When the Constituent Assembly deliberated on the word 'Republic', the founding fathers, including Dr. B.R. Ambedkar spoke of accountability as its essence. The word’s Latin origin, res publica—’a public matter’—underscored the need for systems where power would be held in check, ensuring that no authority is beyond scrutiny. Embedded in this vision was the enduring question: ‘Who will police the police?’ The debate seeded the modern concept of institutions like ‘Lokpal’—a safeguard meant against corruption and abuse of power.
Yet, decades later, the Republic's dreams of an independent, impartial, and empowered anti-corruption institution remain a far cry from reality. A compelling case in point is the Lokpal Act of 2013, often celebrated as a watershed moment but criticized as a mere legislative whitewashing. The Lokpal, envisioned as India’s apex anti-corruption watchdog, remains a symbolic yet largely ineffective force with systemic flaws and operational inefficiencies.
Tracing its roots, the Lokpal Bill emerged amid the fervour of Anna Hazare's ‘anti-corruption’ protests in 2011, a mass movement that promised a new India. The legislation that followed in 2013 under the UPA government led by the late Manmohan Singh was hailed as a historic step. Since its inception, there have been speculative fears of overdependence on government control and its inability to mete out meaningful punishments. Over a decade later, it is often described as a “toothless tiger.”
Amid these lingering concerns, January 16 marked the celebration of 'Lokpal Foundation Day,' accompanied by self-congratulatory rhetoric and aggrandizement from all quarters. But does this institution live up to its grand vision? Or has it become, like many of its predecessors, a hollow institution that serves more as a symbol than a solution? Most criticisms so far have been speculative— based on textual analysis of the legislation and estimations of its prospective effects. However, to move beyond conjecture, we have conducted a thorough analysis of a sample of the most recent 100 final orders issued by Lokpal. The results were startling and, arguably, deeply concerning. An astonishing 80 per cent of all cases “disposed of” were, in reality, dismissed without substantial inquiry into the alleged offences. Surprisingly, this outcome is due to no fault of the Lokpal bench themselves.
Approximately 10 per cent of these cases pertained to offences allegedly committed seven years before the registration of the complaint, effectively placing them outside the Lokpal’s temporal jurisdiction. Another 14 per cent of the matters fell outside the subject matter jurisdiction of the Lokpal. These included allegations ranging from debt recovery to absurd complaints surrounding marital abuse and offences under the Hindu Marriage Act! The remaining cases—i.e. Over 50 per cent in the sample studied—were dismissed because the defendants in question were either not ‘public servants’ as defined under the Prevention of Corruption Act, 1988, or were employees of various state governments and, therefore, once again, outside the jurisdiction.
Despite our temptations to write off this issue as misguided filings from overzealous complainants, let us remember that the handicap is not in the people, nor in the Lokpal, but in the very parent legislative design of the Lokpal. The state must design policies and governance infrastructure that absorb public imperfections, account for our collective behavioural deficiencies, and harmonize systems to maximize efficiency. That over three-fourths of the cases disposed of by a system are procedural dismissal orders is reflective of a deep-seated illness that consumes the valuable judicial time of the learned judges at the institution.
One rung deeper, even in those rare instances where the Lokpal gets to substantially evaluate the nuances of a complaint due to the fulfilment of jurisdictional requirements, the result tends to be anti-climactic. The strongest statement of disapproval the supreme governance watchdog is empowered to issue is the grant of a ‘sanction to prosecute’ or ‘permission to initiate a departmental inquiry.’ This reality brings back concerns raised over a decade ago: that the legislation gave birth to a 'toothless' Lokpal that is riddled with insufficiencies, ranging from unnecessarily narrow jurisdictional strangleholds to a limited capacity for action.
It would be imprudent to conclude that the Lokpal, as a concept, was flawed from the outset. The devil lies in the details – and, in this case, within the 2013 Act. An effective and empowered registry is key to the success of any court or tribunal. Evidence of this system’s efficiency is palpable from its success elsewhere, most notably in the United Kingdom’s Her Majesty’s Courts and Tribunals Service. The Supreme Court has suggested similar measures in the context of general judicial processes, notably in the landmark L. Chandrakumar v. Union of India (1997) judgement. Despite advocacy, these judicial innovations have seen sluggish adoption in India.
