The Face in the Court
Monday morning. The clock in my head
said 10:23, which was more or less the right time because this clock is right
most of the time (except on Sundays and public holidays). The Court Complex in
the heart of the city. Bustling with activity. Black-coated and black-robed lawyers
rushing to and fro, looking extremely busy, some looking like they had just been
para-dropped into the court grounds, their black robes billowing behind them
and hair carefully mussed up. Flustered assistants running behind them carrying
piles of files and looking even busier, and clients with furrowed brows
following close on their heels, hanging on to their every word and trying to
get in that last request.
The court halls were starting to fill
up with accusers and accused, plaintiffs and defendants, parties of the first
part and parties of the second part and such like, and their relatives and
friends. And, of course, their lawyers. Some are there out of genuine concern.
Some are there because it is their duty. Some are there purely for the
courtroom drama. And some, like me, are there without knowing why.
I was actually on my way to the city
market planning to check out a fountain pen repair shop and a second hand book
seller in the Avenue Road-Chickpet area and had just alighted from the bus at
the stop near the court, intending to walk down from there to where the stationery
stores, book shops, pen sellers and repairers, wholesale merchants and bargain
shops are located, when I saw someone in a bright checked shirt waving at me
from the court grounds just opposite. I couldn’t see his face but he looked
very, very familiar. And that checked shirt too. Where had I seen it before? Curious
to know who it was, I crossed the road and walked towards him. I could just make
out the round face, the broad nose and full head of greying hair but couldn’t
pin it down. As I neared him, he gesticulated and ran towards the stairs
leading to the court halls on the upper floors. I ran after him and was just
able to make out his form disappearing into the Court Hall No. 7 on the 1st
floor. Who was this gent in the bright checked shirt? Why did he run away from
me? Curious.
I quickly entered Court Hall No. 7,
but was accosted at the door by another gent with a handlebar moustache,
looking official in white trousers and white half-sleeved shirt. He was
obviously one of the court staff, the chappie who stands at the door and shouts
out names of the parties to each case as they are called out by the clerk. He
stopped me just inside the hall, his moustache fairly bristling as he looked me
up and down three times sternly, making me feel like the party of the other
part. But apparently he decided I wasn’t guilty until proven so because he told
me to sit down quickly as court would be starting any moment and I should not
make any “galaatta”. He made space
for me between two aggrieved parties on the bench along the wall and I squeezed
into it. The chap I had followed inside, the raison d’etre for my coming to this place, the gent in the bright
checked shirt, was nowhere to be seen. Curiouser.
Just when I was thinking that I should
get out from this place, the aforementioned white shirted official-looking gent
walked up to the door behind the magistrate’s bench, threw it open smartly and
announced in a loud voice, “OPEN COURT”. Every person stood up as a
distinguished looking black robed magistrate walked in through the doorway,
climbed up the steps to his seat, did a “Namaskara” to the packed Court Hall
and settled himself in. The clock hanging on the wall facing the magistrate
showed the time to be precisely eleven o’ clock. The clock in my head more or
less agreed. I couldn’t very well leave at that moment, could I? So I sat down
and waited.
There were lawyers everywhere. The
early comers were seated around a U-shaped table below the bench. Those who
couldn’t find a seat were standing behind the seated lawyers, hoping to take
their places soon. Some more were standing behind the clerk. The benches along
the wall were full with people waiting expectantly and there were more people standing
near the door. ‘Jampacked’ is the word I am looking for.
As I looked around, I thought I
glimpsed a familiar face craning around the neck of another just outside the
door but it disappeared before I could zoom in and get a fix on the identity. He
was there one moment and not there the next. The gent in the bright checked
shirt checked out as suddenly as he had checked in. Curiouser and curiouser.
As the Court began proceedings, a hush
descended on the hall. The magistrate uncapped a fountain pen, wrote something
on the pad in front of him and nodded to the clerk who then stood up and called
out the first case listed for the day. “OS numbar eks-woi-jed, Such and Such” (note
that both are Such until one of them is proven Jhoot). The white-and-white
gent, standing at the door, repeated the names called out in a loud voice,
“SUCH, SUCH”. Two lawyers standing expectantly near the clerk with their ears
flapping approached the bench and made a respectful submission that they were
appearing for the plaintiff and the defendant, respectively. The magistrate quickly
scanned the papers placed by the clerk in front of him, wrote something on the
last sheet, said something to the two lawyers that I couldn’t follow, looked at
a table calendar placed in front of him and pronounced a date for the next
hearing. The two lawyers slowly backed off and retracted their ears. Next case.
Similar action. And so it went on. Court was rushing through cases that were in
the preliminary stages.
I sat through some ten or twelve cases
and nearly dozed off. Then suddenly there was a lull as the clerk was getting
some papers signed by His Lordship. I saw my chance. Before he could call the
next case, I quickly stood up, thanked the two aggrieved parties for letting me
sit between them, did a “Namaskara” to the Court and stepped smartly out of the
hall. Mr. White-and-white glared at me but I was free and couldn’t be stopped.
I glared back at him and walked off. And looked around. But could not see any
sign of the gent in the bright checked shirt. He had vanished as if he had
never been there.
I walked back to the bus stop ruing
the fact that I had lost an hour for no reason at all. I was thinking that if I
got hold of that checked shirt, I would wring the neck it encased. And as I was
revelling in this thought, lo and behold, there it was! And there was the chap
wearing it! I saw him waiting at the bus stop. I decided I would steal up to
him and catch him unawares. But before I could cross the road, a bus rolled up,
our man got in and the bus pushed off.
As I stood there shaking my fist, I
suddenly remembered that I had a bright checked shirt identical to the one that
chap was wearing. And a chilling realisation struck me amidships and sent me
reeling – I knew where I had seen that face before. I had seen it in the
mirror.
It was my own face!
©
Shiva Kumar - Nov 2016
