Journey to Maxwell Chambers: How Your Law Degree Can Cross the Ocean

I saw the radiant faces of Saniya, Fahima, and Rajeena—our interns—as they concluded their month-long internship with our firm. Saniya held a detailed printed report, a testament to the fact that our collective efforts had not been in vain. Because the High Court was not in session, we had to innovate to sustain the internship’s momentum, pivoting to oral instructions, deep-dives into brief reading, and mastering the digital framework of the Kerala High Court.

On their penultimate day, I challenged them with a question: How can your legal studies cross the borders of India?

I reminded them that much of what is studied under the Code of Civil Procedure (CPC) culminates in a decree—yet a decree generally cannot travel beyond India’s boundaries, save for the specific provisions of Section 44A regarding reciprocating territories. I posed the same dilemma regarding criminal law: with the exception of the erstwhile Section 188 of the CrPC, how can the reach of our criminal law extend into the international arena?

The interns searched for answers, but their responses were little more than a shot in the dark. One eventually ventured "arbitration," though it was clear she didn't yet grasp the full purport of the answer. This exchange highlighted a gap that I felt compelled to fill, leading us into a focused discussion on the basics of international arbitration.

I knew that I could not do justice to such a vast subject by simply following the chronological arrangement of sections in the Arbitration and Conciliation Act, 1996. I have long believed that traditional lectures are often more "entertainment" for the speaker than an educational experience for the listener. Furthermore, with time at a premium, a formal lecture was impractical.

Instead, I opted for a different strategy: rather than merely delivering information, I sought to ignite a genuine interest in the subject. I wanted them to understand the why before the how.

In Kerala, we have historically approached "newness"—whether computerization or globalization—with a certain degree of trepidation. To many of us, globalization initially felt like a looming threat of foreign interference in our local markets. While those concerns were not entirely unfounded, the true impact of globalization for a law student is the radical expansion of the legal framework required to meet global challenges.

This shift began in the early 1990s, yet our legal curriculum remains surprisingly insular. It is as if the law stops at the peaks of the Himalayas or the shores of the Indian Ocean. Aside from a few minor exceptions for reciprocating territories—many of which offer limited commercial relevance—the standard education fails to prepare students for a world where legal disputes are no longer confined by geography.

I came prepared with a story: a hypothetical client involved in a commercial contract with a Chinese counterpart. The contract lacked a proper dispute resolution clause—specifically one providing for institutional arbitration. When a dispute arose, the client found himself at a significant loss. Without a clause that satisfied the specific legal requirements for institutional arbitration in China, his only recourse was to negotiate and salvage whatever he could through settlement.

This story—centered on a failed attempt to import aluminum scrap from Shanghai to Kochi—resonated deeply with the students. It was a sobering realization. They began to see that much of their time in the lecture hall might feel like a missed opportunity when compared to the reality of modern commerce.

Today, a multi-million dollar contract can be concluded with a single click on a smartphone. Yet, that simple click often binds a party to a dispute resolution process seated in New York, London, Hong Kong, or Singapore. The interns realized that while the click is simple, the consequences are global and unforgiving.

The quest to solve this puzzle led us naturally into Part II of the Arbitration and Conciliation Act, 1996, which deals with the New York Convention. I intentionally avoided a dry reading of the statutory provisions; instead, I opened the official website of the Convention and invited them to explore it for themselves.

The realization was immediate. They saw that the Convention serves a dual, elegant purpose: it recognizes the validity of arbitration agreements and imposes a mandatory obligation on signatory countries to enforce awards passed in other signatory states.

The highlight of their exploration was the discovery that over 170 countries are currently party to the Convention. Suddenly, I no longer needed to lecture them on why Part II was included in the Act. More importantly, they were finding the answer to my hypothetical client’s problem: they understood that in a globalized market, the "legal passport" provided by the New York Convention is often more valuable than any domestic decree.

My next mission was to encourage them to explore Part I of the 1996 Act. I directed them to the UNCITRAL website, introducing them to the Model Law on International Commercial Arbitration.

The revelation that member states have either adopted, adapted, or been inspired by this Model Law when drafting their own national legislation was a turning point. One of the interns quickly grasped the implication, asking: "So, if we study the Model Law, do we get a glimpse into the national laws of all member states?"

I replied that this was largely true. In fact, I have often joked that if the Model Law had contained a typographical error, that same error would likely appear in Part I of our own Act. However, while most of the world followed this standardized path, I took a moment to speak extensively about the "lone traveler"—Great Britain. Unlike India and many other nations, the UK’s Arbitration Act 1996 remains a distinct entity, charting its own course rather than strictly adopting the UNCITRAL Model.

