality is necessary to maintain the solemnity of the court, the current attire carries the baggage of the British class system. In many African nations that shared a colonial past, there has been a significant movement to adopt indigenous fabrics or simplified judicial robes that reflect national identity. India, with its rich textile heritage and its commitment to “Atmanirbhar” (self-reliance), should consider whether a more culturally and climatically appropriate dress code would better represent the “Indian” in the Indian Judiciary.
The Linguistic Barrier: “My Lord” and the Language of the Elite
Though the petition focuses on physical symbols, the symbolism of language is inextricably linked to the environment of the court. The tradition of addressing judges as “My Lord” or “Your Lordship” is a direct carryover from the English feudal system. While the Bar Council of India has passed resolutions encouraging the use of “Sir” or “Your Honor,” the old habits die hard, and the colonial nomenclature persists in most High Courts and the Supreme Court.
This linguistic symbolism reinforces a master-servant dynamic. It suggests that the litigant is a petitioner for grace rather than a claimant of rights. When combined with the fact that most proceedings in the higher judiciary are conducted in English—a language still foreign to a vast majority of the population—the symbolism of “The Lordship” becomes a formidable wall. Justice feels like something that is “handed down” from a height, rather than something that belongs to the people.
The Psychological Impact on the Common Litigant
The core of the lawyer’s petition to the CJI lies in the word “alienation.” For the Indian judiciary to be truly effective, the “Aam Aadmi” (Common Man) must feel a sense of ownership over the legal process. Archaic symbolisms create a “theatre of law” where the actors (lawyers and judges) speak a different language, wear different clothes, and sit in a different realm from the audience (the litigants).
When a person feels alienated, they are less likely to seek legal recourse, less likely to understand the orders passed, and more likely to view the judiciary as an instrument of the state rather than a protector of the individual. This alienation feeds the perception that the law is only for the rich, the educated, and the powerful—those who know how to navigate the “strangeness” of the court. Removing these archaic symbols is a necessary step in the “decolonization of the Indian mind,” a theme frequently echoed by the current leadership of the country.
Comparative Perspectives: How Other Democracies Have Evolved
India is not alone in grappling with its colonial legal heritage, but it has been slower than others to reform. In the United Kingdom itself—the source of these traditions—the Constitutional Reform Act of 2005 led to significant changes. In many civil and family cases, British judges no longer wear wigs or traditional robes. The UK Supreme Court, established in 2009, opted for a much more modern and less intimidating courtroom design compared to the old House of Lords.
Similarly, countries like South Africa have made conscious efforts to “Africanize” their legal symbols to reflect a post-apartheid identity. If the creators of these traditions have moved toward modernization and accessibility, it is paradoxical for India to cling to the 19th-century version of those same traditions. The petition serves as a reminder that “tradition” should not be a synonym for “stagnation.”
The Need for an Indigenous Judicial Identity
Decolonizing the law is not just about changing furniture or clothes; it is about reclaiming the identity of the Indian legal system. Ancient Indian jurisprudence, such as the concept of “Dharma,” emphasized accessibility and the moral duty of the king to ensure justice for the humblest subject. The courtrooms of ancient India were often open-air or part of community spaces, emphasizing the transparency of justice.
While we cannot and should not return to ancient times, we can certainly incorporate Indian values of simplicity and humility into our judicial symbols. An Indian judicial identity should be characterized by its commitment to the Constitution and its proximity to the people. This could involve using regional languages more effectively, adopting simpler court dress, and redesigning courtrooms to be more ergonomic and less hierarchical. The goal is to create an atmosphere where a citizen feels they are in a house of justice, not a palace of power.
The Role of the Chief Justice and the Road Ahead
The petition to the Chief Justice is timely. The current Indian judiciary, under the leadership of reform-minded judges, has already taken steps toward modernization through digitization and live-streaming of proceedings. Live-streaming has already begun to “demystify” the court by allowing the public to see what actually happens inside the courtroom. However, what they see on screen is still a tableau of colonial relics.
The CJI has the administrative power to initiate a committee to look into judicial symbolisms. Such a committee could consult with sociologists, historians, and designers to suggest a “New Indian Judicial Protocol.” This protocol could standardize courtroom layouts to be more inclusive and propose a dress code that honors the gravity of the legal profession without the baggage of imperial history.
Conclusion: From Majesty to Service
The law is a living organism, and its symbols are its skin. As the organism grows and adapts to a new environment—in this case, a 21st-century democratic India—it must shed its old skin. The archaic symbolisms of the Raj-era served a specific purpose: to maintain the distance between the ruler and the ruled. In a republic, that distance is an anomaly. It is an obstacle to the constitutional promise of “Justice: Social, Economic, and Political.”
The lawyer’s petition is a wake-up call to the legal fraternity. We must ask ourselves if we are clinging to these symbols because they are necessary for justice, or simply because they make us feel important. If the answer is the latter, then we are failing our duty to the public. By simplifying the symbolisms of the law, we do not diminish its authority; rather, we strengthen its legitimacy by making it relatable to the millions who look toward the courts as their last bastion of hope. It is time to step out of the shadow of the British Raj and into the light of an Indian judicial system that truly belongs to the people of India.
The transition from “Majesty” to “Service” is not a sign of weakness but a hallmark of a mature democracy. As we move forward, let our courtrooms reflect the values of our Constitution—equality, fraternity, and dignity—not just in the judgments written on paper, but in the very symbols that define the space where justice is born.
