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Why the Constitution Matters: Selected Speeches | Justice D.Y. Chandrachud on Fundamental Rights, Landmark Judgments & the Constitution’s Role in Safeguarding Democracy
In Why the Constitution Matters Justice D.Y. Chandrachud delves into the profound significance of the Constitution in shaping the nation’s identity and governance. This insightful book offers readers a nuanced understanding of the Constitution’s role in protecting fundamental rights, ensuring justice and maintaining the rule of law. The author brings to the forefront his experience of nearly twenty-five years as a judge, making complex constitutional principles accessible to both legal professionals and common citizens. Through engaging narratives and real-life examples, he illustrates how the Constitution impacts everyday life and why it remains a cornerstone of democracy. The book covers themes such as democracy, free speech, pluralism, gender, environmental governance, dissent and landmark judgments that have shaped modern India.
Why the Constitution Matters is not just a book for legal scholars; it is a must-read for anyone who values democracy, justice and the rule of law. Discover why the Constitution is more than just a document; it is the foundation of a just and equitable society.
Why the Constitution Matters is not just a book for legal scholars; it is a must-read for anyone who values democracy, justice and the rule of law. Discover why the Constitution is more than just a document; it is the foundation of a just and equitable society.
683 pages, Hardcover
Published August 31, 2025
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September 29, 2025
“When we jail a cartoonist for sedition … the constitution is lynched. When we deny human beings the power of love … it is the constitution which is made to weep.” That line, quoted from one of Justice D.Y. Chandrachud’s addresses, captures the tone and ambition of *Why the Constitution Matters: Selected Speeches*: solemn, poetic, urgent.
The book is not a dry legal treatise; it is an invitation, or maybe even a summons, to see the Indian Constitution not just as a document but as a living relationship between citizens and the state, one that must be nurtured, defended, and reinterpreted.
Chandrachud is upfront that this is not a jurisprudential treatise or a theoretical monograph. It is a curated collection of speeches—addresses, lectures, memorial talks—through which he meditates on constitutional themes. He himself describes it as less about adjudicating particular disputes and more about speaking from the heart to a broad audience, about law, justice, and democracy. Because these are speeches, there is an immediacy, a rhetorical energy. Chandrachud frames abstract principles in vivid, real-world examples: the cartoonist, the mob lynch, the blogger.
That keeps the reader connected to life outside the courtroom. But because the genre is speech, there is inevitably some repetition of themes across chapters, and not all arguments are carried to their deepest logical limits.
Some speeches assume background knowledge, which may make parts of the text feel elliptical or underdeveloped for readers who want doctrinal depth. Chandrachud addresses multiple audiences: law students, citizens interested in democracy, future litigators, and even judges. He shifts registers—from somewhat technical to poetic, from constitutional doctrine to moral exhortation. He democratizes constitutional ideas: he refuses to confine them to “lawyers’ talk,” insisting that the Constitution is for all, “meant for citizens then, now and in the future.”
He remarks that during his time as a judge, even when he spoke outside judgments, his words were bound by the judicial role; now, as an author, he can speak more freely to connect with the public. He does not shy away from emotion or metaphor, frequently using imagery—silence, weeping, home, soil—to evoke the resonance of constitutional values in people’s lives, yet pairing such metaphor with disciplined argument about the role of courts, judgments, dissent, and rights.
This approach sets him apart from conventional constitutional texts. The textbook or doctrinal treatise model walks through articles, cases, principles, counter-arguments, and implications, and while rigorous, it can feel remote to many readers. The critical-theory or philosophical model emphasizes power, ideology, critiques of liberal constitutionalism, and pushes for transformative rethinking, but may sometimes feel abstract or pessimistic.
Chandrachud situates himself somewhere between. He neither merely catalogs doctrines nor stands apart as a detached critic. His method is rhetorical and pragmatic, anchored in lived cases and the duties of a judge. In that sense, he echoes earlier constitutional voices like Nani Palkhivala’s advocacy or the speeches of constitutionalists like H.M. Seervai, but with a 21st-century sensibility, austerity, and urgency. His metaphorical line—that the constitution represents the charter of power granted by liberty and not the charter of liberty granted by power—draws from Palkhivala, and he uses that as a touchstone.
