List of top Questions asked in CLAT

Until 2017, India did not have a codified law to order internet shut downs. A general power was vested in District Magistrates in this regard. The Magistrate could issue an order ordering a shut down if a ‘speedy remedy’ (extending to internet shut down) is desirable for ‘immediate prevention’ of an event. The Magistrate had to be satisfied that the order is ‘likely to prevent or tends to prevent obstruction, annoyance or injury to human life, health or safety, or a disturbance of public tranquillity’. The Magistrate’s order cannot be for longer than two months.
In 2017, new rules to order internet shut downs were introduced taking the power away from the Magistrate. These rules — the Temporary Suspension Rules — state that internet shut downs can now only be ordered by the Home Secretary of the Union or State Governments. Only in “unavoidable circumstances” can the passing of orders be delegated to someone lower than the rank of a Joint Secretary to the Government of India. And even in this case, the official must be authorised by the Centre or State Home Secretary. Shut downs can be ordered where ‘necessary’ or ‘unavoidable’ during a ‘public emergency’ or in the ‘interest of public safety’. Shut down orders must necessarily detail the reasons to shut down the internet. The orders must also be sent to a review committee under the state or central government within 24 hours. The committee must then review them within five working days. The rules state that apart from the Chief Secretary and Legal Secretary, the committee can comprise a secretary other than the home secretary.
In January 2020 the Supreme Court passed its judgement in the case of Anuradha Bhasin. The judgement in this case explicitly recognised two things: that the freedom to access information is a fundamental right under Article 19(1)(a) of the Constitution of India (which protects the freedom of speech and expression); and that the freedom to conduct your trade, profession or business over the internet is also a fundamental right under Article 19(1)(g) of the Constitution of India (which protects the freedom to practise any profession, or to carry on any occupation, trade or business). Every time the internet is suspended, it is quite obvious that it is a violation of these rights. These rights can only be curtailed in the interest of the ‘sovereignty and security of the state, integrity of the nation, friendly relations with foreign states, or public order or for preventing incitement to the commission of an offence’. The Supreme Court’s judgement in Anuradha Bhasin’s case had also underlined that shut down orders must clearly provide reasons for the shut down and they must be publicly available.
[Extracted with edits and revisions from “In India, are internet shut downs in accordance with law? Not always”, by Diksha Munjal, News Laundry]
Surrogacy is defined by law as “a practice whereby one woman bears and gives birth to a child for an intending couple” and intends to hand over the child to them after the birth, as per the Surrogacy (Regulation) Act, 2021 (the “SRA”). The SRA restricts altruistic surrogacy to legally wedded infertile Indian couples. The couple is deemed eligible for surrogacy only if they have been married for five years. The SRA sets an age limitation for the couple. A husband must be between 26 and 55 years of age and a wife between 23 and 50 years. Further, Indian couples with biological or adopted children are prohibited from undertaking surrogacy, save for some exceptions such as mentally or physically challenged children, or those suffering from a life-threatening disorder or fatal illness. The SRA provides that the surrogate mother has to be a close relative of the couple (such as a sibling of one of the members of the couple), a married woman with a child of her own, aged between 25 and 35 years, who has been a surrogate only once in her life. Even within this category of people, commercial surrogacy is banned in India and that includes the “commercialisation of surrogacy services or procedures or its component services or component procedures”. The surrogate woman cannot be given payments, rewards, benefits or fees, “except the medical expenses and such other prescribed expenses incurred on the surrogate mother and the insurance coverage for the surrogate mother”.
A legal commentator points out some criticisms of the law. “Permitting limited conditional surrogacy to married Indian couples and disqualifying other persons on basis of nationality, marital status, sexual orientation or age does not pass the test of equality,” he writes. He adds that reproductive autonomy, inclusive of the right to procreation and parenthood is protected under Article 21 of the Constitution of India, which guarantees the right to life and personal liberty. The intending parents typically sign a contract with the surrogate. The Indian Contract Act, 1972 (the “ICA”) provides that a valid contract has to be in writing, and signed in the presence of two witnesses. The ICA also provides that a contract that is prohibited by any other law will not be valid under the ICA.
