I found myself at Bandra Court one hot Wednesday afternoon, feeling somewhat anxious. The Cheese Junglee Sandwich from Candies. Definitely a bit funky.
I sat at a wooden bench on the first floor awaiting my shifty-eyed lawyer Joshi. To my right, seated at a table below a slowly rotating ceiling fan, was a Mr Dalal, stamp vendor and petition writer. True to his surroundings he was agonisingly slow, but with exactitude – he thumbed pages fluently, examined typewritten lines with a judicious finger and carefully counted and recounted currency notes. The air was dense with wafting smells – foodstuff, sickly sweet tea, sweat and urine. The courtroom doors were now being opened for the post lunch session. Peons and clerks were rushing out as attorneys and clients were rushing in. Handling their crotches.
A case listing was posted outside our courtroom. Apart from my case read with Section 138 of the Negotiable Instruments Act, 1881, I spotted a Section 420 case, which all good Indians will be quick to recognize.
It is the number of The Cad, The Rake, with a heart of gold, the proud, prodigal son overfed with gag-inducing amounts of mother’s milk and desi ghee. His duplicity is but camouflage for the trueness of his spirit – all for love and mother and country. I have met several such men. They are in great abundance.
No sooner had the magistrate sat down Joshi impatiently waved me forward and pointed to the witness stand. I stood with arms crossed, impatient to solemnly swear as to my good word while they confabulated silently. I felt a poke at my side. An annoyed looking cop was glaring at me. Haath neechey. I let them dangle at my sides and looked around feeling suitably ridiculous.
Someone coughed, someone else scratched his head and yet another yawned. It was all just… so very dull. What if I were to cross my arms again, let my mobile phone ring or pick my nose? Surely I
would be overpowered, cuffed and led off in shame, damningly guilty as it were of…poor posture? The magistrate barked at me for my name. And then glowered at me. I stepped down from the witness stand.
Prepare for the hearing, Joshi said to me before leaving, it will help your case. A policeman, nodding off in his chair, seemed at risk of falling through its frame; the plastic weave was on the verge of saying – screw this, I’m done. I held my breath. Best of luck, I heard Joshi say as he pumped my hand.
WTF. I was meant to quote Dante or Bakunin, grandly denounce my enemy, the usurper, and point nor’ nor’ westerly, draw diagrams, flail my arms, pause dramatically, my voice would then quiver and…what if I were to unearth a plot so sinister, what indeed if I were to appeal to natural justice and free will? Milord. Sorry, Milaard.
Bloody rubbish my day in court, I thought to myself on the way back. Lemon iced tea at Candies should do the trick.
– Gautam Pemmaraju
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