But Chandrachud’s new contribution is to insist not only on textual fidelity but also on the need for moral courage from all citizens, especially judges and lawyers. One of the central threads in the book is the protection of dissent in a democracy. Chandrachud warns that penalizing dissent—through sedition law, criminal defamation or excessive bail restrictions—is to “lynch the constitution.” He situates free speech not just as a legal right but as a critical condition for constitutional life, for citizens to engage with the state and for democracy to self-correct. He discusses key judgments around speech, emphasizing that constitutional guarantees must include a margin for discomfort and uncomfortable critique.
He also connects the right to privacy, which undergirds expressive autonomy, to the limits of state intrusions. Chandrachud does well in weaving together jurisprudence with civic commitment. He illustrates how laws, often framed in neutral terms, can become weapons of intimidation. The moral urgency in his tone reminds the reader that constitutional rights require constant vigilance. But at times, the rhetoric overshadows subtleties.
How do we balance free speech with reasonable restrictions such as incitement, hate speech, and public order? Some speeches touch those tensions but do not fully explore them. Compared to scholars like Gautam Bhatia, Chandrachud is less analytical in isolating conflicting doctrinal strands and more passionate in promoting a vision. Bhatia might go deeper into how jurisprudence evolved or how power shapes speech regimes; Chandrachud’s priority is moral orientation and civic duty. Chandrachud also underscores that constitutional equality is not just formal equality but substantive—equal dignity, inclusion, and social justice. He points to cases where courts have advanced gender equality, rights of persons with disabilities, and anti-discrimination measures.
His speeches often reference landmark judgments from his own judicial tenure. He connects them to lived inequalities, reminding the reader that constitutional change must implicate power, institutions, and the margins of society. This linking of doctrine and social reality is compelling, but given India’s deeply embedded hierarchies, one might want even more sustained reflection on how constitutionalism must confront entrenched power—land, caste, religion. At times, the speeches stay within the framework of judicial possibility rather than exploring bold institutional imaginaries.
Critical legal scholars might press harder: why does the constitutional morality still shy away from structural economic inequality, land reform, dissent against neoliberal policy, or religious minorities’ vulnerability? Chandrachud, being a judge, must (perhaps wisely) stay within constitutional boundaries; but readers invested in radical transformation might find the horizon a bit constrained. Chandrachud also gives considerable weight to the institutional architecture of constitutional democracy: the separation of powers, checks and balances, the need for an independent judiciary, and respectful but firm inter-institutional dialogue.
In his speeches, he laments when the judiciary is weakened or when executive overreach threatens constitutional safeguards. He emphasizes the importance of legitimate dissent within judicial bodies, the routing of executive power, and the decorum of institutional restraint. His insider experience gives moral weight to these institutional reflections. He is speaking from a vantage point of one who has operated within the system, which helps him attend to both formal limits and informal pressures. Some readers might feel he is cautiously circumscribed: he rarely breaks radically with precedent or institutional constraints.
In contrast, some constitutional theorists push stronger critiques, seeing institutions as enshrining inequality, replicating exclusion, and legitimizing power rather than challenging it. Chandrachud does not ignore those critiques but frames them more as tensions to manage than as fundamental rethinking. Given India’s plural social fabric, Chandrachud often returns to the theme that the Constitution is a vessel for diversity, not just difference. He warns against majoritarian impulses, insists on the equal dignity of religious minorities, and argues that “We, the people” must be ever inclusive and expansive.
In one interview, he states that the Constitution is not merely a legal text but a moral compass and that reducing it to the former is dangerously narrow. Such remarks are resonant in an era when identity polarization is rising. He gives constitutional protection of pluralism, rhetorical emphasis and moral weight. In his speeches, he connects abstract commitments to real threats: communal violence, majoritarian narratives, and the silencing of minority voices. Yet the speeches tend to gesture rather than exhaustively argue.
For instance, how do we resolve tensions when freedom of speech and religious offense overlap? Or when secularism as a state doctrine clashes with religious autonomy? Chandrachud’s rhetorical purpose is civic character, not academic exhaustiveness. Other constitutional writers interrogate more deeply the paradoxes of neutrality, the limits of state intervention in religion, and the possibility of constitutional pluralism beyond liberal secular frames. Chandrachud engages these but typically in a measured tone, not radical deconstruction.
