TO COURT OR NOT TO COURT

I happened to visit a local court today.

The story should have ended here. But how would I then satisfy my penchant for elaborating?  So it has to be told.

Well, then, I visited a local court today. It had been one of my life-long ambitions to see the inside of a courtroom. My son too was eager to find out what reality looked like, away from the movie sets he had had occasion to see up to now.

We drove through the crowded roads and a maze of winding twining narrow lanes in the heart of the city to arrive at the gates of the ‘Civil Court’.  It turned out to be an almost dilapidated building stretched over two blocks of patched cement and peeling paint joined by a narrow overhead bridge. We stood beneath the bridge, squinting in all directions to find a way in, and up to the third storey where we were expected to see the honourable civil judge. We were given a long, complicated plan to walk right round the two blocks, and emerge at the so-called front gate which we had failed to notice at first glance behind the dizzying throng of people, and, after panting across the entire distance we found ourselves standing beside the same black gate we had started from. Three flights of stairs waited mockingly just behind the red brick pillar we had been leaning against.

Gasping for breath, I stumbled into a small room and flopped on the first chair I could find. Across me three pairs of beady eyes watched on with dull interest. My son was extremely anxious to locate the honourable judge and so we looked around us with renewed energy to spot someone who resembled him. An almost emaciated, dhoti- clad person sat on a broken chair with a couldn’t- care- less attitude, yawning at all and sundry with an appreciable level of boredom. In front of him was a semi-circular table, and beyond that a high desk. Pushed away from it sat a high chair, sheathed in green with a distinct intricate designing in gold at the back that indicated the ownership of someone in high office. Upon asking if the chair belonged to the honourable judge, he nodded with great difficulty and went back to his dreams. I did not have the heart to torture him further by asking where this distinguished person resided at the moment.

With unlimited time on hands (my lawyer said he would be around in 5 minutes) I started contemplating the atmosphere. Those three pairs of beady eyes belonged to two men and a lady, all hanging to dear life on their last breath, or so it seemed, holding greasy files overflowing with yellowed papers, talking to each other in hoarse whispers. The cemented floor around my feet was coated with layers of dust, and on a table in one corner, a huge pile of dog eared books and papers rustled under the creaking fan. The windows were bare of blinds and two gaping squares stood wide open just next to the split ac on one of the walls. Good preparation for load-shedding, I thought. But would they be having it at all? Around me people came and went. The high, carved chair, made for a king, remained empty.

Forty-five minutes later, an extremely flustered middle-aged man hurried into the room, scanned the faces and walked up to me with a nervous grin. He was my lawyer. (At least the 5 minutes part was right.) Accompanying him were two white clad young ladies holding files and other paraphernalia that hinted on their being lawyers too. The judge, he said was crammed with hundreds of cases and was too busy to attend to mine just today. He had granted him special permission to record my statement in the presence of the ‘commission’, (the two young ladies) and would be very graciously awarding me another date to appear before the court in a month’s time. I looked at my dusty, aching feet , thought of the three flights of stairs I had puffed my way up, and signed the papers thankfully. At least I was getting another chance. Those three beady eyed people were here for the sixth time, I was told.

There was a burst of laughter as I rose to leave. My son, driven by curiosity, peeped through the open door of a small adjoining room and found four people comfortably seated on cushioned chairs around one person of seemingly higher rank, on a higher chair. The dozing man beside the circular table raised his head and mumbled that the judge was holding conference in the next room and ought not to be disturbed. The judge? My attention was riveted. I too had never seen a real judge and what better opportunity than this to see a real judge in conference? I moved hastily towards the room and barely had had the chance to peek at the men laughing uproariously, the table laden with tea and delicacies and the ‘judge’ lounging in his chair with his booted feet on the table, that the door was slammed shut , missing my intruding nose by a few centimeters.

‘Why did they have to shut the door like that?’ my son asked, 'we just wanted to see the judge.'

I trudged back with a heavy heart. Isn't this the dilemma of the whole nation? Doors are being shut on us by the very people we expect to open them for us.

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