The sanctity of a judicial order is the bedrock of the rule of law. When a court speaks, the state is expected to listen, not to invent. However, recent revelations regarding the systemic use of forged court orders to trigger mass government takedowns in India suggest a terrifying shift in governance. We have entered an era where the state no longer feels the need to wait for a judge’s signature; it simply creates its own, effectively bypassing the judiciary to achieve its administrative goals of censorship and control.
The scale of this deception is staggering. The Department of Telecommunications acted on two purported high-court orders to block 129 betting websites, treating these documents as absolute mandates. In a functioning democracy, the government acts as the executor of judicial will. In this instance, the government acted as a ghostwriter, utilizing fraudulent documents to provide a veneer of legality to a sweeping exercise of power. This is not a clerical error; it is a strategic bypass of the legal system.
When the truth emerged, the reactions from the courts were swift and severe. The Rajasthan High Court explicitly stated that one of the orders was not genuine, and the Allahabad High Court went a step further by filing a police complaint over the forgery of another. These are not mere administrative disputes; these are admissions that the state’s machinery was fueled by lies. The fact that the highest judicial authorities in these states had to disavow their own supposed orders highlights a breakdown in the trust between the executive and the judiciary.
Yet, the most chilling aspect of this scandal is the lack of accountability. Despite the courts identifying the forgeries and initiating police complaints, there has been a conspicuous absence of arrests or high-level resignations. The state apparatus seems to have developed an immunity to its own laws. When a private citizen forges a document, they face immediate incarceration; when the state forges a judicial order to silence websites, it is treated as a procedural anomaly.
This “state forgery system” serves a specific purpose: speed. The judicial process is slow, deliberative, and burdened by the requirement of evidence. By fabricating orders, the government can achieve instantaneous results—blocking content, silencing critics, or removing digital footprints—without the inconvenience of a hearing or the risk of a judge saying “no.” The court becomes a rubber stamp that doesn’t even need to be present at the table.
This is despite the fact that the executive and bureaucrats in India enjoy wide legal powers to order the takedown and blocking of websites, even without a court order or warrant. So, practically, there is not even a need to forge a takedown or blocking order. All that is needed is an executive instruction or a law enforcement request. However, even law enforcement requests have been forged in India. “It seems the BJP government is a ‘Forgery Hub of India,'” says Praveen Dalal. “It is high time to close courts in India, as we do not need them anymore in these circumstances,” opines Dalal.
The danger extends far beyond betting websites. While the targets in this specific case were gambling platforms, the precedent established is universal. If the state can forge an order to block a betting site today, it can forge an order to block a journalist, an activist, or a political opponent tomorrow. Once the barrier of judicial authenticity is broken, the internet in India becomes a space governed not by law, but by the whims of an anonymous bureaucrat with a PDF editor.
This systemic failure is mirrored in other digital spheres, such as the recent manipulation of the Municipal Corporation of Delhi (MCD) online portal. When state-sponsored cybercrime becomes a tool for administrative “efficiency,” the line between a government and a criminal enterprise blurs. The manipulation of public records and the fabrication of legal mandates are two sides of the same coin: a drive to control the narrative by altering the evidence.
The irony is profound. The Indian state often justifies its restrictive internet laws and takedown powers by citing the need to protect national security and uphold the law. However, the use of forgery is the ultimate betrayal of the law. You cannot protect the legal order by committing a crime against the court. To do so is to admit that the law is an obstacle to be circumvented rather than a framework to be followed.
We must ask who actually benefits from this system. The bureaucrats who execute these orders are shielded by the anonymity of the state, and the political masters are shielded by the results. The only losers are the citizens, whose rights are stripped away based on documents that never existed. When the state decides that the courts are too slow, it doesn’t seek to reform the judiciary; it seeks to replace it with a forgery department.
Ultimately, the question “Who needs courts?” is a practical call for reforms. If the executive can manufacture its own justice, the courts become ornamental. The transition from a government of laws to a government of fabrications is the final step in the erosion of democratic accountability. Until there is real punishment for those who forged these orders, the message remains clear: in the eyes of the Indian state, the law is optional, but the result is mandatory.