One of the newer themes in constitutional theory is environmental governance and intergenerational justice. Chandrachud includes speeches that speak to constitutional ecology, sustainability, and the duty to protect nature. He frames environmental rights as integral to dignity and equality and warns that constitutional neglect here is a betrayal of future citizens. It is encouraging to see a modern constitutional voice take seriously the environmental challenge. Because the Constitution is often thought of in static terms, introducing time, ecology, and sustainability is a valuable intervention.
Yet some speeches may lack granular policy or doctrinal detail. How do courts adjudicate environmental conflicts with development needs? How do we balance competing rights, such as property versus ecological regulation? Chandrachud gestures toward these dilemmas, but they are not always deeply resolved. Throughout the book, the rhetorical clarity and moral intensity shine. The speeches are not burdened by excessive jargon. Even when discussing difficult cases, Chandrachud tries to carry the reader into the stakes and dilemmas.
The emotional texture—the “weeping constitution,” “silences of dissent,” “the margin of justice”—helps ground abstraction in lived life. Chandrachud is effective in showing how constitutional adjudication matters in everyday lives—in criminal law, dignity, free speech, gender, and environment. This helps readers see beyond courtrooms. He balances humility and urgency. He recognizes the limits of judicial power, the challenge of institutional constraint, and the necessity of compromise, yet refuses to retreat from moral demands and civic responsibility. In a moment when democratic institutions globally and in India are under strain, the book’s core message—that the Constitution matters, and that citizens must engage—is urgent.
Yet because speeches must sometimes be concise, some themes and tensions are touched but not fully unraveled. For a reader wanting in-depth jurisprudential engagement or counterposition critiques, this can feel incomplete. While the book is full of exhortation, sometimes the path from noble principle to institutional reform is left implicit.
How do we move from speech to structural change—court reform, participative democracy, constitutional education schemes? There are areas one would wish a constitutional voice to probe more deeply—economic rights, land reform, property, informal labour, institutional bias, intersectionality of caste and gender—especially in India’s lived reality. Some of these are addressed, but often not in sustained depth.
Chandrachud’s identity as a judge makes certain caution understandable, but at times the speeches feel tethered to respect for precedent and institutional boundaries. For constitutional transformation, some readers may expect bolder leaps or imaginative proposals, especially on how courts should restructure or leverage new modes of participatory justice. A few more radical provocations might have strengthened the argument.
To appreciate what Chandrachud’s book offers, it helps to see it in conversation with other constitutional writing. Radical constitutionalists and critical legal scholars often start not with affirmation but with critique: exposing hidden power, ideological bias, exclusion, silences and contradictions in constitutional frameworks. They might say, “Why protect free speech when structural inequality silences most voices?” or “Why judicial review, which itself is elitist, reproduces exclusion?”
Chandrachud doesn’t ignore those critiques, but he doesn’t dwell there either. He adopts a constitutional-loyalist posture: he believes the Constitution is worth fighting for rather than discarding or suspending. He sees its imperfections but engages them from within. In that sense, he is more moderate, more reformist, more institutional than the radical critics. Some readers might yearn for the sharper edge of critique; Chandrachud offers instead a constructive, hopeful, grounded path. His role in this book is akin to what constitutional popularizers do: translating complex constitutional ideas into public discourse.
In India, that role has been played by figures like Nani Palkhivala in his public addresses, or more recently by legal scholars who write for general audiences. Chandrachud’s advantage is that he brings the voice of one who has sat on the bench. That confers both authority and responsibility. Against a purely academic treatise, Chandrachud’s strength is accessibility and moral framing. Against purely rhetorical public discourse, his strength is sustained linkage to doctrine and structure. In some respects, *Why the Constitution Matters* functions as a partial legacy statement. Chandrachud has served as a Supreme Court judge since 2016 and as Chief Justice of India from November 2022 to November 2024. His judicial decisions have dealt with privacy, decriminalization of homosexuality, equality in the armed forces, and more.
Through the speeches he picks, one sees the constitutional vision behind his judgments. Whereas a memoir might highlight personal struggle or behind-the-scenes stories, Chandrachud restrains that impulse. His emphasis is less on self and more on the institutional responsibilities, the moral stakes, and the public’s role. In the current global and Indian moment—when democratic institutions are under stress, when dissent is surveilled, when polarization runs deep—a voice like Chandrachud’s is urgently relevant.
