Courtroom Drama

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 1^st 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