By Dr Swati Jindal Garg
The legal profession in India has long prided itself on being a bastion of constitutional morality, robust public debate and statutory discipline. From the struggle for independence, led in significant measure by legal luminaries, to modern courtroom battles over civil liberties, the Bar has traditionally been a sanctuary for fearless advocacy. Yet, every so often, institutional overreach casts a troubling shadow over that democratic tradition. When a statutory regulator entrusted with preserving professional standards begins to mistake administrative supervision for absolute dominion, the foundations of the legal system itself are placed under strain.
The controversy surrounding the 2026 graduating batch of the National Academy of Legal Studies and Research (NALSAR), Hyderabad, and the Bar Council of India (BCI) is a striking example. What began as an internal campus disagreement over the chief guest for a university convocation quickly escalated into a sweeping regulatory directive—one that threatened to place the professional future of hundreds of young law graduates in jeopardy before they had even entered the profession.
At the heart of the controversy lies a fundamental administrative and constitutional question: has the Bar Council of India arrogated to itself powers that the Advocates Act, 1961, does not confer upon it? And, more specifically, can the central regulator direct autonomous State Bar Councils to halt the enrolment of an entire graduating batch?
The episode began when a section of NALSAR’s graduating class of 2026 reportedly raised objections to Chief Justice of India Surya Kant presiding as chief guest at their convocation. Although the CJI later backed the law students’ right to peacefully protest, and even pulled up the BCI, he clarified that he had not accepted the invitation.
Student activism, intellectual disagreement and debate over authority are hardly alien to India’s national law universities. Indeed, institutions of legal education are expected to cultivate precisely the qualities that allow students to question, analyse and engage critically with authority.
What was extraordinary was the regulatory response.
The BCI directed State Bar Councils to keep in abeyance the enrolment of law graduates from NALSAR’s 2026 batch until further orders. It also ordered an inquiry into the conduct of the students and sought reports and explanations from the university administration.
The immediate consequence was potentially devastating. After five years of demanding academic study, internships and preparation for professional life, a graduating class suddenly faced uncertainty over whether it could even begin practising law. The episode transformed what was essentially a dispute surrounding a university ceremony into a question affecting the professional rights of an entire cohort.
The reaction from sections of the legal fraternity, academics and senior advocates was swift. Facing mounting criticism and the prospect of judicial scrutiny, the BCI withdrew the directive within days. But withdrawal did not necessarily erase the larger institutional concern. The episode raised an uncomfortable question about whether regulatory machinery can be used collectively against students because of an institutional disagreement or an expression of dissent.
To answer that question, one must return to the statutory architecture of the Advocates Act, 1961.
Parliament created the Act to consolidate the law relating to legal practitioners and establish Bar Councils and an All-India Bar. Its structure deliberately distributes functions between the BCI and the State Bar Councils. That distribution is not a matter of administrative convenience; it is part of the statutory design.
Section 24 lays down the qualifications for admission as an advocate. The power to enrol advocates on the state roll rests with the respective State Bar Councils. Among the statutory requirements are the prescribed age, citizenship requirements, possession of a recognised law degree and payment of the prescribed enrolment fee. Where the statutory conditions are fulfilled, enrolment cannot simply become a matter of administrative grace.
Section 7, meanwhile, sets out the functions of the BCI. These include laying down standards of professional conduct and etiquette, prescribing standards of legal education, recognising universities whose law degrees qualify graduates for enrolment, and exercising general supervision and control over State Bar Councils.
The BCI, therefore, possesses substantial regulatory authority. But substantial authority is not unlimited authority. Supervision of State Bar Councils and regulation of legal education cannot automatically be transformed into an unrestricted power to command State Bar Councils to refuse enrolment to an entire graduating class.
The argument becomes more nuanced when Sections 26 and 48A are considered. Section 48A confers revisional jurisdiction upon the BCI in relation to proceedings or orders of a State Bar Council, enabling it to examine questions of legality or propriety. But revisional power is not the same as an unrestricted administrative veto. It ordinarily operates within the framework prescribed by the statute and in relation to identifiable proceedings or orders.
