OPINION | What is the real issue ‘My Lords’?

This juxtaposition—between Tyagi’s divine metaphor and Ambedkar’s constitutional realism—underscores a persistent paradox in India’s judicial culture: while the Constitution sought to create judges accountable to law, it is, in fact, the judiciary itself that has often perpetuated a culture of elevated self-regard. The courts and judges, through ritual, language, and institutional convention, have preserved the very hierarchies the Constitution sought to dismantle.

Unwilling to internalise Constitution’s attempt to erase social hierarchy

Recently, Sanjeev Sanyal, member of the Prime Minister’s Economic Advisory Council, drew attention to this incongruity when he questioned the archaic rituals of judicial address—phrases such as “My Lord,” the colonial relic of “prayers” in petitions, and the tradition of extended summer vacations. His remarks sparked widespread debate, not merely because they challenged formality, but because they probed something deeper: in the twenty-first century, 75 years after the Constitution explicitly sought to erase social hierarchies—even to the extent of abolishing titles—what meaning do such honorifics continue to hold?

Indeed, there have been numerous instances—like the one recalled by Fali S. Nariman—where judges themselves have ensured that these colonial niceties persist. The reverence once imposed by imperial convention now often finds reinforcement within the judicial institution. In April 2019, for instance, the Allahabad High Court registry issued an order directing that “officers/officials while passing through the galleries meant for the movement of the Hon’ble Judges shall stop whenever they see that the Hon’ble Judges are passing through the galleries and pay highest respect to Their Lordships. Any deviation in this regard shall be viewed seriously.” Such directives reveal how practices rooted in colonial hierarchy continue to persist not solely because of societal deference, but also through deliberate institutional perpetuation. The court, rather than dismantling inherited symbols of authority, often enshrines them in its own procedural and behavioural codes.

While such medieval notions of hierarchy and its manifestations might surprise many, those with a ringside view of the functioning of the court system in India might brush it off with “what’s new?” Fali Nariman, in an interview, said, “I have seen chief justices of the high court referring to SC judges as ‘Milord, will you have tea’ and all that. In England, they call each other by their first names. But here, everyone understands that if you don’t address them (SC judges) as ‘Your Lordships’, you will not be elevated. This sort of inflated ego exists. The bungalows and all that paraphernalia add to it.”

There are numerous instances where ‘Milords’ decision to uphold and entrench this ‘hierarchy’ has caused humour and criticism in equal measure. Nariman, in the interview, pointed out that a former Supreme Court judge once told him that one of the chief justices, after assuming the charge, had five big chairs placed and asked all the most senior judges to sit in order of their seniority. There are numerous instances to highlight this hierarchy: From when a chief justice of the high court preferred to be referred to as ‘chief’ to the police jumping to stop the traffic as the lordship's car left court.

Not all judges exist in a bubble

It is not as if there have been no attempts—from either the Bar or the Bench—to do away with these redundant honorifics. On several occasions, the Supreme Court itself has expressed displeasure over the continued use of colonial forms of address. In 2023, Justice P.S. Narasimha interrupted a lawyer who kept referring to the Bench as “My Lord” and “Your Lordships.” With gentle irony, Justice Narasimha remarked, “How many times will you say ‘My Lords’? If you stop saying this, I will give you half my salary.” The exchange, while light-hearted on the surface, pointed to a deeper discomfort within sections of the judiciary about perpetuating practices that sit uneasily with the egalitarian spirit of the Constitution.

Inconsistency prevails

In 2006, the Bar Council of India (BCI) added a new ‘Chapter IIIA’ on “To address the Court” to Part VI of the BCI Rules, breaking from the “colonial relics of the past”. It said: “Consistent with the obligation of the Bar to show a respectful attitude towards the Court and bearing in mind the dignity of Judicial Office, the form of address to be adopted whether in the Supreme Court, High Courts or Subordinate Courts should be as follows: “Your Honour” or “Hon’ble Court” in Supreme Court & High Courts and in the Subordinate Courts and Tribunals it is open to the Lawyers to address the Court as “Sir” or the equivalent word in respective regional languages.”

The “Explanation” to the provision said: “As the words 'My Lord' and 'Your Lordship' are relics of a Colonial past, it is proposed to incorporate the above rule showing a respectful attitude to the Court.”

However, in 2020, during a routine hearing, a lawyer addressing Chief Justice S.A. Bobde as “Your Honour” was told not to use that term. “Are you appearing before the U.S. Supreme Court?” the Bench asked. “The term ‘Your Honour’ is used there, not in the Indian Supreme Court.” The exchange was striking, for in 2014, Justice Bobde himself—then part of a Bench with Justice H.L. Dattu—had ruled that it was not mandatory to address judges as “My Lord,” “Your Lordship,” or even “Your Honour”, and anything respectable and dignified would work.

This inconsistency captures the enduring ambiguity surrounding judicial decorum in India. Despite explicit court orders, Bar Council resolutions, and even petitions seeking to ban such colonial honorifics, their persistence raises a deeper question: is this merely a colonial relic that refuses to fade, or an institutional compulsion the judiciary itself continues to uphold?