I have always believed that the English captured the true essence of arbitration within the three simple clauses of Section 1 of their Act. For the true enthusiast, reading Section 33 completes the circle, providing a holistic understanding of the process.

Section 1 outlines the founding principles that govern the entire Part:

1. The Objective: Obtaining fair resolution by an impartial tribunal without unnecessary delay or expense.

2. Party Autonomy: The freedom of parties to agree on how disputes are resolved, limited only by public interest safeguards.

3. Judicial Restraint: The mandate that courts shall not intervene except where expressly provided.

To complement this, Section 33 defines the General Duty of the Tribunal. It mandates that the tribunal must act fairly and impartially, giving each party a reasonable opportunity to present their case, while adopting procedures suitable to the specific circumstances of the matter.

By connecting these two sections, the interns saw the "Social Contract" of arbitration: the state grants parties the freedom to bypass traditional courts, provided the tribunal upholds the sacred duty of fairness and efficiency.

To round out their understanding, I introduced the twin pillars of Confidentiality and Party Autonomy. The interns quickly grasped the commercial reality: a major corporation, even in the heat of a dispute, has no desire to see its trade secrets or internal failures printed in law journals or splashed across newspapers.

Furthermore, we discussed how a national court judge, despite their vast legal wisdom, may not grasp the granular technical nuances of a specific industry. In this regard, the arbitrator acts as an "icebreaker," bridging the gap between complex industry practices and the legal resolution of the conflict.

I concluded with a piece of "heretical" advice, pointing them toward Section 19 of the AA 1996. I told them, quite literally: "Forget everything you have studied in your CPC and Evidence Act classes."

I was careful to clarify—you must learn it first so that you have the foundation required to consciously set it aside. Section 19 provides that the tribunal is not bound by the Code of Civil Procedure or the Indian Evidence Act. I told them that this—the ability to operate with procedural freedom while maintaining the spirit of fairness—is the first true step toward becoming an arbitration professional.

I could see from their expressions that it was time to show them the "piece of cake"—the tangible reward that awaits those who strive to master this craft. I took them to the website of the Singapore International Arbitration Centre (SIAC) and showed them the facilities at Maxwell Chambers.

I invited them to explore the SIAC rules in the context of our own 1996 Act, but the real moment of impact came when we reached the page outlining the Arbitrator’s Fees. Almost instantly, smartphones were out and calculators were open. As they converted the SGD (Singapore Dollar) scales into Indian Rupees, comparing the lowest and highest possible fees, one of them remarked with wide-eyed surprise that the compensation for a top-tier arbitrator could rival that of a movie star.

It was a lighthearted moment, but the message was clear: the world of international arbitration is not just intellectually prestigious; it is a global arena of immense professional value.

The real fun, I told them, is not in the making of the cake, but in the eating. If the actual consumption isn't possible, what is the point of describing it? To answer this logical challenge, I took them to the website of the Chartered Institute of Arbitrators (CIArb).

I explained the legacy of this global institution and encouraged them to join as student members, free of charges. I offered a disclaimer: I wasn't there to promote an organization, but rather to share the roadmap I used to climb the ladder of professional arbitration.

We explored the three tiers of membership: Associate, Member, and Fellow. I pointed out that certain university courses offer direct routes to these designations. In my own case, my Postgraduate Diploma in Arbitration from UCEM, Reading provided the direct pathway to becoming a Fellow. By showing them this, the "movie star" fees and the high-tech chambers in Singapore shifted from being a fantasy to a destination with a clearly marked path.

As we wrapped up, a spontaneous question hung in the air: “If the cake is so grand, why didn’t you stay to eat it? Why return to the daily grind of the High Court?”

My answer was simple and honest. My pursuit of the Fellowship was, in many ways, an attempted escape—a way to break the repetitive routine of filing writ petitions with nearly identical reliefs day after day. But the reality of a long-standing legal practice is like a Churuli (a spiral). It is a complex web of stakeholders: loyal clients, established income routines, and family responsibilities that keep you anchored.

I told them that if someone truly wishes to "eat the cake"—to become a dedicated international arbitrator—they must start young. They must place themselves in the right jurisdictions, like Dubai, Singapore or London, before the "spiral" of a domestic practice tightens around them.

I looked at their bright, ambitious faces one last time and smiled. "Besides," I added, "if I were off somewhere eating the cake, who would be here to tell you that such an expensive, magnificent cake even exists?"