As for the Lokpal, a simple three-pronged prima facie evaluation, at the Registry level, may do the trick. First: does the complaint pertain to an offence under the Prevention of Corruption Act, 1988? Second: is the complaint against someone who qualifies as a ‘public servant’ under Section 2(c) of the Act? Third: did the alleged offence occur within the past seven years from the date of filing? Implementing this streamlined preliminary check would filter out 70–80 per cent of the current caseload, enabling the Lokpal to focus its resources on substantive corruption cases.
It is crucial to remember that a trained judicial mind is a scarce resource. Individuals of the stature and competence of the Lokpal bench are a rarity within the Indian state apparatus. Their time, when harnessed, ought to be utilized responsibly to make precise evaluations of the complex calculus of law, fairness, and justice. A significant portion of their judicial capacity is consumed by linear questions that could be resolved at a clerical or administrative level, and this, we argue, represents a systemic failure and highlights legislative inefficiency. As a specialised institution with a minimal caseload and negligible pendency, the Lokpal serves as an ideal testbed for such administrative-judicial separation.
In addition to this suggestion, registry benches at both the Lokayukta and Lokpal levels could be interconnected. Cases that appear to be misfiled in the wrong jurisdiction could be redirected to the appropriate forum without burdening the complainant with the need to reinitiate filing in a different forum altogether. Given the relatively lighter dockets of the Lokpal and the Lokayuktas, it may also be prudent to extend the temporal jurisdiction to a decade or even two, expanding beyond the current restrictive seven-year limitation. Citizens often hesitate to lodge complaints against public servants out of fear of facing retaliation from them, considering their positions of influence. Many feel more comfortable reporting corruption only after the retirement or transfer of officials whose positions could otherwise enable adverse actions against them.
Extending the window of limitation would accommodate such situations and, as data suggests, have minimal impact on Lokpal’s caseload.
Additionally, we must explore more behaviourally nuanced and informed approaches to combating corruption. One such approach is Professor Kaushik Basu’s controversial yet arguably sensible proposal to decriminalize the act of bribe-giving. Current laws, which criminalize the ‘abetment’ of bribery, deter ordinary citizens—who are often coerced into giving bribes—from approaching the authorities for fear of being prosecuted as 'abettors to the crime'. This burden is reiterated in Section 14(3) of the Lokpal Act. Adopting Professor Basu’s bold but reasonable idea could shift the balance in favour of the hapless citizen.
The Lokpal’s budgetary expenditure has risen significantly - from approximately ₹40 crore in 2021-22 to over ₹62 crore in 2023-24. A substantial portion of these funds has been allocated to salaries, allowances, and other operational/establishment costs. In its current form, the Lokpal risks becoming a financial drain without delivering commensurate results or accountability. This raises the obvious question: Is the Lokpal in its current form worth the investment?
In Common Cause v. Union of India (2017), the Supreme Court expressed hope that the proposed Lokpal and Lokayuktas would "strengthen the existing legal and institutional mechanisms" to uphold integrity in public life. The judgment underscored the commitment to “zero tolerance against corruption,” framing the Lokpal as a critical pillar in the fight against malfeasance. However, the reality has fallen far short of this vision. Justice Dilip B. Bhosale, former Chief Justice of the Allahabad High Court, resigned from his position in the Lokpal, citing its dysfunctionality as the primary reason. His resignation reflects deeper systemic flaws that prevent the institution from fulfilling its intended role as a robust anti-corruption watchdog.
The answer to the aforementioned question lies not in abolishing the institution but in revitalizing it. A high-level review committee must be tasked with proposing time-bound reforms. Public awareness campaigns should rekindle faith in its potential, while legislative amendments should ensure Lokpal transforms from a symbolic watchdog to a genuine pillar of accountability. The Republic envisioned by the Constituent Assembly deserves nothing less.
About the authors:
Amal Chandra is an author, policy analyst and columnist. Gokul K. Sunoj is a final-year law student at The National University of Advanced Legal Studies, Kochi. The opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of THE WEEK.
