By Sujit Bhar
In a recent and thought-provoking development, Supreme Court advocate Aditya Kashyap addressed a representation to the Chief Justice of India, Surya Kant, urging a reconsideration of the continued use of colonial-era judicial wigs and scarlet ceremonial robes in India’s constitutional courts. The immediate provocation for this appeal may have been a widely reported ceremony on March 12, at the Raj Bhavan, Kolkata, where Justice Sujoy Paul, the chief justice of the Calcutta High Court, while administering the oath to new West Bengal Governor RN Ravi, was seen wearing the traditional white wig and scarlet robe inherited from British judicial custom.
Kashyap’s intervention is careful, measured, and deeply constitutional in tone, though leaning a trifle towards the ruling dispensation at the centre. He clarified that his submission was not directed against any individual judge but is “a respectful but firm appeal” to reconsider a practice whose implications go far beyond attire. At its core, his argument is about symbolism—what the judiciary represents, and whether its outward forms align with the constitutional morality of a sovereign, democratic republic.
This moment invites a broader reflection: why do Indian courts still carry forward the visual and ceremonial vocabulary of colonial rule, and what does that say about the relationship between the judiciary and the people it serves?
THE HISTORY OF THE JUDICIAL WIG
The tradition of judicial wigs originated in England during the 17th century, particularly under the reign of Charles II. Influenced by French court fashion—especially the elaborate wigs popularised by Louis XIV—the English judiciary adopted wigs as part of formal attire. Over time, wigs became a symbol of authority, anonymity, and continuity with legal tradition.
In theory, wigs were meant to depersonalise judges, allowing them to represent the majesty of the law rather than their individual identities. They also signified hierarchy and solemnity, reinforcing the distance between the bench and the bar, and between the judiciary and the public. As a somewhat light-hearted aside, one might also want to know how the wig was also used by judges and even barristers, to hide hair loss.
However, even in the United Kingdom, the use of wigs has significantly declined. Reforms in the 21st century have restricted their use largely to criminal courts and ceremonial occasions. The rationale is simple: such attire no longer resonates with contemporary values of accessibility, transparency, and equality before the law.
In India, the case for retaining wigs is even weaker. Unlike England, where the tradition has indigenous historical continuity, India inherited this practice through colonial imposition. The British introduced wigs not as an organic cultural evolution but as a tool of imperial authority, reinforcing the image of the colonial judiciary as distant, superior, and unapproachable.
To continue this practice in a post-colonial, constitutional democracy raises an uncomfortable question: why does a republic rooted in “We, the People” still cling to the visual markers of imperial hierarchy?
THE MYTH OF JUDICIAL ELEVATION
Kashyap’s representation rightly points out that the authority of Indian courts flows not from ceremonial regalia but from the Constitution and the sovereignty of the people. Yet, the continued use of wigs and robes suggests an attempt—conscious or otherwise—to project the judiciary as an institution set apart from, and perhaps above, the ordinary citizen.
This is not merely about clothing. It is about the construction of institutional identity.
The Indian judiciary, particularly at the higher levels, has often been seen as occupying a rarefied space, insulated from public scrutiny. While judicial independence is essential to the functioning of a democracy, independence must not be conflated with aloofness or opacity. The visual language of the courtroom—wigs, robes, elevated benches—contributes to a perception of distance that can undermine public trust.
Recent actions and observations involving the higher judiciary have further sharpened this perception. Whether it is the reluctance to engage with certain public concerns or the perceived opacity in administrative decisions, the judiciary has occasionally appeared less accessible than it ought to be in a democracy.
Symbolism matters because it shapes perception. When judges appear in attire that evokes monarchy and empire, it sends a subtle but powerful message: that justice is dispensed from above, rather than administered in the name of the people.
CHAIRS, DAISES, AND DISTANCE
The symbolism of judicial elevation is not confined to attire. Courtroom architecture itself reinforces hierarchy.
High-backed, often ornate chairs for judges, placed on elevated platforms, create a physical and psychological distance between the bench and the litigants. The design suggests not merely authority, but superiority. Litigants, many of whom come to court in vulnerable circumstances, are made to look up—literally and metaphorically—at those who decide their fate.
This spatial arrangement has historical roots in colonial governance, where authority was deliberately staged to command awe and obedience. But in a constitutional democracy, the judiciary is not a ruler; it is a public institution meant to serve.