He seeks to reorient citizens back to constitutional literacy and responsibility. A key insight is that the Constitution is not static; it must be defended by each generation, made meaningful, reinterpreted, and reanimated. To let it lie dormant is to surrender to factionalism or authoritarian drift. Hence, the book’s core message is both hopeful and cautionary: the Constitution matters, but it is not self-executing.
The stakes of silence are high: as Chandrachud warns, to deny love, dissent, and voice is to make the constitution weep. For law students and young lawyers, it offers a moral compass and a way to see constitutional law not merely as exam fodder but as life’s work. For citizens, it works as a civic manifesto—readable, affecting, inspiring. For judges and practitioners, it is an insider reflection, sometimes resonant, sometimes limited by institutional caution. For critics of constitutionalism, it may seem too moderate, too loyal to institutions, too hesitant to break with tradition.
Because these are addresses, they sometimes assume shared assumptions, context, and skip detailed steps. That means some arguments risk being underexplained to readers not steeped in constitutional debate. Some speeches retread ground—free speech, dignity, pluralism—which is fine rhetorically but may feel repetitive for a long reader. The step from moral exhortation to political strategy is often sketchy. Readers hoping for blueprints of institutional reform might find gaps. Chandrachud always writes from the judge’s vantage.
That gives him stature but also constrains how far he can push the critique of the judiciary or propose radical reforms. Yet if one imagines three voices in Indian constitutional conversation—the critical deconstructors who pry open silence, the doctrinal deep divers who dissect clauses and trace lineages of precedent, and then Chandrachud’s voice, which seeks to bridge, to be both moral and measured, passionate and disciplined—this book is his offer to the public: “Here’s what matters. Here’s how these constitutional battles are lived.
Here’s what future citizens should not forget.” It is less about overturning the system from outside and more about nurturing it from within. In that sense, it is optimistic, because it trusts institutions even while challenging them, and reformist, because it seeks to expand rather than tear down. Compared to the deepest doctrinal works, Chandrachud’s is lighter on case argument but richer in moral framing, historical memory, and civic imagination. Compared to radical constitutional critiques, it is less harsh, less fracturing, more institutional, more custodian than revolutionary. That position has both value and constraints. If history remembers this book, it might be not so much for novel doctrine but for restating constitutional values in a moment when many voices forget them.
For aspiring lawyers and law students, it should be read as a moral primer, pairing speeches with actual cases to see how moral arguments play out in doctrine. For civic-minded citizens, it should be read not as technobabble but as a meditation on what it means to live in a constitutional democracy. For judges and practitioners, it serves as a reflective companion, a reminder of the weight and patience required in constitutional work.
Because it is a speech collection, it is best read slowly, allowing each chapter to breathe, pausing to reflect on the real examples and comparing them with divergent voices from critical theory and grassroots constitutional activism.
The book is eloquent, moving, and morally forceful. It bridges law and life, making constitutional values accessible and urgent. It offers a vision of constitutional courage in a fragile democratic moment. Its insider vantage lends both authority and responsibility. But the speech format imposes brevity; deep doctrinal or policy tensions are sometimes sketchily handled. Its reformist posture, while principled, may feel insufficient to those demanding bolder structural reimaginings.
Some critical issues could be treated more expansively. Still, *Why the Constitution Matters* is an important, timely, and stirring contribution—not the final
The book is not a dry legal treatise; it is an invitation, or maybe even a summons, to see the Indian Constitution not just as a document but as a living relationship between citizens and the state, one that must be nurtured, defended, and reinterpreted.
Chandrachud is upfront that this is not a jurisprudential treatise or a theoretical monograph. It is a curated collection of speeches—addresses, lectures, memorial talks—through which he meditates on constitutional themes. He himself describes it as less about adjudicating particular disputes and more about speaking from the heart to a broad audience, about law, justice, and democracy. Because these are speeches, there is an immediacy, a rhetorical energy. Chandrachud frames abstract principles in vivid, real-world examples: the cartoonist, the mob lynch, the blogger.
That keeps the reader connected to life outside the courtroom. But because the genre is speech, there is inevitably some repetition of themes across chapters, and not all arguments are carried to their deepest logical limits.
