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Likely to Retain Name Despite State's Renaming to Keralam, Says Constitutional Divide
The 's approval of Kerala's name change to "Keralam" has reignited a constitutional peculiarity that has persisted for decades: while states may change their names, the High Courts that serve them often remain frozen in time. The , in all likelihood, will continue to be called the "" even after the state becomes "Keralam," a phenomenon rooted in the 's careful division of legislative powers. This article examines the constitutional basis for this anomaly, the aberrant case of Uttarakhand, and the risks that lie ahead for Kerala's drafters.
A History of Frozen Monikers
The pattern is well-established. When Bombay was renamed Mumbai in , the High Court remained the "." Chennai's transformation from Madras in did not alter "." Kolkata's change from Calcutta in left "" untouched. More recently, Odisha's rebranding did not affect the "." These examples are not mere sentimental attachments; they reflect a constitutional design that assigns the power to constitute and organise High Courts to the Union List (Entry 78), not to the states. A state legislature can rename its capital, cities, and highways, but it cannot unilaterally change the identity of a constitutional court.
attempted to address this inconsistency in with the , which sought to formally rename the three colonial-era courts. The Bill lapsed, and the anomaly persists. The decision to keep High Court names unchanged is thus a deliberate consequence of the federal structure, not an oversight.
The Uttarakhand Exception: An Informal Restyling
Amid this disciplined approach, Uttarakhand stands out as a curious outlier. In , the created the "." When the state was renamed "Uttarakhand" in via the , the founding statute of the High Court——was never amended. Yet, the High Court almost seamlessly began calling itself the "," and no one seriously disputes its current name. This happened despite the absence of a specific parliamentary amendment. The Act contained two general-purpose clauses: one instructing courts to read pre-existing laws in a manner that preserves their substance, and another substituting "Uttarakhand" for "Uttaranchal" in pending proceedings. Neither was drafted with the High Court's founding statute in mind, yet a stretched interpretation appears to have justified the administrative restyling.
This exception raises a fundamental question: can an institution change its own name without the direct action of the constitutionally empowered body—? The Uttarakhand experience suggests that yes, it can, but only through a legally fragile route that relies on inference rather than explicit amendment.
The Constitutional Divide: Who Owns the Court's Name?
The
's
gives
exclusive power over
"constitution and organisation of High Courts."
This includes the power to name, rename, or alter the jurisdiction of these courts. A state's renaming of itself does not inherently extend to its High Court. The Bombay, Madras, Calcutta, and Orissa examples demonstrate a disciplined approach: the state name changes, but the court's name remains until
acts. Uttarakhand, however, blurs this line by allowing a general renaming statute to indirectly affect the court's identity. This creates a legal ambiguity: does the court's "real" legal name remain "
" in its founding statute, even though everyone calls it "
"? The divergence between the legal text and everyday operations is a ticking time bomb.
Three Concerns That Demand Attention
First, the question of competence. If a High Court's name can be changed as a side effect of a state's renaming, the Union List's careful separation between
"who can rename a state"
and
"who can rename its High Court"
begins to erode. Odisha's disciplined version requires parliamentary action; Uttarakhand's undisciplined version allows interpretive clauses to do what a specific amendment was supposed to accomplish. This inconsistency undermines the predictability of federal law.
Second, the integrity of the founding instrument. Every citation, notification, and change in bench strength traces its authority back to the founding statute. When that statute remains unamended while the court's operational name diverges, the legal basis for every action becomes questionable. Courts may bridge the gap using the , but that doctrine is meant for genuine ambiguity, not as a substitute for an amendment never performed. Relying on it sets a dangerous precedent.
Third, the risk of late-blooming challenges. As of now, no one has seriously challenged the validity of orders or notifications issued under the "wrong" name in Uttarakhand. But litigants in adversarial proceedings might exploit this drafting gap to challenge jurisdiction or procedural validity. A rule that holds only because nobody has tested it is not a settled rule.
A Lesson for "Keralam"
As the
moves through
, drafters face a genuine choice. They can either follow the Bombay-Madras-Calcutta-Orissa path—rename the state but leave the High Court for a future dedicated amendment—or they can quietly replicate Uttarakhand's pattern, passing a general renaming Act and trusting interpretive clauses to paper over the gap. The state's own resolution focused on the
, so the High Court's name will probably not be touched. However, the Uttarakhand precedent is a reminder that "for now" and
"as a settled matter of law"
are not synonymous. The question of the High Court's name deserves explicit attention, not silent assumption.
The may indeed retain its name, but the process by which that happens—whether through deliberate parliamentary action or by default—will set a precedent for future state renamings. The distinction is not a footnote; it is a live question of the distribution of powers, one that the will put to the test once it passes. Lawyers and constitutional scholars will be watching closely, for the outcome could redefine how we understand the relationship between a state and its courts.