[Extracted with edits and revisions from “What laws regulate surrogacy in India”, The Indian Express]
Free legal aid is the provision of free legal services in civil and criminal matters for those poor and marginalised people who cannot afford the services of a lawyer for the conduct of a case or a legal proceeding in any Court, Tribunal or Authority. These services are governed by the Legal Services Authority Act, 1987 (the “Act”) and provided by the National Legal Services Authority (“NALSA”).
Provision of free legal aid includes:
• Representation by an advocate in legal proceedings;
• Payment of process fees, expenses of witnesses and all other charges payable or incurred in connection with any legal proceedings in appropriate cases;
• Preparation of pleadings, memo of appeal, paper book including printing and translation of documents in legal proceedings;
• Drafting of legal documents, special leave petition etc.; and
• Supply of certified copies of judgments, orders, notes of evidence and other documents in legal proceedings.
Free legal aid also includes provision of aid and advice to the beneficiaries to access benefits under welfare statutes and schemes framed by the Central Government or the state governments and to ensure access to justice in any other manner. Free legal aid is not confined to cases before the subordinate courts.
Free legal aid must be provided to the needy from the lowest court to the Supreme Court of India. 
According to Section 13(1) of the Act, any individual who satisfies any criteria under Section 12 is entitled to receive free legal aid, provided that NALSA is satisfied that such person has a genuine case to prosecute or defend the matter. There is hence no bar as to which kind of cases one can apply and not apply for. Section 12 of the Act includesthe following:
• a member of a Scheduled Caste or Scheduled Tribe;
• a woman or a child;
• a person with a disability;
• an industrial workman; or
• a person in police custody.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from “FAQs”, National Legal Services Authority]
Twitter’s lawyer on October 27, said before the Karnataka High Court that Union government orders to block certain Twitter handles and posts must contain reasons for the same that can be communicated to users of the microblogging site. He said this applies to all blocking orders sent to social media platforms. The lawyer representing Twitter said that reasons for the blocking order must be provided to users so they can determine whether or not they want to challenge the orders.
Challenging the blocking orders, Twitter’s July 5 petition contended that several blocking orders “demonstrate excessive use of powers and are disproportionate”. Such orders can only be issued by the Union government and not the state governments, he said, which increases the danger of such abuse. Twitter also claimed that the Ministry of Electronics and Information Technology had sent it a letter threatening consequences for failing to comply with the blocking orders, such as criminal proceedings against the company’s chief compliance officer and the stripping away of Twitter’s safe harbour immunity, otherwise available to social media platforms under Section 79(1) of the Information Technology Act (the “IT Act”). Note that the Government has the power to strip away such safe harbour immunity under the IT Act. Further, in a previous hearing, Twitter’s lawyer said that the company was asked to block entire accounts, although Section 69A of the IT Act does not permit blocking of the whole account. It only permits the blocking of information, or a particular tweet or post. It argued that the Union government’s direction to block whole accounts will affect its business, adding that several prominent persons have their accounts on the platform. 
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from “ ‘Government Must Provide Reasons for Blocking User Accounts,’ Twitter Tells Karnataka HC”, The Wire]
The government has amended the Electoral Bond Scheme, 2018. The Ministry of Finance on November 7, 2022, issued a notification for amending the scheme to provide “an additional period of 15 days” for their sale “in the year of general elections to the Legislative Assembly of any States or Union Territories with Legislature”. The bonds under this scheme are usually made available for purchase by any person for a period of ten days each in the months of January, April, July, and October, when specified by the Union Government. The original scheme had provided for an additional period of thirty days, as specified by the Government, in the year when Lok Sabha elections are held, while the amendment adds another 15 days.
