This article marks the beginning of Tryst with the Constitution, a dedicated fortnightly column that engages with the Constitution of India. The aim is to look at the Constitution not only in its historical and contemporary Indian contexts, but also against the backdrop of global constitutional developments.

The Constitution, after all, is both a domestic charter and part of a larger conversation about democracy, rights, and state power. Some weeks this column will reflect on topical developments; on others, it will revisit foundational debates or forgotten provisions.

The goal is to keep alive our “tryst” with the Constitution – not as passive reverence, but as active engagement.

I wanted to begin with a recurring claim about the origins of the Constitution: that it is a colonial document. In the Constituent Assembly itself, many members had argued that in relying so heavily on the Government of India Act, 1935, the framers had failed to break free from colonial structures.

K. Hanumanthaiah, had famously remarked, “we wanted the music of Veena or Sitar, but here we have the music of an English band”. That critique has persisted: many point to the continuity of the administrative apparatus, the adoption of British parliamentary form, and the absence of “indigenous” traditions in the text.

Arghya Sengupta has recently sharpened this critique. In his book 'The Colonial Constitution', he argues that the Assembly had a historic opportunity to create an authentically Indian framework, but instead produced a document that largely mirrored colonial traditions. Nearly two-thirds of the draft, he notes, drew directly from the 1935 Act, embedding a bias toward state power over citizens.

There is force to this critique. The continuity with colonial law and institutions cannot be denied. But as I noted in reviewing Sengupta’s book, the question is not whether borrowing occurred — it plainly did — but why. Indigenous alternatives did not exist in any meaningful sense. The Assembly had to choose between tested constitutional structures and the uncertainty of untried designs, and it chose the latter, on grounds of familiarity and stability. The Constitution thus bears “colonial” features, but they were consciously repurposed, not unthinkingly imposed. Ambedkar made the same argument in the Assembly, arguing, “the Drafting Committee in performing its duty has not been guilty of such blind and slavish imitation as it is represented to be.”

Yet to call the Constitution colonial and stop there is misleading. Alongside continuity, the framers introduced striking departures.

The first of these was to create a Republic, not a Dominion. Other Commonwealth countries, for instance, Australia and New Zealand, continued to proclaim the British monarch as their sovereign head of state, an identity some still grapple with. India broke decisively from this tradition. On 26 January 1950, the Indian people became the sole source of authority, and the Constitution vested sovereignty in them. This was a profound choice, too often overlooked.

The second major departure was the chapter on Fundamental Rights and the choice of universal adult suffrage. For a people long denied freedoms under colonial rule, the explicit guarantees of equality, liberty, and expression were a radical rupture. India’s franchise decision was even more audacious: every adult citizen, regardless of property, education, caste, or gender, was given a vote, post the adoption of the Constitution.

In contrast, the United States Constitution, when adopted, treated African Americans as three-fifths of a person and did not enfranchise women for well over a century. Britain, too, denied women equal voting rights until 1928. India decisively chose another path, embedding equality into both its rights and its political system right from the inception.

Moreover, the Constitution contained provisions rooted in indigenous social realities. The abolition of untouchability (Article 17), the guarantee of access to public facilities (Article 15), the prohibition of forced labour (Article 23), reservations for disadvantaged groups (Article 16), and the abolition of titles (Article 18) all reflected uniquely Indian concerns.

The last of these — abolition of titles — was particularly aimed at discarding the colonial mindset of hierarchy and superiority. These were not borrowed provisions; they were India’s own imprint, born of its own struggles.

The framers also tweaked the parliamentary system to suit Indian conditions. Unlike Westminster, India adopted a written constitution, provided for judicial review, and deliberately created a strong, independent Supreme Court. The President was a constitutional head, but not a hereditary monarch. Hence, borrowings from abroad were not wholesale imports but adapted to Indian needs.

The test of time also matters. Many post-colonial constitutions including those of our neighbours faltered within a decade. Pakistan’s first constitution lasted less than five years; Nepal has rewritten its basic law multiple times. By contrast, India’s Constitution has endured. Comparative studies by Tom Ginsburg and his co-authors show that the average lifespan of a written constitution is just seventeen years.

The fact that India’s has lasted for over seven decades is a testament to its workability — a design detailed enough to provide clarity, yet adaptable enough to respond to changing circumstances.

In our conversation about the Constitution, its cultural expression is often overlooked.

Though its text drew from many sources, its form reflected a distinctly Indian ethos. The calligraphy of Prem Behari Narain Raizada, the illustrations inspired by Ajanta murals, and depictions drawn from the Mohenjodaro seals, the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the life of the Buddha and Mahavira, the reign of Emperor Asoka, Gupta art, Nalanda, Lord Shiva, Akbar, and Guru Gobind Singh together trace the sweep of India’s civilisational journey. Every page of the Constitution thus carried not merely legal text but also a cultural artefact — a deliberate act of ownership that embedded India’s past into its foundational charter, and invited every citizen to read, reflect, and embrace it.

Where, then, does this leave the “colonial” critique? It cannot be dismissed: the continuities are real, and honesty requires acknowledging them. But to characterise the Constitution as colonial in essence is reductive. It ignores the agency of the framers, the innovations they introduced, and the democratic foundations they laid. The Constitution is not a colonial relic. It is a post-colonial creation, eclectic and adaptive, designed by Indians for a Republic of their own.

This first column is not the final word on the subject. It sets the tone for the conversations ahead. Ambedkar reminded us that hero worship is inimical to democracy. The Constitution, too, must be treated neither as sacred nor untouchable, but as a living text to be engaged with critically. To keep our tryst with the Constitution is to debate it, critique it, and celebrate it — so that it remains not a relic of 1950, but a charter for the future.

Swapnil Tripathi leads Charkha, the Constitutional Law Centre at the Vidhi Centre for Legal Policy.