For decades, wearing sunglasses indoors was the universal sign of someone who was either terribly hungover, aggressively untrustworthy or suffering from a severe case of unearned stardom.

Then Big Tech did what Big Tech invariably does. It took a perfectly functional accessory, packed it with cameras, microphones, speakers, internet connectivity and generative AI, and sold it back to consumers as the future.

Today, a pair of Ray-Ban Meta or Oakley smart glasses is no longer a niche gadget for technology enthusiasts. It has become one of the creator economy’s favourite toys - part camera, part communications device, part AI assistant, wrapped in a designer frame. The speed at which these devices have entered everyday life has left institutions scrambling to figure out where they belong.

The immediate trigger for that conversation emerged from an unlikely corner - the Indian Premier League (IPL).

When the Board of Control for Cricket in India's (BCCI) Anti-Corruption and Security Unit (ACSU) prohibited smart glasses in the players and match officials area during the IPL, it was responding to a problem that would have sounded faintly absurd a few years ago. Cricket administrators suddenly found themselves regulating sunglasses or, more precisely, regulating devices that happened to look like sunglasses.

The BCCI reportedly classified products such as Ray-Ban Meta and Oakley smart glasses as “communication and audio-video recording devices.” Within an ecosystem built around anti-corruption safeguards, tightly controlled information flows and fiercely protected broadcasting rights, that classification was hardly surprising.

A device capable of recording dressing-room conversations, transmitting information in real time, receiving audio communications or broadcasting behind-the-scenes footage presents obvious difficulties for security officials. Those concerns become considerably more acute when the same device sits on somebody’s face and is almost indistinguishable from ordinary eyewear.

In a tournament where media rights are among the most valuable assets in Indian sport, wearable cameras were always likely to collide with commercial realities. Every unofficial clip, livestream or first-person recording sits uneasily alongside exclusive broadcasting arrangements worth billions.

The IPL happened to encounter that collision earlier than most.

That question sits at the centre of almost every smart-glasses controversy. Nobody at the IPL was really arguing about sunglasses. The discussion revolved around classification.

The same pair of Ray-Bans that helps a creator record a food walk through Chandni Chowk may be viewed very differently by a university invigilator, a hospital administrator, a law firm partner or an anti-corruption official. Indian legislation is generally unimpressed by branding, marketing campaigns and luxury logos. What matters are the capabilities packed inside the frame.

Under Section 2(1)(ha) of the Information Technology Act of 2000, a communication device includes apparatus used to transmit text, audio or images. Smart glasses comfortably enter that conversation because they are capable of handling calls, transmitting information and broadcasting content through connected networks. Once those functions are activated, the glasses begin to resemble the very devices that restricted zones have spent years trying to keep out: phones, recording equipment and communication tools.

The legal complications start there and quickly spread outward.

Walk through Khan Market, Connaught Place, Church Street or Marine Drive on a weekend and there is a reasonable chance you will appear in somebody else’s content before the day is over. Street interviews, reaction videos, prank content, food walks, fitness reels and travel vlogs have normalised a level of public recording that would have seemed unusual a few years ago.

Any discussion about wearable cameras eventually arrives at the Supreme Court’s landmark decision in Justice KS Puttaswamy v. Union of India.

The judgment recognised privacy as a fundamental right and placed individual autonomy at the centre of India’s constitutional framework. One observation from that decision has acquired fresh relevance as cameras migrate from our pockets to our faces.

Walking through Marine Drive or a crowded market in Delhi implies consent to being seen. It does not automatically imply consent to being digitised, indexed and monetised. The distinction may sound academic. It becomes considerably less academic when wearable cameras spend entire days recording interactions, conversations and identifiable faces.

Trial rooms, locker rooms, hospital examination areas, restrooms and spa facilities have never been hospitable environments for cameras. Section 77 of the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita dealing with voyeurism already addresses much of this territory. Courts are unlikely to be impressed by arguments that somebody was merely experimenting with new technology while recording inside spaces where privacy expectations are obvious.

The recording device may be newer. The legal principle is not.

Until this point, the conversation has largely been about privacy as a constitutional principle. The Digital Personal Data Protection Act, 2023 (DPDP Act) attempts to translate that principle into everyday rules for the digital world.

At its heart, the Act regulates digital personal data - information about an individual that exists in digital form and can identify that person. It places obligations on data fiduciaries, namely the individuals, companies or organisations that determine why and how personal data is processed, while giving individuals certain rights over their own data.

Smart glasses fit awkwardly into this framework.

Unlike a smartphone, which is usually taken out deliberately to record a photograph or video, wearable cameras can quietly capture hours of footage while the wearer walks through airports, shopping malls, restaurants or busy streets. Every identifiable face that appears in that footage is capable of becoming digital personal data.

Does that mean every person wearing a pair of Ray-Ban Meta glasses automatically becomes subject to the DPDP Act? Not quite.

The Act contains an important exemption for processing carried out by an individual for personal or domestic purposes. Recording a family holiday, a walk with friends or a birthday celebration would ordinarily fall within that exemption. The legal position becomes considerably murkier once the same footage is uploaded to a monetised YouTube channel, an Instagram account built around brand collaborations or a commercial travel vlog.

Whether a creator can continue to rely on the personal or domestic exemption in those circumstances remains an open legal question. 

Where exactly does “personal” end and “commercial” begin? The Act offers no clear answer.

That uncertainty exists because the legislation was drafted with websites, apps, e-commerce platforms and digital services in mind. It never specifically contemplates AI-powered wearable cameras that continuously collect visual data from the wearer’s point of view. As these devices become more common, regulators and courts will inevitably have to answer questions the statute never expressly anticipated.

The DPDP Act itself is also under challenge before the Supreme Court. The petitioners argue that certain provisions dilute transparency under the Right to Information Act while granting broad exemptions to the State. Whatever the outcome of those cases, wearable AI has already begun exposing gaps that the legislation did not specifically set out to address.

One of the more persistent misconceptions surrounding smart glasses is that restrictions must originate with governments. Real life is usually less dramatic. A creator recording a walk through Chandni Chowk raises a different set of concerns from somebody entering a boardroom discussing confidential transactions, a members’ club hosting private guests or a wellness centre promising discretion.

Businesses have already spent decades trying to control photography inside sensitive spaces. The familiar “No Photography” sign worked because everyone knew what a camera looked like. Smart glasses have made that assumption considerably less reliable.

The next generation of notices may look slightly different:

“Smart eyewear, communication-capable wearables and recording devices prohibited beyond this point.”

That future no longer feels particularly distant.

Privacy, confidentiality, broadcasting rights and consent are hardly new legal questions. Cameras have been forcing lawyers, judges and regulators to think about them for decades. What has changed is the shape of the camera.

A device that once sat in a pocket, hung around a neck or rested on a tripod now looks exactly like something millions of people wear every day.

The IPL happened to encounter that reality first. Universities, employers, restaurants, hospitals and courts are gradually finding themselves in the same conversation. The smart glasses are staying.

However, the smartest thing about these glasses may no longer be the AI inside them. It may be the lawyers they eventually keep employed.