Since Assembly elections to various States and Union Territories are held every year, the amendment effectively means that there will be 15 additional dates annually during which the bonds can be sold. Immediately after issuing the notification, the Union Government also announced the sale of electoral bonds under the 23rd tranche from the authorised branches of the State Bank of India. The notification said the sale of bonds would take place through the 29 authorised branches of the said bank from November 9 to November 15, 2022. Like in previous rounds of sale, the electoral bonds shall be valid for 15 calendar days from the date of issue and no payment shall be made to any payee political party if the bond is deposited after expiry of the validity period. The Electoral Bond deposited by an eligible political party in its account shall be credited on the same day.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from “Electoral Bonds Scheme Amended To Allow Sale for Additional 15 Days in Assembly Election Years”, by Gaurav Vivek Bhatnagar, The Wire]
Parliament passed the Criminal Procedure (Identification) Act, 2022 (the “Act”) in March 2022. The legislation enables police and central investigating agencies to collect, store and analyse the measurements of arrested persons. Until rules are notified, an Act cannot be implemented or come into force. On September 19, 2022, the Ministry of Home Affairs (the “MHA”) notified the rules (the “Rules”) under the Act.
The Act empowers a Magistrate to direct any person to give measurements to the police, which till now was reserved for convicts and those involved in heinous crimes. It also enables police personnel of the rank of Head Constable or above to take measurements of any person who resists or refuses to give measurements when ordered to do so by a Magistrate. As per the Rules, “measurements” mean finger-impressions, palm-print, footprint, photographs, iris and retina scan, physical, biological samples and their analysis, behavioural attributes including signatures, and handwriting. Though it has not been specified, analysis of biological samples could also include DNA profiling.
However, the Rules state that measurements of those detained under preventive Sections of the Code of Criminal Procedure (“CrPC”) shall not be taken unless such person is at that time charged or under arrest in connection with any other offence punishable under any other law. Measurements can also be taken under the Rules if a person has been ordered to give security for his good behaviour for maintaining peace under Section 117 of the CrPC for a proceeding under that Section. [Extracted, with edits and revisions, from “Explained | Rules for identifying criminals”, by Vijaita Singh, The Hindu]
Assume that the statements in the passages are the applicable law.
Quashing a case of cruelty that was filed against a man by his wife, the Bombay High Court said that if a married lady is asked to do household work for the family, it cannot be said that she is treated “like a maid servant”. The Court was hearing an application by the husband and his parents seeking that proceedings against them are quashed. A First Information Report (“FIR”) was filed against the trio in September 2020, around nine months after the marriage, alleging that they hounded the woman for money to purchase a car, harassed her mentally and physically and treated her like a maid servant. Examining the evidence, the Court found that there was no merit to the woman’s allegations. The Court said that though the FIR says that she was treated properly for about a month and then “like a maid servant”, there are no details of what this meant. The Court added: “If a married lady is asked to do household work for the purpose of the family, it cannot be said that it is like a maid servant.” The Court held that the mere use of the word harassment “mentally and physically” in the FIR is not sufficient to constitute an offence Section 498A of the Indian Penal Code (“IPC”), which punishes the husband, or a relative of the husband of a woman who subjects her to cruelty in any way. It is interesting to note that Section 498A of the IPC also provides that if a married woman is actually treated like a ‘maid servant’, it would be an offence under that Section.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from “If Wife Is Asked To Do Household Work, Does Not Mean She Is Treated Like Maid: Bombay HC”, The Wire]
‘So pick a bird,’ Iff commanded. ‘Any bird.’ This was puzzling. ‘The only bird around here is a wooden peacock,’ Haroun pointed out, reasonably enough. Iff gave a snort of disgust. ‘A person may choose what he cannot see,’ he said, as if explaining something very obvious to a very foolish individual. ‘A person may mention a bird’s name even if the creature is not present and correct: crow, quail, hummingbird, bulbul, mynah, parrot, kite. A person may even select a flying creature of his own invention, for example winged horse, flying turtle, airborne whale, space serpent or aeromouse. To give a thing a name, a label, a handle; to rescue it from anonymity, to pluck it out of the Place of Namelessness, in short to identify it — well, that’s a way of bringing the said thing into being. Or, in this case, the said bird or Imaginary Flying Organism.’