Modern courtroom design in several countries has moved towards reducing this distance, emphasising accessibility and equality. Judges may still occupy a position of authority, but the environment is less intimidating, more participatory.
In India, however, the persistence of colonial-era design reinforces a message that is increasingly at odds with democratic values. Justice, in such settings, risks appearing as a proclamation rather than a dialogue.
THE COURT LANGUAGE
If attire and architecture create visual distance, language deepens it.
The continued use of terms such as “My Lord” and “Your Honour” is a direct carryover from colonial practice. These forms of address were appropriate in a monarchical context, where judges were seen as representatives of the Crown. In a republic, however, sovereignty lies with the people, not with any individual or office.
Several High Courts in India have, in the past, discouraged or even prohibited the use of such terms, encouraging instead more neutral forms of address such as “Sir,” “Madam,” or simply “Your Lordship” being replaced with “Your Honour” or “Judge”. Yet, the practice persists, particularly in higher courts.
The problem is not merely semantic. Language shapes relationships. When a litigant addresses a judge as “My Lord,” it reinforces a hierarchical dynamic that is inconsistent with the idea of equality before the law.
It also alienates the judiciary from the very public it is meant to serve. For a first-time litigant, especially one from a marginalised background, the courtroom can already be an intimidating space. Archaic forms of address only add to that sense of exclusion.
Kashyap’s central argument—that such practices are incompatible with the symbolism of a sovereign republic—goes to the heart of constitutional morality.
The Indian Constitution establishes a system of checks and balances among three co-equal branches: the judiciary, the legislature, and the executive. While the judiciary plays a crucial role in interpreting the law and safeguarding rights, it is not above the other branches. Nor is it above the people.
Yet, the continuation of colonial-era symbols creates an impression of judicial exceptionalism. It suggests that the judiciary occupies a higher moral or institutional plane, separate from the democratic framework in which it operates.
This is not to deny the importance or dignity of the judiciary. Respect for the institution is essential. But respect must arise from the quality of justice delivered, not from the perpetuation of outdated rituals.
A modern, forward-looking nation must be willing to shed symbols that no longer serve its values. Decolonisation is not merely about political independence; it is about reimagining institutions in a way that reflects indigenous realities and democratic ideals.
THE CRISIS OF CREDIBILITY
The question of symbolism becomes even more urgent when viewed against the backdrop of the judiciary’s current challenges.
India’s courts are burdened with an enormous backlog of cases, with millions of matters pending across various levels. Delays in the delivery of justice have eroded public confidence, leading to a perception that the system is slow, inaccessible, and, at times, unresponsive.
In such a context, the continued emphasis on ceremonial practices appears misplaced. Time and institutional energy would be better spent on reforms that enhance efficiency, transparency, and accessibility. Moreover, public trust in the judiciary is not built through spectacle but through substance. Litigants seek timely, fair, and reasoned decisions. They seek a system that listens, understands, and responds.
Clinging to colonial symbols in the face of such challenges risks sending the wrong message: that the judiciary is more concerned with preserving tradition than with addressing contemporary needs.
The path forward is not about diminishing the dignity of the judiciary but about redefining it. A people-centric judiciary would emphasise accessibility over aloofness, clarity over ceremony, and service over symbolism. It would recognise that authority in a democracy is derived from the people and must be exercised in their name.
Reforms could begin with simple but meaningful steps: phasing out colonial attire, redesigning courtrooms to reduce hierarchical distance, and adopting more inclusive language. These changes would not undermine the authority of the judiciary; rather, they would strengthen its legitimacy.
As Kashyap rightly observes, a nation that has politically decolonised itself cannot remain indefinitely content with “ceremonial colonialism” in its highest institutions. The judiciary, as the guardian of the Constitution, must lead by example.
A REPUBLIC’S IMAGE
The debate sparked by Kashyap’s representation is not about wigs or robes in isolation. It is about the kind of republic India aspires to be. Do its institutions reflect the values of equality, accessibility, and democratic accountability? Or do they continue to echo the hierarchies of a bygone era?
The answer lies not in rhetoric but in reform. By shedding outdated symbols and embracing a more inclusive and contemporary identity, the Indian judiciary can reaffirm its commitment to the Constitution and to the people in whose name it dispenses justice.
In doing so, it would not lose its dignity. It would rediscover it.
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