The distinction is crucial. A regulator cannot create a power simply because it believes that power would be useful for achieving a regulatory objective. Statutory bodies derive their authority from legislation, and the limits of that authority are determined by the same legislation.
The Supreme Court’s intervention in the controversy brought this principle sharply into focus. The Court questioned the legality and propriety of the BCI’s attempt to halt the enrolment of the students and emphasised the fundamental proposition that statutory regulators must remain within the four corners of their enabling legislation.
That principle has particular force when professional rights are at stake. Article 19(1)(g) guarantees citizens the fundamental right to practise a profession or carry on an occupation, subject to constitutionally permissible restrictions. Entry into the legal profession is, of course, subject to statutory qualifications and professional regulation. But those restrictions must themselves have a lawful foundation.
A regulator cannot deny or indefinitely postpone professional enrolment merely because it disapproves of conduct that does not fall within a power conferred upon it by Parliament.
The controversy also raises questions about institutional governance within the BCI itself. Reports surrounding the episode suggested that the directive was issued by BCI Chairman Manan Kumar Mishra without the matter first being subjected to wider deliberation within the Council or its relevant committees, though Mishra later, reportedly, apologised to the law students. However, the reports necessarily invite a second question: even where a regulator possesses a statutory power, how must that power be exercised?
The BCI is a statutory and collegiate institution. Decisions affecting the professional future of an entire graduating class demand careful consideration, a clear statutory foundation and procedural fairness. The larger the consequence, the greater the need for institutional process.
This is not merely a technical question of internal procedure. Collegiate decision-making, reasoned orders and an opportunity for affected parties to be heard are important safeguards against arbitrary exercise of power. Administrative authority becomes particularly dangerous when individual discretion is allowed to substitute itself for institutional judgment.
The NALSAR episode, therefore, speaks to a larger danger extending beyond the legal profession. Across modern governance, statutory regulators can gradually begin to expand their own understanding of authority. What starts as supervision can become intervention; intervention can become command; and command can eventually become an assumption of powers that Parliament never intended to confer.
The Advocates Act was not designed to create an all-powerful central authority over every aspect of the legal profession. Its structure contains a degree of decentralisation precisely because professional regulation requires institutional checks and balances. State Bar Councils have defined responsibilities, while the BCI has its own defined national functions.
That balance matters especially in legal education. Law students must learn not merely to obey authority, but to understand it, question it and test it against constitutional principle. A student who respectfully disagrees with a decision involving a convocation ceremony should not have to fear that such dissent could jeopardise the beginning of a professional career.
If regulatory authority can be deployed to freeze the enrolment of an entire graduating batch because of an institutional disagreement, the chilling effect could extend far beyond NALSAR. Universities may become more hesitant to tolerate dissent. Students may become more cautious about expressing criticism. Academic institutions may begin to treat regulatory displeasure as something to be avoided at all costs.
That would be profoundly unhealthy for a profession whose very foundations rest upon the ability to question power.
The BCI performs an indispensable function. Uniform standards of legal education, professional ethics and discipline are essential to the credibility of the Bar and the administration of justice. But the legitimacy of a regulator does not arise from the breadth of power it can exercise; it arises from its fidelity to the law that created it.
The NALSAR controversy should, therefore, be understood not simply as a dispute over a convocation or an administrative directive. It is a reminder of the constitutional importance of statutory restraint.
The BCI is a creature of statute, not a sovereign within the legal profession. Its powers are significant because Parliament has entrusted them to it—but they remain powers conferred by law.
The lesson is consequently straightforward. Regulators must regulate, but they must also remain regulated by the statute under which they exist. Administrative oversight must never become unchecked control. Institutional authority must be exercised with procedural fairness, reasoned judgment and humility.
The withdrawal of the controversial directive may have ended the immediate crisis. But the larger question remains relevant: when a regulator crosses the statutory boundary, who regulates the regulator?
The answer, ultimately, lies in the rule of law. Power is legitimate not because an institution possesses it, but because the law authorises its exercise.
—The author is an Advocate-on-Record practising in the Supreme Court,
Delhi High Court and all district courts and tribunals in Delhi
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