‘That may be true where you come from,’ Haroun argued. ‘But in these parts, stricter rules apply.’
‘In these parts,’ rejoined blue-bearded Iff, ‘I am having time wasted by someone who will not trust in what he can’t see. How much have you seen, eh? Africa, have you seen it? No? Then is it truly there? And submarines? Huh? Also, hailstones, baseballs, pagodas? Goldmines? Kangaroos, Mount Fujiyama, the North Pole? And the past, did it happen? And the future, will it come? Believe in your own eyes and you’ll get into a lot of trouble, hot water, a mess.’ With that, he plunged his hand into a pocket of his auberginey pajamas, and when he brought it forth again it was bunched into a fist. ‘So take a look, or I should say a gander, at the enclosed.’ He opened his hand, and Haroun’s eyes almost fell out of his head. Tiny birds were walking about on Iff’s palm; and pecking at it, and flapping their miniature wings to hover just above it. And as well as birds there were fabulous winged creatures out of legends: an Assyrian lion with the head of a bearded man and a pair of large hairy wings growing out of its flanks; and winged monkeys, flying saucers, tiny angels, levitating (and apparently air-breathing) fish. ‘What’s your pleasure, select, choose,’ Iff urged. And although it seemed obvious to Haroun that these magical creatures were so small that they couldn’t possibly have carried so much as a bitten-off fingernail, he decided not to argue and pointed at a tiny crested bird that was giving him a sidelong look through one highly intelligent eye.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from Haroun and the Sea of Stories, by Salman Rushdie, Granta & Penguin, 1990.]
English encodes class in India. It does so by sliding into the DNA of social division: income, caste, gender, religion or place of belonging. The threat it poses to social cohesion has worried public commentators across the political spectrum. In an address delivered as independent India’s Parliament dilly-dallied over the suggestion to replace English with regional languages as the medium of instruction for higher education, Gandhi said, ‘This blighting imposition of a foreign medium upon the youth of the country will be counted by history as one of the greatest tragedies. Our boys think, and rightly in the present circumstances, that without English they cannot get government service. Girls are taught English as a passport to marriage.’
A hundred years later, the language continues to be seen as a tool of exclusion. The problem now is about inequality of access. ‘To be denied English is harmful to the individual as well as our society,’ writes Chetan Bhagat, self-appointed leader of a class war set off by unequal access to English.
Bhagat, an engineer-turned-investment banker, wrote his first college romance in English in 2004. Then only a certain kind of person—someone who grew up reading, writing and speaking the language—wrote books in English—big words, long sentences, literary pretension, heavy with orientalism. In the ten years since Bhagat put the popular in ‘popular’ English fiction, he has written six other novels and sold millions of copies all told. With every new book, all written in deliberately simple English, Bhagat has recruited thousands of new soldiers in his crusade against what he calls the ‘caste system around the language’. Bhagat even has a term for Indians who ‘have’ English: E1. ‘These people had parents who spoke English, had access to good English-medium schools—typically in big cities, and gained early proficiency, which enabled them to consume English products such as newspapers, books and films. English is so instinctive to them that even some of their thought patterns are in English. These people are much in demand.’ The people E1 presumably control, through a nexus of privilege built on ownership of English, are E2: ‘probably ten times the E1s. They are technically familiar with the language. [But] if they sit in an interview conducted by E1s, they will come across as incompetent, even though they may be equally intelligent, creative or hardworking.’