Some speeches assume background knowledge, which may make parts of the text feel elliptical or underdeveloped for readers who want doctrinal depth. Chandrachud addresses multiple audiences: law students, citizens interested in democracy, future litigators, and even judges. He shifts registers—from somewhat technical to poetic, from constitutional doctrine to moral exhortation. He democratizes constitutional ideas: he refuses to confine them to “lawyers’ talk,” insisting that the Constitution is for all, “meant for citizens then, now and in the future.”
He remarks that during his time as a judge, even when he spoke outside judgments, his words were bound by the judicial role; now, as an author, he can speak more freely to connect with the public. He does not shy away from emotion or metaphor, frequently using imagery—silence, weeping, home, soil—to evoke the resonance of constitutional values in people’s lives, yet pairing such metaphor with disciplined argument about the role of courts, judgments, dissent, and rights.
This approach sets him apart from conventional constitutional texts. The textbook or doctrinal treatise model walks through articles, cases, principles, counter-arguments, and implications, and while rigorous, it can feel remote to many readers. The critical-theory or philosophical model emphasizes power, ideology, critiques of liberal constitutionalism, and pushes for transformative rethinking, but may sometimes feel abstract or pessimistic.
Chandrachud situates himself somewhere between. He neither merely catalogs doctrines nor stands apart as a detached critic. His method is rhetorical and pragmatic, anchored in lived cases and the duties of a judge. In that sense, he echoes earlier constitutional voices like Nani Palkhivala’s advocacy or the speeches of constitutionalists like H.M. Seervai, but with a 21st-century sensibility, austerity, and urgency. His metaphorical line—that the constitution represents the charter of power granted by liberty and not the charter of liberty granted by power—draws from Palkhivala, and he uses that as a touchstone.
But Chandrachud’s new contribution is to insist not only on textual fidelity but also on the need for moral courage from all citizens, especially judges and lawyers. One of the central threads in the book is the protection of dissent in a democracy. Chandrachud warns that penalizing dissent—through sedition law, criminal defamation or excessive bail restrictions—is to “lynch the constitution.” He situates free speech not just as a legal right but as a critical condition for constitutional life, for citizens to engage with the state and for democracy to self-correct. He discusses key judgments around speech, emphasizing that constitutional guarantees must include a margin for discomfort and uncomfortable critique.
He also connects the right to privacy, which undergirds expressive autonomy, to the limits of state intrusions. Chandrachud does well in weaving together jurisprudence with civic commitment. He illustrates how laws, often framed in neutral terms, can become weapons of intimidation. The moral urgency in his tone reminds the reader that constitutional rights require constant vigilance. But at times, the rhetoric overshadows subtleties.
How do we balance free speech with reasonable restrictions such as incitement, hate speech, and public order? Some speeches touch those tensions but do not fully explore them. Compared to scholars like Gautam Bhatia, Chandrachud is less analytical in isolating conflicting doctrinal strands and more passionate in promoting a vision. Bhatia might go deeper into how jurisprudence evolved or how power shapes speech regimes; Chandrachud’s priority is moral orientation and civic duty. Chandrachud also underscores that constitutional equality is not just formal equality but substantive—equal dignity, inclusion, and social justice. He points to cases where courts have advanced gender equality, rights of persons with disabilities, and anti-discrimination measures.
His speeches often reference landmark judgments from his own judicial tenure. He connects them to lived inequalities, reminding the reader that constitutional change must implicate power, institutions, and the margins of society. This linking of doctrine and social reality is compelling, but given India’s deeply embedded hierarchies, one might want even more sustained reflection on how constitutionalism must confront entrenched power—land, caste, religion. At times, the speeches stay within the framework of judicial possibility rather than exploring bold institutional imaginaries.
Critical legal scholars might press harder: why does the constitutional morality still shy away from structural economic inequality, land reform, dissent against neoliberal policy, or religious minorities’ vulnerability? Chandrachud, being a judge, must (perhaps wisely) stay within constitutional boundaries; but readers invested in radical transformation might find the horizon a bit constrained. Chandrachud also gives considerable weight to the institutional architecture of constitutional democracy: the separation of powers, checks and balances, the need for an independent judiciary, and respectful but firm inter-institutional dialogue.
In his speeches, he laments when the judiciary is weakened or when executive overreach threatens constitutional safeguards. He emphasizes the importance of legitimate dissent within judicial bodies, the routing of executive power, and the decorum of institutional restraint. His insider experience gives moral weight to these institutional reflections. He is speaking from a vantage point of one who has operated within the system, which helps him attend to both formal limits and informal pressures. Some readers might feel he is cautiously circumscribed: he rarely breaks radically with precedent or institutional constraints.
