Now scale this scenario up to millions of small traders, manufacturers, street vendors, and first-generation entrepreneurs who have to deal with an extraordinary statute book over the decades of colonial inheritance and post-independence legislation, which has become so loaded with criminal penalties for offenses of minimal social harm that it has become an extraordinary burden. The result is a regulatory regime that neither regulates nor threatens to regulate the daily lives and work of Indians.

 

In April 2026, Parliament took a big step to change this. The Jan Vishwas (Amendment of Provisions) Bill, 2026, which was passed by the Lok Sabha on April 1 and the Rajya Sabha on April 2, decriminalises 717 provisions in 79 central Acts administered by 23 ministries. The civil penalties (fines, compliance directions, licence suspensions) are not imposed by criminal courts, but by appointed adjudicating officers, and are intended to be more flexible than criminal penalties. More than a thousand offences have been rationalised in one stroke of the law. It is the broadest decriminalisation reform in the history of independent India, and, in its fundamental intent, it is right.

 

However, good intentions will not suffice to substitute good institutions, and the story of this reform is just beginning.

 

To understand the importance of this reform, one must understand what it is reforming. The regulatory statute book of India is not only outdated but also, in many ways, a hostile architecture. During the command-and-control economic thinking era, post-independence laws were introduced, amended, and imposed on colonial laws, which were framed to discipline the subjugated population. This has established a system in which the power to inspect, prosecute, and incarcerate has been traditionally delegated to regulatory officials who are not subject to much oversight.

 

This is the culture that gave birth to the culture of the ‘Inspector Raj’, the experience of a visit by a regulatory official. The threat of criminal prosecution may never be realised, but it is a form of harassment. The little guy doesn't have the funds to hire a lawyer. A first-generation entrepreneur can't afford a criminal record. They pay, they do what they're told, and the cycle repeats.

 

The Jan Vishwas reforms, implemented in 2023 with the Act that decriminalised 183 provisions across 42 laws, and now the far-reaching Bill of 2026, are a systematic attempt to break this system. The Select Committee, which prepared the 2026 Bill, headed by Tejasvi Surya, held 49 meetings with industry, civil society organisations, the legal fraternity, and ministry officials, and recommended increasing the number from 16 Acts to 79. The outcome is a well-thought-out law, and it shows.

 

First, it's proportionate. The most coercive means of the state is the criminal law. It should be used only in cases of serious, harmful misbehaviour that is morally blameworthy and worthy of the stigma of prosecution. Making the non-publication or submission of price lists on time a crime is not only unfair but also a misuse of the entire criminal justice system. The 2026 Bill restores proportionality; it does not weaken the law; it strengthens the law.

 

Second, it is redistributive. Over-criminalisation has never been a level playing field. Large corporations can easily bear the risk of criminal liability with their own legal counsel and compliance departments at relatively low cost. Small traders and individual entrepreneurs cannot. When the rules are violated and the prosecution is criminal, it's not the big company that gets the short straw; it's the little guy, the small shop pharmacist. In this respect, the alternative to imprisonment of fines is also a policy of economic justice.

 

Thirdly, it will help reduce the congestion in India's courts. The diversion of minor regulatory offenses into civil adjudication proceedings is not only an administrative convenience but also a valuable addition to one of the most serious institutional crises in Indian democracy, with over five crore cases pending in the judicial system. The more minor criminal prosecutions an adjudicating officer resolves, the more time a judge can devote to constitutional petitions, serious criminal cases, and complex commercial disputes that truly require judicial attention.

 

The reform merits praise, but praise should not come at the cost of scrutiny. Three issues must be dealt with head-on.

 

The first is deterrence. Qualitative aspects of criminal liability that a monetary fine cannot replace are the stigma of prosecution, the threat of incarceration, and the social consequences of a criminal record. A civil penalty is a cost of doing business for a well-capitalised corporation, to be considered in a business sense, not as a personal penalty. Decriminalisation could be a blessing in disguise for corporate noncompliance if the fines under the new framework are not intended to deter large regulated entities.

 

The second is equity, but not the kind that the reform is about. The top of the income distribution is progressive, meaning people are fined rather than imprisoned. At the bottom, it's not so apparent. The consequences of a fine for a street vendor or daily labourer for a minor regulatory offence can be as devastating as a prosecution. A truly fair civil penalty system would be proportional to the offender's financial means, as is the practice in some European countries with day-fine systems. This is not mentioned in the 2026 Bill, and that's something to consider.

 

The third, and most critical, worry is implementation. The Bill transfers enforcement responsibility from the criminal justice system to a network of adjudicating officers across 23 ministries. These officers must be trained, equipped, and, most importantly, protected from the stresses that have bedeviled the system they are supposed to replace. If not, then we will not have taken out Inspector Raj. We shall have civilised it, we shall have made it a new set of forms, and we shall have named it reform.

 

Jan Vishwas Bill, 2026, is a legislative act. The least of what it's trying to achieve is getting it through Parliament. The difficult part, setting up the institutional framework for civil adjudication, shifting the mindset of the regulators from suspicion to trust, and having a different relationship between the little guy in Rajkot and the state, is not done in Parliament, but slowly, without applause following a vote.

 

The history of reform in India abounds with laws that offered reform and bureaucratic reorganisation. The test of this one will be in the months and years to come, in the quality of the adjudication orders, in the availability of appeal procedures, in the restraint and fairness with which the officials who now exercise civil powers exercise them, and in the intentions of the reform.

 

To its credit, Parliament has amended the law. The more difficult question is now: will the state change? It's not a legal problem. It's a governance one — and it's the only one that really counts.

 

 
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