The situation may not be so comically stark. The haves and have-nots may not exactly fit into Bhagat’s stereotypes of urban, sophisticated rich people and provincial, uncultured poor. His argument does not factor in many other walls around English in India. You are more likely to learn English if you are born a man rather than a woman, high caste rather than low caste, south Indian rather than north Indian. There is more than one kind of E1 and more than one kind of E2. And there is more than one way E2s can overthrow E1s. One is to speak it like they know it.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from Dreamers: How Young Indians Are Changing the World, by Snigdha Poonam, Penguin Viking, 2018.]
Down by the sandy banks of the Yamuna River, the men must work quickly. At a little past 12 a.m. one humid night in May, they pull back the black plastic tarp covering three boreholes sunk deep in the ground. They then drag thick hoses toward a queue of 20-odd tanker trucks idling quietly with their headlights turned off. The men work in a team: While one man fits a hose’s mouth over a borehole, another clambers atop a truck at the front of the line and shoves the tube’s opposite end into the empty steel cistern attached to the vehicle’s creaky frame. ‘On kar!’ someone shouts in Hinglish; almost instantly, his orders to ‘switch it on’ are obeyed. Diesel generators, housed in nearby sheds, begin to thrum. Submersible pumps, installed in the borehole’s shafts, drone as they disgorge thousands of gallons of groundwater from deep in the earth. The liquid gushes through the hoses and into the trucks’ tanks. The full trucks don’t wait around. As the hose team continues its work, drivers nose down a rutted dirt path until they reach a nearby highway. There, they turn on their lights and pick up speed, rushing to sell their bounty to factories and hospitals, malls and hotels, apartments and hutments across this city of 25 million. Everything about this business is illegal: the boreholes dug without permission, the trucks operating without permits, the water sold without testing or treatment. ‘Water work is night work,’ says a middle-aged neighbour who lives near the covert pumping station and requested anonymity. ‘Bosses arrange buyers, labour fills tankers, the police look the other way, and the muscle makes sure that no one says nothing to nobody.’ Teams like this one are ubiquitous in Delhi, where the official water supply falls short of the city’s needs. A quarter of Delhi’s households live without a piped-water connection; most of the rest receive water for only a few hours each day. So residents have come to rely on private truck owners—the most visible strands of a dispersed web of city councillors, farmers, real estate agents, and fixers who source millions of gallons of water each day from illicit boreholes, and sell the liquid for profit. The entrenched system has a local moniker: the water-tanker mafia. A 2013 audit found that the city loses 60 percent of its water supply to leakages, theft, and a failure to collect revenue. The mafia defends its work as a community service, but there is a much darker picture of Delhi’s subversive water industry: one of a thriving black market populated by small-time freelance agents who are exploiting a fast-depleting common resource and in turn threatening India’s long-term water security.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from: “At the Mercy of the Water Mafia”, by Aman Sethi, Foreign Policy]
The call of self-expression turned the village of the internet into a city, which expanded at time-lapse speed, social connections bristling like neurons in every direction. At twelve, I was writing five hundred words a day on a public LiveJournal. By twenty-five, my job was to write things that would attract, ideally, a hundred thousand strangers per post. Now I’m thirty, and most of my life is inextricable from the internet, and its mazes of incessant forced connection—this feverish, electric, unliveable hell. The curdling of the social internet happened slowly and then all at once. The tipping point, I’d guess, was around 2012. People were losing excitement about the internet, starting to articulate a set of new truisms. Facebook had become tedious, trivial, exhausting. Instagram seemed better, but would soon reveal its underlying function as a three-ring circus of happiness and popularity and success. Twitter, for all its discursive promise, was where everyone tweeted complaints at airlines and moaned about articles that had been commissioned to make people moan. The dream of a better, truer self on the internet was slipping away. Where we had once been free to be ourselves online, we were now chained to ourselves online, and this made us self-conscious. Platforms that promised connection began inducing mass alienation. The freedom promised by the internet started to seem like something whose greatest potential lay in the realm of misuse.