In contrast, some constitutional theorists push stronger critiques, seeing institutions as enshrining inequality, replicating exclusion, and legitimizing power rather than challenging it. Chandrachud does not ignore those critiques but frames them more as tensions to manage than as fundamental rethinking. Given India’s plural social fabric, Chandrachud often returns to the theme that the Constitution is a vessel for diversity, not just difference. He warns against majoritarian impulses, insists on the equal dignity of religious minorities, and argues that “We, the people” must be ever inclusive and expansive.
In one interview, he states that the Constitution is not merely a legal text but a moral compass and that reducing it to the former is dangerously narrow. Such remarks are resonant in an era when identity polarization is rising. He gives constitutional protection of pluralism, rhetorical emphasis and moral weight. In his speeches, he connects abstract commitments to real threats: communal violence, majoritarian narratives, and the silencing of minority voices. Yet the speeches tend to gesture rather than exhaustively argue.
For instance, how do we resolve tensions when freedom of speech and religious offense overlap? Or when secularism as a state doctrine clashes with religious autonomy? Chandrachud’s rhetorical purpose is civic character, not academic exhaustiveness. Other constitutional writers interrogate more deeply the paradoxes of neutrality, the limits of state intervention in religion, and the possibility of constitutional pluralism beyond liberal secular frames. Chandrachud engages these but typically in a measured tone, not radical deconstruction.
One of the newer themes in constitutional theory is environmental governance and intergenerational justice. Chandrachud includes speeches that speak to constitutional ecology, sustainability, and the duty to protect nature. He frames environmental rights as integral to dignity and equality and warns that constitutional neglect here is a betrayal of future citizens. It is encouraging to see a modern constitutional voice take seriously the environmental challenge. Because the Constitution is often thought of in static terms, introducing time, ecology, and sustainability is a valuable intervention.
Yet some speeches may lack granular policy or doctrinal detail. How do courts adjudicate environmental conflicts with development needs? How do we balance competing rights, such as property versus ecological regulation? Chandrachud gestures toward these dilemmas, but they are not always deeply resolved. Throughout the book, the rhetorical clarity and moral intensity shine. The speeches are not burdened by excessive jargon. Even when discussing difficult cases, Chandrachud tries to carry the reader into the stakes and dilemmas.
The emotional texture—the “weeping constitution,” “silences of dissent,” “the margin of justice”—helps ground abstraction in lived life. Chandrachud is effective in showing how constitutional adjudication matters in everyday lives—in criminal law, dignity, free speech, gender, and environment. This helps readers see beyond courtrooms. He balances humility and urgency. He recognizes the limits of judicial power, the challenge of institutional constraint, and the necessity of compromise, yet refuses to retreat from moral demands and civic responsibility. In a moment when democratic institutions globally and in India are under strain, the book’s core message—that the Constitution matters, and that citizens must engage—is urgent.
Yet because speeches must sometimes be concise, some themes and tensions are touched but not fully unraveled. For a reader wanting in-depth jurisprudential engagement or counterposition critiques, this can feel incomplete. While the book is full of exhortation, sometimes the path from noble principle to institutional reform is left implicit.
How do we move from speech to structural change—court reform, participative democracy, constitutional education schemes? There are areas one would wish a constitutional voice to probe more deeply—economic rights, land reform, property, informal labour, institutional bias, intersectionality of caste and gender—especially in India’s lived reality. Some of these are addressed, but often not in sustained depth.
Chandrachud’s identity as a judge makes certain caution understandable, but at times the speeches feel tethered to respect for precedent and institutional boundaries. For constitutional transformation, some readers may expect bolder leaps or imaginative proposals, especially on how courts should restructure or leverage new modes of participatory justice. A few more radical provocations might have strengthened the argument.
To appreciate what Chandrachud’s book offers, it helps to see it in conversation with other constitutional writing. Radical constitutionalists and critical legal scholars often start not with affirmation but with critique: exposing hidden power, ideological bias, exclusion, silences and contradictions in constitutional frameworks. They might say, “Why protect free speech when structural inequality silences most voices?” or “Why judicial review, which itself is elitist, reproduces exclusion?”
