Now, At Midnight, Mumbai Won't Stop Being A Global City
By Gajanan Khergamker
The Maharashtra Government’s latest notification allowing shops and commercial establishments to remain open round-the-clock, save for establishments dealing with liquor, comes on the heels of a protracted legal wrangle over whether the police could, by administrative fiat, shut down a convenience store operating past midnight.
Only last month, a Pune-based petitioner had approached the Bombay High Court after the local police forced closure of his 24-hour store, claiming no rule existed prohibiting such activity. The Court, upholding the principle of legality, maintained that in the absence of a statutory bar, no store could be compelled to shut merely on the basis of executive directions.
 |
| For representational purpose only |
This judicial pronouncement effectively underscored a gap that has long existed between legislative intent and administrative overreach. In law, police authorities derive their powers not from whim or perception of convenience, but from statute.
When the Maharashtra Shops and Establishments (Regulation of Employment and Conditions of Service) Act, 2017, specifically provided for round-the-clock operation subject to safety, security and welfare safeguards, any attempt by enforcement authorities to unilaterally restrict operating hours was bound to falter under judicial scrutiny.
The new Government order, therefore, serves both as a clarification and a reinforcement of statutory rights already available to commercial establishments. By expressly permitting shops and establishments to remain open 24x7, barring liquor outlets, the State has pre-empted future disputes and brought administrative practice in line with legislative mandate. It is not the creation of a new right, but rather a restatement of one that already existed in law, albeit unevenly enforced on the ground.
The distinction is critical. In jurisprudence, once the legislature has spoken through statute, neither executive circulars nor police action can curtail those rights unless backed by express legal provision. What the Bombay High Court reiterated in the Pune matter was precisely this doctrine, that administrative convenience cannot be elevated above statutory entitlement. By emphasising the absence of a prohibition in law, the Court fortified the rights of establishments to operate free of arbitrary curfew.
This, however, is not to say that regulation cannot be imposed. The Act of 2017 itself prescribes conditions on working hours, weekly holidays, overtime pay, and crucially, safety measures such as adequate lighting, CCTV surveillance and security personnel, particularly for establishments choosing to remain open during night hours. What the police may ensure is compliance with these safeguards; what they cannot do is pre-emptively shut down operations under the guise of “maintaining law and order.”
The exclusion of liquor outlets in the Government’s latest notification is telling. Courts have repeatedly held that the trade in liquor, unlike ordinary commerce, is not a matter of fundamental right but one of privilege, subject to strict State regulation. By excluding bars and liquor shops, the State has signalled continuity with this well-settled constitutional position, even while liberalising the commercial landscape for other retailers.
For businesses, particularly in metropolitan hubs such as Mumbai, Pune and Nagpur, the implications are enormous. Round-the-clock operation means greater competition, consumer convenience, and opportunities for employment. But from a legal perspective, what is most significant is the way this order harmonises legislative mandate, judicial interpretation, and executive practice—bringing long overdue coherence to an area previously marked by inconsistency.
What remains to be seen is how rigorously authorities will enforce the safety and welfare obligations mandated under the Act. For if the enforcement deficit persists, the risk is that the notification will remain a paper tiger, with actual implementation subject to the same arbitrariness that the Bombay High Court so recently cautioned against.
In effect, the Maharashtra Government’s notification is both timely and inevitable. Timely, because it follows judicial affirmation of statutory rights in the Pune petition; inevitable, because once the law had spoken, executive resistance had no tenable basis.
The move signals a shift towards rule-based governance where rights, already conferred by statute, are not stifled by executive overreach. For businesses, it marks the dawn of a truly 24x7 marketplace. For lawyers, it is a reaffirmation of the cardinal principle that what is not prohibited by law cannot be curtailed by executive fiat.
A global city, by its very essence, thrives on the pulse of continuity. It is a living organism where commerce, culture, and community interlace seamlessly, unbroken by the tyranny of the clock. New York doesn’t retreat at midnight; its subways rumble on, its Broadway lights blaze through the night, and its diners keep brewing coffee for a restless, working population. In Berlin, clubs spill music into the streets till dawn, and in London, the tube has adjusted itself to accommodate the nocturnal city-dweller. Dubai and Doha, not content with being global hubs, have institutionalised 24/7 convenience as a state guarantee, their tourism and service industries pivoting on the assurance of round-the-clock accessibility.
And then there is Mumbai.
India’s financial capital. Bollywood’s beating heart. The city of opportunity that supposedly “never sleeps.” Yet, in practice, Mumbai nods off at midnight—goaded by rules, nudged by regulations, and cajoled into silence by a police force still bound by colonial-era morality. Shops shutter, restaurants switch off neon signs, and once-crowded promenades are left to darkness. The world’s largest democracy’s most dynamic city wilfully abandons its claim to global status each night, not out of necessity, but habit.
