The recent history of Indian federalism has been dominated by the actions (or rather inaction) of Governors in opposition-ruled states. For years, State governments have complained - quietly at first, then loudly - that their bills were being held hostage in Raj Bhavans. Not rejected. Not returned. Just stalled. Democracy can accommodate disagreement; what it cannot survive is indefinite silence.

This silence eventually reached the Supreme Court in State of Tamil Nadu v. Governor of Tamil Nadu, where, in April 2025, a Bench led by Justice JB Pardiwala delivered a judgment that many saw as a breath of constitutional fresh air. It was the kind of decision young law students engaged with on Instagram, because for the first time in decades, the Court squarely confronted the elephant in the room: what happens when a Governor simply does not act?

The April judgment answered briskly. A Governor must decide. A President must decide. And neither can take forever. It even suggested that in the truly extraordinary case, the Supreme Court could step in and using Article 142 treat a bill as having been assented to. It was a judgment with pace, purpose and a certain impatience for institutional inertia. It was almost like the Court forcing a rusty constitutional machinery to move.

But constitutional stories rarely end with one chapter. And this one took a rather dramatic turn when the President of India, instead of allowing the April decision to settle into practice, chose to refer a set of sweeping questions to the Supreme Court under Article 143. This is the constitutional equivalent of pausing a movie and asking the director, “What exactly did you mean by that scene?”

Such references are not everyday events; they signal that the stakes are high and the constitutional uncertainty too profound to leave untouched.

The Supreme Court responded by assembling a five-judge Constitution Bench. And on November 20, 2025, it delivered a judgment that did not merely reinterpret the April decision; it effectively reversed its most groundbreaking innovations.

The result is a verdict that reads like a philosophical counterpoint: where the April bench saw constitutional silence as an invitation to create safeguards, the Constitution Bench saw it as an instruction to tread lightly.

The Constitution Bench begins with the Governor. It holds, with quiet firmness, that the Governor does indeed possess real discretion under Article 200 - not in the political sense, but in the constitutional sense. He may assent to a bill, return it with comments, or reserve it for the President’s consideration. And in doing so, he need not follow the State Cabinet’s advice. It is, the Court insists, part of the design of Indian federalism, not an accident.

This will surprise many who have grown up hearing that Governors must act “on aid and advice.” But the Court draws a clear line: Article 200 is an exception. The Governor is expected to think, not merely sign.

And yet, the moment the Court grants this autonomy, another question arises. What if this discretion becomes a tool for delay? What if the Governor never decides?

In April, the answer was timelines. Three months for the President and three months for the Governor if they choose to reserve the bill for assent against ministerial advice.

But the Constitution Bench rejects this entire approach. It does so not dismissively, but almost philosophically. If the Constitution did not write a clock into Articles 200 and 201, the Court will not paint one in the margins. To do so, the Bench says, would be to “judicially amend” the Constitution. And if the Court begins adding deadlines to constitutional silences, where does it stop?

It is here that we see the first divide between constitutional theory and democratic pragmatism. Imposing timelines, however constitutionally radical, had the virtue of making the system move. Their disappearance leaves the process once again open-ended. Democracy, after all, is not merely the right to pass laws; it is the right to have them processed and implemented.

The Constitution Bench tries to soften the blow. It concedes that only prolonged, unexplained, indefinite inaction by a Governor can be judicially noticed. Courts may then issue what it calls a “limited mandamus” - a gentle judicial tap on the shoulder: please take a decision. But this nudge is the only remedy. The Court will not examine the correctness of the decision, or the reasons behind it, or whether the Governor should have reserved rather than returned. Those, the Court says, are constitutional choices beyond judicial review.

In other words, the Court has tightened the definition of judicial review around the Governor’s actions until it fits almost exactly within the borders drawn in the 1950s. Any attempt to push beyond that, it warns, risks blurring the separation of powers.

The President fares no differently. The April Bench opened the door to reviewing Presidential assent, including whether the reasons for withholding assent were valid. The Constitution Bench closes that door gently, but firmly. The President’s assent under Article 201 is now declared non-justiciable on merits. Courts may examine only one thing - whether the President is refusing to act altogether. Everything else - reasons, correctness, constitutional rationale - stands outside judicial reach.

Taken together, these holdings mark a profound shift. Not in the text of the Constitution, but in the way the Court wants the Constitution to breathe. The April judgment saw constitutional silences as gaps to be filled in the interest of democratic functionality. The November judgment sees those silences as intentional spaces - areas where the Court must step back, not step in.

And yet, one cannot escape the lingering democratic anxiety. If a Governor does not decide for months, the Court offers only a polite reminder. If the President takes a year, the remedy remains the same. The April judgment tried to protect democracy from delay; the November judgment protects the Constitution from judicial improvisation. Both instincts are noble. But they lead to very different outcomes for everyday governance.

Perhaps the most striking passage in the Constitution Bench judgment is its rejection of “deemed assent.” To Justice Pardiwala's Bench, this was a rare, emergency tool the Court could wield to prevent constitutional paralysis. To the Constitution Bench, it was a bridge too far - an act that would allow the judiciary to impersonate the executive. If a Governor or President has failed to act, the Court can only remind, not replace, it said.

It is hard to fault the Court’s logic on separation of powers. And yet, it is equally hard to ignore a troubling question that now hangs over the system - can constitutional design accommodate prolonged indecision without eroding democratic legitimacy? Can the right to delay become the power to disrupt?

The Constitution Bench believes this uncertainty is better than judicial overreach.

The April judgment believed judicial guidance was better than constitutional ambiguity. Both positions come from good faith. Both reflect different visions of the Court’s role.

But for the rest of us watching this constitutional drama unfold, the question refuses to settle. When the Constitution is silent, should democracy slow down? Or should the judiciary help it move?

The November judgment answers firmly in favour of silence. And with that, the Court has placed the clock back in its box. The system will continue ticking, but at a pace chosen not by law, not by elected governments and not by courts, but by offices that can, when they choose, take their time.

Whether that tempo strengthens our democracy or tests it, that is a story still being written.

[Read Reference Opinion]