Chandrachud doesn’t ignore those critiques, but he doesn’t dwell there either. He adopts a constitutional-loyalist posture: he believes the Constitution is worth fighting for rather than discarding or suspending. He sees its imperfections but engages them from within. In that sense, he is more moderate, more reformist, more institutional than the radical critics. Some readers might yearn for the sharper edge of critique; Chandrachud offers instead a constructive, hopeful, grounded path. His role in this book is akin to what constitutional popularizers do: translating complex constitutional ideas into public discourse.
In India, that role has been played by figures like Nani Palkhivala in his public addresses, or more recently by legal scholars who write for general audiences. Chandrachud’s advantage is that he brings the voice of one who has sat on the bench. That confers both authority and responsibility. Against a purely academic treatise, Chandrachud’s strength is accessibility and moral framing. Against purely rhetorical public discourse, his strength is sustained linkage to doctrine and structure. In some respects, *Why the Constitution Matters* functions as a partial legacy statement. Chandrachud has served as a Supreme Court judge since 2016 and as Chief Justice of India from November 2022 to November 2024. His judicial decisions have dealt with privacy, decriminalization of homosexuality, equality in the armed forces, and more.
Through the speeches he picks, one sees the constitutional vision behind his judgments. Whereas a memoir might highlight personal struggle or behind-the-scenes stories, Chandrachud restrains that impulse. His emphasis is less on self and more on the institutional responsibilities, the moral stakes, and the public’s role. In the current global and Indian moment—when democratic institutions are under stress, when dissent is surveilled, when polarization runs deep—a voice like Chandrachud’s is urgently relevant.
He seeks to reorient citizens back to constitutional literacy and responsibility. A key insight is that the Constitution is not static; it must be defended by each generation, made meaningful, reinterpreted, and reanimated. To let it lie dormant is to surrender to factionalism or authoritarian drift. Hence, the book’s core message is both hopeful and cautionary: the Constitution matters, but it is not self-executing.
The stakes of silence are high: as Chandrachud warns, to deny love, dissent, and voice is to make the constitution weep. For law students and young lawyers, it offers a moral compass and a way to see constitutional law not merely as exam fodder but as life’s work. For citizens, it works as a civic manifesto—readable, affecting, inspiring. For judges and practitioners, it is an insider reflection, sometimes resonant, sometimes limited by institutional caution. For critics of constitutionalism, it may seem too moderate, too loyal to institutions, too hesitant to break with tradition.
Because these are addresses, they sometimes assume shared assumptions, context, and skip detailed steps. That means some arguments risk being underexplained to readers not steeped in constitutional debate. Some speeches retread ground—free speech, dignity, pluralism—which is fine rhetorically but may feel repetitive for a long reader. The step from moral exhortation to political strategy is often sketchy. Readers hoping for blueprints of institutional reform might find gaps. Chandrachud always writes from the judge’s vantage.
That gives him stature but also constrains how far he can push the critique of the judiciary or propose radical reforms. Yet if one imagines three voices in Indian constitutional conversation—the critical deconstructors who pry open silence, the doctrinal deep divers who dissect clauses and trace lineages of precedent, and then Chandrachud’s voice, which seeks to bridge, to be both moral and measured, passionate and disciplined—this book is his offer to the public: “Here’s what matters. Here’s how these constitutional battles are lived.
Here’s what future citizens should not forget.” It is less about overturning the system from outside and more about nurturing it from within. In that sense, it is optimistic, because it trusts institutions even while challenging them, and reformist, because it seeks to expand rather than tear down. Compared to the deepest doctrinal works, Chandrachud’s is lighter on case argument but richer in moral framing, historical memory, and civic imagination. Compared to radical constitutional critiques, it is less harsh, less fracturing, more institutional, more custodian than revolutionary. That position has both value and constraints. If history remembers this book, it might be not so much for novel doctrine but for restating constitutional values in a moment when many voices forget them.
For aspiring lawyers and law students, it should be read as a moral primer, pairing speeches with actual cases to see how moral arguments play out in doctrine. For civic-minded citizens, it should be read not as technobabble but as a meditation on what it means to live in a constitutional democracy. For judges and practitioners, it serves as a reflective companion, a reminder of the weight and patience required in constitutional work.
