In a quiet but profoundly consequential move, the Supreme Court of Sri Lanka has upheld the Parliamentary Pensions (Repeal) Bill, clearing the way for the abolition of lifetime pensions for lawmakers. Passed by Parliament with a simple majority, the decision has been hailed as historic—not merely for Sri Lanka, but for democracies grappling with the moral hazard of politics becoming a guaranteed annuity rather than public service.
For India, the contrast is uncomfortable and unavoidable.
In the wake of the historic Sri Lanka Supreme Court direction, I, for one, as a responsible citizen of a country of over 140 crore people, firmly believe that there is something deeply skewed in our own system. A government employee—be it a clerk, schoolteacher, engineer, or doctor—works relentlessly for 30 to 35 years to qualify for a pension. In stark contrast, an Indian lawmaker—whether an MP, MLA, or MLC—becomes eligible for a lifetime pension after serving just one term of five to six years.
Put differently, millions of Indians work well into their late fifties and sixties, contributing continuously to the system through decades of service. Yet a Member of Parliament or a state legislator secures pensionary benefits for life after a single electoral victory.
This is not rhetorical exaggeration; it is a statement of fact. Under the existing rules, an MP becomes entitled to a pension upon completing just one term, with additional increments for every extra term served. The base pension may appear modest in isolation, but it is indexed, cumulative, and lifelong—often supplemented by a host of additional privileges, including allowances, medical benefits, and travel entitlements. State legislatures follow similar patterns, with variations in quantum but not in principle: short service, lifelong reward.
The fiscal burden, therefore, is neither hypothetical nor trivial. That is the crux of my argument.
India has over 4,100 MLAs across states and Union Territories and 543 MPs in the Lok Sabha alone. Every election cycle—national or state—adds hundreds of new pension beneficiaries, many of whom may never return to public office. Over decades, this has created a ballooning pool of former legislators drawing pensions simultaneously, with no actuarial cap linked to years actually served.
Conservative estimates place the annual pension outgo for former legislators across states and Parliament at several thousand crore rupees over time, once cumulative liabilities are factored in. This is money locked into past political careers, not current governance, infrastructure, health, or education.
More importantly, it raises a deeper ethical question:
When did electoral politics become more financially secure than productive professions?
An engineer, doctor, scientist, or entrepreneur earns security through skill, competition, and sustained effort. A legislator earns lifetime security through a single electoral victory—often secured with party backing, money power, caste arithmetic, or populism. This structural imbalance has distorted incentives. Politics, increasingly, is no longer the arena of sacrifice it claims to be; it is among the most risk-reward-skewed careers in the country.
In that context, Sri Lanka’s move is instructive precisely because it breaks this moral loop.
By repealing parliamentary pensions, Colombo has sent a clear signal: public office is not a pension scheme. It is a temporary trust. Lawmakers, like citizens, must plan their post-tenure lives without guaranteed state support unless they contribute to a defined system.
This is not radical. It is, in fact, global best practice.
In the United Kingdom, MPs are part of a contributory pension scheme. Benefits are directly linked to contributions and years of service—no service, no entitlement.
In the United States, members of Congress qualify for pensions only after a minimum service period, with age thresholds and contribution requirements, and benefits are far from automatic windfalls.
In Australia and Canada, legacy pension privileges have been scaled back or closed to new entrants, precisely to prevent politics from becoming fiscally self-serving.
India, ironically the world’s largest democracy, remains an outlier.
The question then naturally turns to leadership.
If Sri Lanka—amid economic stress and political churn—can muster the will to confront legislative privilege, why can’t India? Why should a government that speaks of “minimum government, maximum governance” shy away from applying the same logic to elected representatives?
Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s government has repeatedly emphasised austerity, transparency, and respect for taxpayers’ money. A cap on lawmakers’ pensions, linked strictly to actual years served, or a shift to a contributory pension model, would be entirely consistent with that philosophy.
Such reform would not weaken democracy. It would strengthen it.
It would reaffirm that politics is a duty, not a dividend; that elections are a mandate to serve, not a shortcut to lifelong financial security; and that lawmakers are not a privileged class above the rules that bind ordinary citizens.
Sri Lanka has shown the way.
India—larger, richer, and more institutionally mature—has no excuse to look away.
The real question is no longer whether reform is needed, but who among India’s political class is willing to surrender privilege in the name of principle.
