The Union government’s introduction of the Constitution (One Hundred and Thirtieth Amendment) Bill, 2025 has opened one of the most charged debates in recent years on the balance between clean governance and constitutional safeguards. The proposal mandates the automatic removal of the Prime Minister, Chief Ministers, and Union or State Ministers if they are arrested and remain in custody for thirty consecutive days in cases punishable with a minimum of five years’ imprisonment. If such a situation arises, the concerned minister must resign by the thirty-first day; otherwise, the office is deemed vacated automatically. Once released, however, the individual would be free to return and be reappointed.
The bill proposes amending Articles 75, 164, and 239AA of the Constitution to introduce this mechanism. Its central logic is that public office is a constitutional trust, not a personal right, and governance cannot be allowed to continue from jail. The choice of a thirty-day threshold is explained by the government as a reasonable window in which an innocent leader should normally be able to secure bail. Yet critics argue this assumption is flawed, particularly because under stringent laws such as the Prevention of Money Laundering Act, bail is difficult to obtain at the early stages, making the rule less of a neutral standard and more of a weapon that can be exploited against political rivals.
The government’s case, presented forcefully by Home Minister Amit Shah, is that India needs to put an end to the spectacle of leaders clinging to office while in judicial custody. Officials insist that the amendment restores ethical governance and public trust by preventing “governance from jail.” The government has also referred the bill to a Joint Parliamentary Committee for detailed scrutiny, suggesting that it is open to refining the provisions while maintaining the core principle. Supporters like political strategist Prashant Kishor have also argued that the measure plugs a long-neglected gap in India’s constitutional framework.
The opposition, however, has denounced the bill in strong terms. Leaders such as M.K. Stalin and Mamata Banerjee have warned that it presumes guilt without trial and undermines both democracy and federalism. Their argument is that the Centre could misuse investigative agencies and stringent bail provisions to engineer the thirty-day custody trigger against opponents. In their view, this makes the amendment a dangerous “kill switch” that could topple elected state governments without a floor test or election, eroding the spirit of federalism enshrined in the Constitution. Editorial commentators have reinforced these fears, warning that if such automatic rules are accepted for ministers today, similar provisions could tomorrow be extended to legislators, fundamentally altering the democratic process.
Beyond politics, the bill will inevitably face legal scrutiny. While Parliament has wide powers to amend the Constitution, the Supreme Court has repeatedly held under the basic structure doctrine that amendments cannot destroy core features such as democracy, rule of law, and federalism. Critics argue that automatic termination based on custody alone violates the presumption of innocence and due process under Article 21. Proponents respond that ministerial office is not a fundamental right, and temporary removal does not prevent a leader from returning if released. Federal concerns are also central: since many high-profile arrests involve central agencies, states fear the Centre could indirectly dislodge opposition Chief Ministers. The Court may also examine whether the rule is proportionate, or whether less intrusive alternatives—such as requiring resignation subject to judicial certification, or independent review—would better balance integrity and fairness.
In practice, the new regime could reshape Indian politics dramatically. If a Union Minister is arrested under a serious offence and fails to secure bail within a month, the President would remove them on the Prime Minister’s advice, or the removal would occur automatically if advice is withheld. For a Chief Minister, the thirty-day trigger would collapse the entire council of ministers, forcing either the quick appointment of a successor who can command majority support, or the imposition of President’s Rule. In such scenarios, the amendment could become decisive during budget sessions or confidence votes—precisely the times when political stakes are highest.
What makes this bill striking is its departure from global norms. In most democracies, resignation is expected only after conviction, or through political pressure and convention. India’s Representation of the People Act already disqualifies legislators upon conviction. By linking the removal of ministers not to guilt but to mere custody, the 130th Amendment sets a precedent that is both bold and fraught. While its defenders present it as a step towards accountability, its critics warn it risks transforming pre-trial custody into a political instrument.
The next steps are crucial. The bill must secure a special majority in both Houses of Parliament, and since it amends provisions related to states, it likely requires ratification by at least half of the state legislatures. At the same time, constitutional challenges will almost certainly be filed, with the Supreme Court asked to test whether the measure respects India’s democratic structure. In committee and court alike, proposals for additional safeguards—judicial oversight of the thirty-day trigger, independent review bodies, or exclusions for bailable offences—may determine the amendment’s ultimate survival.
What is clear is that the 130th Amendment Bill has moved the debate on governance and accountability into new terrain. For some, it promises to cleanse political life of the stain of “governance from jail.” For others, it signals a dangerous erosion of due process and federal balance. The outcome—whether through Parliament, states, or the courts—will mark a defining moment in India’s constitutional journey