Because it is a speech collection, it is best read slowly, allowing each chapter to breathe, pausing to reflect on the real examples and comparing them with divergent voices from critical theory and grassroots constitutional activism.
The book is eloquent, moving, and morally forceful. It bridges law and life, making constitutional values accessible and urgent. It offers a vision of constitutional courage in a fragile democratic moment. Its insider vantage lends both authority and responsibility. But the speech format imposes brevity; deep doctrinal or policy tensions are sometimes sketchily handled. Its reformist posture, while principled, may feel insufficient to those demanding bolder structural reimaginings.
Some critical issues could be treated more expansively. Still, *Why the Constitution Matters* is an important, timely, and stirring contribution—not the final
September 23, 2025
There’s a peculiar comfort in leafing through a book that feels like both a mirror and a map. I didn’t expect a book on the Constitution to make me pause mid-page and reflect on my own life, but that’s exactly what happened with Why the Constitution Matters by Justice D.Y. Chandrachud. Imagine sitting in a quiet corner of a café, the hum of conversations around you, and suddenly realizing that the thick, serious-looking book in your hands isn’t about dusty legal jargon—it’s about you, me, and the small yet seismic freedoms we live with (or sometimes take for granted). That’s the magic this book carries.
Justice Chandrachud needs no elaborate introduction. As India’s Chief Justice and a judge for over two decades, he has been a voice behind some of the most important judgments of our times—from privacy rights to gender equality to dismantling archaic laws that suffocated personal freedoms. Yet, what struck me most wasn’t just the weight of his experience, but the tenderness with which he writes. It’s almost startling—like seeing a seasoned mountain climber pause mid-ascent to admire a wildflower at his feet.
The book is less a lecture and more a journey. Chandrachud invites us to walk alongside him as he unpacks the Constitution’s spirit through stories, real-life examples, and moments from the courtroom that shimmer with humanity. He doesn’t preach. He converses. Whether you’re a law student, a teacher, or someone just trying to make sense of why a 70-year-old document still dictates the way we live and dream, his words find a way into your skin.
Stylistically, his prose is elegant yet approachable. There’s rhythm here—the kind that moves like a river, steady but with the occasional rush that jolts you awake. He doesn’t hide behind technical terms. Instead, he shows us how a constitutional right is not an abstract idea but something that decides whether a woman can walk home safely at night, whether your personal data remains yours, or whether dissent is allowed to breathe in a crowded democracy.
What lingers most are the ideas. He writes about democracy, free speech, pluralism, gender, environmental governance, and dissent—not as lofty ideals, but as living, breathing companions in our daily struggles. One moment that stayed with me was his discussion of the right to privacy. I caught myself thinking about the dozens of apps on my phone, the way I casually click “accept all,” and how fragile my autonomy could be without the invisible shield of constitutional protections. It wasn’t fear he stirred in me—it was gratitude.
The structure of the book flows almost like a series of layered conversations. Each chapter explores a theme, yet together they weave a narrative of India’s constitutional journey, reminding us that this document is not static ink but a living, evolving promise. It’s as if Chandrachud is telling us: “This isn’t just history—it’s your present and your future.”
Reading this, I felt a cocktail of emotions. At times, pride—at how far our democracy has come. At others, unease—at the fragility of freedoms we often assume unshakable. Mostly, though, I felt a kind of quiet hope. Because if voices like Chandrachud’s exist, reminding us of our collective responsibility, perhaps the Constitution is safe—not in a vault, but in our everyday consciousness.
Strength-wise, the book shines in accessibility, relevance, and emotional resonance. If I had to offer a gentle critique, it would be that the density of certain legal anecdotes may feel heavy for readers entirely new to constitutional discourse. But even those moments are softened by the warmth of his storytelling.
Personally, this book reminded me of sitting with my late father, who often spoke about service, justice, and the larger good. He never quoted legal texts, but he embodied their spirit. Chandrachud’s writing evoked that same energy—a reminder that democracy is not an abstract system, but a lived responsibility.
Why the Constitution Matters is not just for legal experts. It’s for anyone who has ever paused to wonder: What keeps this chaotic, diverse, endlessly argumentative nation stitched together? If you care about freedom, fairness, or the future your children will inherit, this book deserves a space on your shelf—and more importantly, in your heart.
Pick it up, read it slowly, and let it unsettle and inspire you. After all, the Constitution isn’t just a book—it’s the story of us.
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