Even as we became increasingly sad and ugly on the internet, the mirage of the better online self continued to glimmer. As a medium, the internet is defined by a built-in performance incentive. In real life, you can walk around living life and be visible to other people. But on the internet—for anyone to see you, you have to act. You have to communicate in order to maintain an internet presence. And, because the internet’s central platforms are built around personal profiles, it can seem—first at a mechanical level, and later on as an encoded instinct—like the main purpose of this communication is to make yourself look good. Online reward mechanisms beg to substitute for offline ones, and then overtake them. This is why everyone tries to look so hot and well-travelled on Instagram; why everyone seems so smug and triumphant on Facebook; and why, on Twitter, making a righteous political statement has come to seem, for many people, like a political good in itself. The everyday madness perpetuated by the internet is the madness of this architecture, which positions personal identity as the centre of the universe. It’s as if we’ve been placed on a lookout that oversees the entire world and given a pair of binoculars that makes everything look like our own reflection.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from Trick Mirror: Reflections on Self-Delusion, by Jia Tolentino, Random House, 2019.]
Until the Keeladi site was discovered, archaeologists by and large believed that the Gangetic plains in the north urbanised significantly earlier than Tamil Nadu. Historians have often claimed that large scale town life in India first developed in the Greater Magadha region of the Gangetic basin. This was during the ‘second urbanisation’ phase. The ‘first urbanisation phase’ refers to the rise of the Harappan or Indus Valley Civilisation. Tamil Nadu was thought to have urbanised at this scale only by the third century BCE. The findings at Keeladi push that date back significantly. … Based on linguistics and continuity in cultural legacies, connections between the Indus Valley Civilisation, or IVC, and old Tamil traditions have long been suggested, but concrete archaeological evidence remained absent. Evidence indicated similarities between graffiti found in Keeladi and symbols associated with the IVC. It bolstered the arguments of dissidents from the dominant North Indian imagination, who have argued for years that their ancestors existed contemporaneously with the IVC. … All the archaeologists I spoke to said it was too soon to make definitive links between the Keeladi site and the IVC. There is no doubt, however, that the discovery at Keeladi has changed the paradigm. In recent years, the results of any new research on early India have invited keen political interest, because proponents of Hindu nationalism support the notion of Vedic culture as fundamental to the origins of Indian civilisation. … The Keeladi excavations further challenge the idea of a single fountainhead of Indian life. They indicate the possibility that the earliest identity that can recognisably be considered ‘Indian’ might not have originated in North India. That wasn’t all. In subsequent seasons of the Keeladi dig, archaeologists discovered that Tamili, a variant of the Brahmi script used for writing inscriptions in the early iterations of the Tamil language, could be dated back to the sixth century BCE, likely a hundred years before previously thought. So not only had urban life thrived in the Tamil lands, but people who lived there had developed their own script. “The evolution of writing is attributed to Ashoka’s edicts, but 2600 years ago writing was prevalent in Keeladi,” Mathan Karuppiah, a proud Madurai local, told me. “A farmer could write his own name on a pot he owned. The fight going on here is ‘You are not the one to teach me to write, I have learnt it myself.’”
[Excerpted from “The Dig”, by Sowmiya Ashok, Fifty-Two]
I grew up in a small town not far from Kalimpong. In pre-liberalization India, everything arrived late: not just material things but also ideas. Magazines — old copies of Reader’s Digest and National Geographic — arrived late too, after the news had become stale by months or, often, years. This temporal gap turned journalism into literature, news into legend, and historical events into something akin to plotless stories. But like those who knew no other life, we accepted this as the norm. The dearth of reading material in towns and villages in socialist India is hard to imagine, and it produced two categories of people: those who stopped reading after school or college, and those — including children — who read anything they could find. I read road signs with the enthusiasm that attaches to reading thrillers. When the iterant kabadiwala, collector of papers, magazines, and rejected things, visited our neighbourhood, I rushed to the house where he was doing business. He bought things at unimaginably low prices from those who’d stopped having any use for them, and I rummaged through his sacks of old magazines. Sometimes, on days when business was good, he allowed me a couple of copies of Sportsworld magazine for free. I’d run home and, ignoring my mother’s scolding, plunge right in — consuming news about India’s victory in the Benson and Hedges Cup….
Two takeaways from these experiences have marked my understanding of the provincial reader’s life: the sense of belatedness, of everything coming late, and the desire for pleasure in language. …. Speaking of belatedness, the awareness of having been born at the wrong time in history, of inventing things that had already been discovered elsewhere, far away, without our knowledge or cooperation, is a moment of epiphany and deep sadness. I remember a professor’s choked voice, narrating to me how all the arguments he’d made in his doctoral dissertation, written over many, many years of hard work (for there indeed was a time when PhDs were written over decades), had suddenly come to naught after he’d discovered the work of C.W.E. Bigsby. This, I realised as I grew older, was one of the characteristics of provincial life: that they (usually males) were saying trite things with the confidence of someone declaring them for the first time. I, therefore, grew up surrounded by would-be Newtons who claimed to have discovered gravity (again). There’s a deep sense of tragedy attending this sort of thing — the sad embarrassment of always arriving after the party is over. And there’s a harsh word for that sense of belatedness: “dated.” What rescues it is the unpredictability of these anachronistic “discoveries” — the randomness and haphazardness involved in mapping connections among thoughts and ideas, in a way that hasn’t yet been professionalised.
[Extracted, with edits and revisions, from “The Provincial Reader”, by Sumana Roy, Los Angeles Review of Books]
Two recent developments have brought India's reliance on fossil fuel into sharp focus. The Russia-Ukraine conflict and the consequent surge in crude oil prices roiled the economy. Separately, the most recent IPCC report on climate highlighted the energy sector's large contribution to global warming. Both these developments need to be located in the context of India's pledge to get to net zero carbon emissions by 2070. Meeting this pledge requires an overhaul of both the logistics and electricity sectors to reduce reliance on fossil fuels. Transitioning to renewables in energy is an important part of the solution. Within renewables, solar energy has been lavished with policy support. However, it won't be enough to meet the targets. Anil Kakodkar, former chairman of Atomic Energy Commission, had written that India can't meet its net-zero commitment without nuclear power. He's right. It's an area where India was off to an early start, developed relatively high indigenous capabilities in relation to other sectors, but subsequently let the ball drop. Today, nuclear power contributes a mere 3% of the total electricity generated, and has a capacity of 6780 MW. After the early euphoria of the India-United States civil nuclear deal, progress has been disappointing. The deal did open the pathway to a stable supply of uranium ore from Kazakhstan and Canada. However, the design of the subsequent bill on civil liability for nuclear damage killed the prospect of participation of Western firms. India's main partner today is Russia. which side stepped the bill through inter-government agreements.
A Madras High Court Judge's suggestion to amend the Constitution of India mandating that every citizen also has a duty to laugh comes as a whiff of fresh air - something the country has been gasping for, of late. Justice GR Swaminathan of the Madurai Bench has a remarkably refined sense of humour, but in quashing an FIR against a man arrested for an innocuous social media post, his insightful observations only highlight the idiocy and absurdity that surround the growth and normalisation of the offence-taking tribe. Written from the perspective of cartoonists and satirists, the judgment draws attention to how what ought to be a reasonable understanding of a situation is increasingly being influenced by impulses that border on the irrational and amount to an abuse of the legal process. The petitioner tried tongue-in-cheek wordplay while captioning photographs after a sight-seeing trip with family : 'Trip to Sirumalai for shooting practice'. For the police. it appeared as a threat to wage war, though the Judicial Magistrate refused remand. 'Laugh at what?' is a serious question. the Judge said. using the 'holy cow' as a metaphor, which varies from person to person. region to region. Being funny is one thing. the Judge righty states, and poking fun at another is different altogether. Those who have been at the receiving end for their attempt at humour can draw strength from the ruling, but then. a creative process facing combative opposition because of its very nature is anything but funny.