The Maharashtra government’s recent circular—reiterating the legal right of shops, malls, restaurants, and cinemas to operate 24/7—seems like a watershed moment. For decades, entrepreneurs have fought against restrictive timings, only to be silenced by the arbitrary “shutter down” orders of policemen patrolling the streets. This new legal recognition appears to finally align policy with economic reality: people spend money after sunset, art is consumed at night, and urban India’s youth often find their most creative hours long after midnight.
Yet the real hurdle lies not in legislation but in execution. Policemen continue to treat late-night business as inherently suspicious. For them, activity after midnight is synonymous with vice—gambling, drinking, prostitution, or crime. So, instead of safeguarding legitimate businesses and citizens, they enforce a blanket quietude, believing peace is achieved not by protection but by prohibition.
The irony is unmistakable. At 2 AM, a convenience store owner in Bandra selling groceries can be forced to pull down shutters while in Seoul, a family of four shops at E-Mart under the watch of CCTV and police patrols designed not to curtail business but to ensure safety.
The world’s great cities offer case studies Mumbai cannot afford to ignore.
Berlin appoints a Night Mayor—not to ban nightlife, but to regulate, coordinate, and celebrate it. Noise complaints are mediated, public transport is aligned to late-night hours, and police are trained to differentiate between genuine nuisance and cultural expression. Berlin’s night-time economy contributes billions annually to the city’s GDP.
London adopted its own Night Czar, integrating law enforcement with healthcare and transport to ensure nightlife is not just safe but productive. From the bustling theatres of the West End to 24-hour eateries in Soho, London recognises that a city’s pulse extends into the small hours.
Sydney, once struggling under draconian “lockout laws” that killed nightlife, reversed course after civic backlash. The laws had driven young professionals, tourists, and businesses away. Learning from its mistake, Sydney is now recalibrating policies to embrace 24/7 activity, proving that public opinion, too, plays a critical role in shaping night economies.
Dubai, meanwhile, exemplifies state-backed round-the-clock security. Tourists strolling along Jumeirah Beach at 3 AM are not stopped for “wandering too late” but are welcomed by well-lit promenades, active surveillance, and a police force that views its role as service-oriented. Safety, in such spaces, is an assured product.
What unites these examples is a fundamental principle: the state does not fight the night; it manages it.
Mumbai’s paradox lies in the disconnect between its entrepreneurial citizens and its custodians of order. Consider the countless instances where cafes in Colaba or restaurants in Andheri have been compelled to turn away paying customers because “the inspector is making rounds.” Or the Gateway of India, which after midnight transforms from a global tourist hotspot to a desolate zone patrolled by constables more interested in dispersing couples than in ensuring safety.
At Marine Drive, a promenade designed for leisure, the sight of young professionals or students relaxing on parapets after work is viewed as a breach of “public order.” The routine police tactic is dispersal, not protection. What is dismissed as moral policing is, in fact, the erasure of a city’s cultural life.
Contrast this with Singapore’s Clarke Quay where, at midnight, the riverside is alive with tourists, students, and locals under the watch of police who ensure the vibrancy is never threatened. Singapore has understood that public safety doesn’t require public absence.
Mumbai’s public spaces could be reimagined into global cultural hubs if only they were liberated from suspicion.
The Gateway of India, perpetually lit, could serve as a 24-hour plaza where tourists capture midnight selfies, where heritage walks extend into the early hours, and where hawkers legitimately thrive under regulated vending.
Marine Drive, the “Queen’s Necklace,” could truly earn its name if late-night strollers were welcomed by security presence rather than warnings. The act of sitting by the sea at 1 AM must be normalised, not criminalised.
Borivali National Park’s periphery and the Hanging Gardens, lit and guarded, could offer nocturnal nature experiences—replicating what cities like Hong Kong already provide.
Each of these transformations requires a shift not in infrastructure alone but in mindset: police must see citizens as participants, not suspects.
CCTV cameras, LED lighting, and well-paved promenades are technical enablers. But the deeper infrastructure of a 24/7 city is trust—trust that the police will safeguard rather than harass; trust that citizens will be treated as stakeholders, not offenders.
Mumbai’s legislative shackles may have been removed, but the cultural chokehold of midnight still lingers in its police stations. Until law enforcement is retrained to embrace its role as protector, not gatekeeper, Mumbai will remain a global city only in its rhetoric, not in lived reality.
The hour of midnight, then, is symbolic. In New York, it is when diners fill booths with coffee cups. In Berlin, when music peaks. In Dubai, when tourists take in the glittering skyline. And in Mumbai, tragically, it is when shutters come down, public spaces empty, and the city retreats into a bureaucratic sleep.
If Mumbai is to truly join the league of global cities, its midnight must no longer mark an imposed pause but an unbroken promise of continuity. It is not enough for government circulars to proclaim the right to a 24/7 economy. The police—the city’s most visible representatives of the state—must embody that promise.
Only then will Mumbai awaken fully to its destiny: not merely India’s financial capital, but a global city in deed, not just in dream.
Visit The Draft's hyperlocal edition The Draft Colaba (www.thedraftcolaba.com) for related news article | Follow @TheDraftColaba on X / Instagram
To receive regular updates and notifications, follow The Draft News:
