Show me the money!

Walking outside CST today, I passed the newspaper wallah and stopped a bit to check out the headlines. I do subscribe to a newspaper, the Hindustan Times (surprising choice for many), but I still like to check out the front page headlines to see if there's something that was missed out. My glance is a very cursory glance, I turn my head to the side and check the headlines, and turn my head to the front again, and as I walk on I contemplate what I have read. Not a very big fan of the "take time off to smell the roses" school of thought, I am. Blame it on the city.

Anyway, my visuals noted the Times of India:

"Prosecutor co-operated with the Defence".

Instead of waiting to come across the next newspaperwallah, I actually turned back and squinted to see the fine text. It was a Delhi Case. My interest was to find out whether this was an allegation against a Prosecutor in a Court in which I work, in which case I would rub my hands in glee and wait for the ass to resign or get sacked, like the same glee I felt when the Alistar Pereira (Google the name if you cant figure out, or stop to check headlines more often)Judge got sacked.

Corruption in my profession is like the odours of the Mahim Creek which hit you just before/after Bandra Station. When you first encounter it, you are appalled, choked, disgusted, and you try and avoid it by covering your mouth and nose with your dupatta or handkerchief. As the days go by, you learn to breathe through it, though you make a face as soon as the train pulls out of Mahim in anticipation of the stench. And then finally, you accept it, and even find its utility to let you know the impending arrival of the Bandra Station. The stench is not going to go anywhere. Learn to live with it.

So there was always the corruption that wasn't really corruption. One may argue that paying someone off, regardless of the status of that person and the intention behind paying them off is always corruption, so I should shut up and stop making artificial distinctions. To each his own. Paying someone off isn't really corruption if you feel sorry for the person who you're paying off. It's more of the Baksheesh, or a reward for doing your job, that you pay to the person for taking time off his busy schedule and doing your job in the least time possible. It's also not corruption if you're getting something done that's perfectly legal. So paying a peon for getting paperwork done is fine. Letting the xeroxwalla keep the change is cool. Then there's the celebratory kinds, which is part of Court Culture, so to speak. You get a favourable Order of the Court, and the Court staff will slip out one by one for their 'mithai' money. Most of the times you can cleverly deflect this to your Client, who is elated and wouldn't mind shelling out a bit for the cause.

But then there's the real corruption that plagues the judiciary and its officers, and, let's face it, this train isn't moving for a long time.

My first brush with corruption was in the unglamorous setting of the Consumer Forum. People fighting over travel vouchers with untold of conditions and 500gm bread loaves which weighed only 300gms. At best, Medical Negligence. Me, I was defending a poor lady saddled with a Siemens Refrigerator which didn't cool enough and faced by their sales representatives who couldn't care less. As I twiddled my thumbs one day, a familiar face walked upto me, who I recognized to be an technical expert on the Panel of the Commission.

"Madam, I was looking for you only."

"What for?"

"The President wants a Book."

"Oh, for the Fridge technicalities?"

"No Madam. Some 'Law of Torts'."

The 'law of torts' was the basis of consumer protection law. Pretty early in the day to be requiring it.

"Let me see if we have it in the Office. Am sure we do. I'll bring it with me the next time I'm in this Court."

"Nooo Madam...", he looked exasperated. "You don't need to bring it."

"Then?"

"He wants you to give it to him."

"Duh-huh. And How do I do that without bringing it here?"

"Madam, you just have to pay for it downstairs."

"Oh, that way."

That way?

Wait a minute...

The realization sunk in installments:

"He wants me to BUY him a book?"

"Yes."

"He wants ME to buy HIM a book?"

"Yes, madam."

"He wants me to buy him a BOOK?"

The expert looked at me, doubtfully.

Must stop hyperventilating. Must distract myself by getting to the bottom of this.

"Alright. So he asked you to ask me to buy him a book."

"Yes."

"Why me?" Did he mean to say that I actually looked like someone who would give into unreasonable demands that easily? "I've just appeared here some three times!"

"Because... Madam... you looked like the dependable sort of person for something like this. he doesn't make these requests to just anyone. You are the chosen one!"

Right. That's exactly what he meant, then.

"These books are expensive! I've just joined! I live on the border of the poverty line!". I decided to avoid the line of argument that the very suggestion was despicable and disgusting and I wished for nothing else but to spit on the face of both the expert and the President. I had a morbid desire to see exactly where this would lead.

"Madam, don't worry. The bookseller downstairs gives the President a discount. And he will adjust the amount of the book in the costs which he will award you."

Oh. There we go. Just as I began to doubt this to be a genuine request, out comes the carrot. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.

"Why don't you come with me to the bookseller and see for yourself?"

At the bookshop, a small stall below the Tardeo AC Market selling law books, I was shown the book (it had already been marked for the President) and the revised price. All this for a 4 grand hardcover revised edition of Ratanlal and Dhirajlal on Torts?

"You just have to pay the money here Madam. He will send the book up to the President."

This smelled suspiciously like a routed transaction. However, the expert evidently hadn't seen through this yet.

"How about I get the book from my own vendor? He gives it at a better rate. I'll bring it next time."

"Oh no, Madam. The President has called you tomorrow. He will take up your application then."

"Tomorrow? But tomorrow is a Second Saturday, the Forum doesn't sit on Saturdays."

The expert looked at me doubtfully again.

I should really learn to stop being surprised with this place.

As I walked off, I heard the expert say, "and Madam, don't tell your Seniors about this."

"Of course not."

Unknown to the expert, my Senior was not a Consumer Protection Lawyer, as is what he probably assumed, but one of the Toughest Criminal Lawyers in Mumbai, known for many things but most of all, his anti-corruption stance is admired greatly amongst colleagues and foes alike. He's gotten the Anti Corruption Department unleashed on many Judicial Officers, helped set up entrapments, the works. So it was a smart move on his part to put in the parting shot. of course, being a true lawyer, I was untrue to my word and blabbed the whole story out to my Boss. Boss took off his glasses, ran his fingers through his bushy white hair and said:

"Look, he is upto no good, but we should also take into consideration the fact that he asked you for a book, that's all. We all know that he could have asked for anything else. So I'll tell you what to do..."

The next day, I walked into his room holding the Hardcover 25th Edition of Ratanlal Dhirajlal's "The Law of Torts".

"Oh, you got the book? Very Good."

"Yes, Your Honour," I said, widening my brown eyes as I spoke. "We had a copy in the Office, but we don't use it. Ours is a Criminal Practice, you see."

"Is it?" He looked confused.

"Yes, Your Honour. Don't mind the Office Stamp on the book. That was just routinely done. Silly staffers we have."

He opened the book to the front page and recoiled in horror, as it were.

"You work for HIM?"

"Yes, Sir." I smiled.

Quickly composing himself, he closed the book.

"I don't need the book, I think."

"Why Sir? The Expert told me..."

"No no," he said, cutting me off. "This is YOUR office copy..."

"Your Honour, really, we have no need for it. You can keep it for as long as you want..."

"No no, it'll just get lost in all these other books here..."

"Doesn't matter, Your Honour, you can just not return it, if you like..."

"No no, I insist.."

"Your Honour, My Boss insists..."

A distinct wince at my Boss's reference. "No. If I need it, I shall tell you."

I did my best exasperated expression. "Alright, your Honour."

My next interaction was not so pleasant. It was a case of Marital Cruelty and as soon as we filed the Complaint, the in-laws of my Client rushed to file an anticipatory bail application. As Complainant, I asserted my right to intervene and oppose the Application along with the Public Prosecutor, who is bound to oppose the grant of Bail. I follow the PP to his Office, and the PP sends me off with his Peon to get copies of all the documents done, and then I brief the PP, not once, but twice.

Come D-Day, after the defence lawyer makes his boisterous submissions, the Public Prosecutor stands up, and says:

"The case is of Marital Cruelty, allegations of harassment and mental torture, et cetera."

And sits down.

That was IT? I felt like one of those obsessive moms who teach their kids verses from the Gita for a fancy dress competition and then gape in horror at their child prancing about stage without a care in the world, completely oblivious to all they have been force-fed. The Judge saw me hissing hurried prompts to the PP, and taking full advantage of his attention I launched into arguments and tried to prove my case. But to no avail - Anticipatory Bail was granted.

"Ruma," said SP, who is the senior most associate in the office and of very high coolness quotient, "why are you looking so upset?"

"Dude. I just blew the anticipatory bail hearing."

"Ruma, its part of the game, you win some, you lose some. Which court was this in, anyway?"

"Patil. No. 34."

"Patil? So the PP was Rao?"

"Yeah."

SP chuckles. "Didn't you go to brief him?"

"Of course I did. Twice. I gave him all the papers also. He just stood up and sat down, almost. Bloody hell!"

"So you went to brief him? In his office?"

"Of course."

"And then he sent you to get your copies, with the Peon?"

"Yeah...how did you know?"

SP smiled. "And then what happened?"

"I got the copies, paid for the xerox, and came back to office."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"That cannot be it."

"Why not?"

SP clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "Think Ruma, think."

"What think? I spoke to the PP, briefed him, then he sent me to look for his peon to go get the copies made..."

"And?"

Then I remembered. Someone called out to me.

"Aren't you AR's junior? Isn't he Special PP in the Arms Haul case?"

I whirled around. "Yes, I am."

"So will you accept service on his behalf? Something urgent has come in."

"Certainly."

Flashback over. SP is clutching his sides and laughing. "No wonder!"

"No wonder what?"

"Obviously, once he heard that you were Boss's Junior there was no fucking way he would ever approach you. That's his game, he sends you with the Peon, and the Peon makes the offer and handles the transaction. Whether you want Bail granted or you want Bail denied, Rao gets his cut."

My head reeled from the impact of both the revelation and the timing. "How much IS his cut?"

"5. 4 for the PP, 1 for the Peon."

Holy Crap! I'm not saying that I was totally in denial of the possibility that PPs could throw cases. But just for a gain of 4,000 bucks?

I began to stutter. "SP, dude, are you telling me that it was rigged?"

"Who was the Opposing Lawyer?"

"Shaikh."

"Kala Shaikh?"

"Uh, yeah, I mean, he was kinda dark complexioned."

"Poor baby," said SP, ruffling my hair. "Even the IIMs are considering giving him a honorary degree in Management. You never even stood a chance."

Going home

Its been a long day, and I drag myself to the station for part of the task which takes up 1/12th of my day - commuting.

I've always been fascinated by the culture quirks of people who travel by local trains. Somehow I am unable to give it so much of importance. For me its just getting into the train and getting off without getting anything stolen in between. I have also come to the conclusion that I am a rather stupid train traveller.

I often walk onto platforms, noting that my next train is in 6 minutes. So I wait, and the platform is empty. But as the six minutes pass, and particularly in the 5th minute, people begin swarming the platform, materializing from nowhere, as it seems. So by the time the 9:35 CST Train chugs into the station, everyone's all set and have made constructive use of the six minutes that I have wasted, just sitting around waiting for the train. People know their means of commuting very well. They live it, they breathe it. They know it intimately, its flaws and its vulnerabilities. They know that the 9:26 Andheri Churchgate train stops for 5 and a half minutes at Khar Station, which is why they avoid it. They have their friends circle in the Train, and revel in the feeling of togetherness and even host little parties in the train, where paper plates and kachori samosa with mysore pak emerge from shopping bags which say "Akbarally's" which invite curious looks and watering mouths from the others. They discuss in-laws, Abhishek-Aishwarya and Nach Baliye.

The first class compartment reeks of snobbery, and women do little to conceal their distaste at the not-so-fair women who step onto the train wearing orange flowers in their hair and synthetic material salwar suits, who obviously aren't the first class type. Some women just sneer and hope a TC will step onto the train and fine this intruder, and others feel duty bound to suggest that this is a first class compartment to those who don't look like they can afford the two hundred bucks a month difference between the general and first class pass. I apparently look the first class type, so I have never been questioned.

So there I was, 17 minutes early for the 7:17 PM Andheri Bound Harbour Line Train, and everyone around me were obviously there for the 7:01 PM train to Panvel. As i furiously typed away at a message on my cellphone, I felt the familiar prick of the smallest noticeable particle which had wedged its way into my index finger, small enough to not be locatable, but large enough to irritate. Slipping my phone in my bag, I held my finger upto my eye and squeezed it in a feeble attempt to dislodge the splint. I thought I noticed a slight shimmer from the centre of my index finger. Could it be glass? If so, will it enter my arteries and into my heart and then kill me? I pressed my finger harder in morbid fear. What a terrible way to go, dropping dead on the CST platform, having been felled by a microscopic splint of glass. I focused my eye on whatever I could see. I noticed people looking at me, vaguely. I must look like one of those freaks on the roads of mumbai who talk to themselves, or those guys who scratch their armpits and chuckle. I dropped my hands to my sides and looked at the watch. 7:05. Damn.

A man walks by, muttering something under his breath while passing me. I have battled my raging curiosity for years now over this particular habit of men. Sometimes they swerve close to you and whisper something, anything, they call you a whore, they call you beautiful, they propose marriage to you, but they just walk on. If they have a bike, they scream out their assessment of you, or their desires, or even make an offer to drop you off. But never do they stop. They drive on. I remember walking on deserted streets with Aanchal, my roommate, and Meenakshi, on a girls trip to Goa, being subject to hoarse proclamations of love from guys zipping past us at supersonic speed on motorbikes.

"What's the point?", I said, exasperatedly, "If you don't stop, you can't even figure whether what you've yelled has yielded any benefits or not. So why scream at all?"

M snorted. "Of course they aren't going to stop. If they stop, chances are that they are going to get whacked, or, in the least, rejected. If they drive on, they have the satisfaction that perhaps we lay, overwhelmed with the emotions so openly and confidently placed before us, and are pining for them right now and have assigned our souls to them forever. Why on earth would they stop?"

As it turned out, a few guys decided to stop and see the effect of their invitations, and being about 10 men in a Qualis, it was highly discomforting. Confidently, we walked into a resort just off the road. The Guard followed us in.

"Yes Madam?"

A fills him up on the story so far. "We were walking back to our hotel when this Qualis of drunk men tried to pick us up."

The watchman looked perplexed.

A got the vibe. "We just want to stay here for a bit, that's all."

"Can you tell us when they are gone?"

The watchman was relieved. Apparently that was easier than saving us from them. "Okay."

On the way again, I was exasperated. "Why the hell would anyone do something like that? If a woman is walking on the road, and a bunch of drunk guys say 'Hey Baby, come here', how many women, if any at all, would fall for something like this?"

A shrugged. "Maybe some friend of theirs tried it, and it worked. Or maybe its an Urban Legend among men. Who knows? Who cares?"

7:10. Playing snake was a tempting option, but then that would involve taking my phone out of my bag and making it vulnerable for theft. The 10 rupee Femina guy came along. It was very fishy, the way mint condition current edition Feminas were being sold for 10 rupees instead of its cover price of 30 rupees. It was even fishier the way 50 rupee Cosmos were being sold for 20 rupees. And fishiest of all was the disappearance of the Cosmo guy. It was a great way to gain sex ed, even if they rehash the same hot sex tips every time. You just need to change the angle of your legs, use lace panties instead of satin, and replace honey with chocolate. And the positions. Creative but difficult in execution, visuals of me perched on the washing machine (the vibrations of the machine during the act having been highly recommended). balancing the magazine in my left hand and concentrating on making loud moany noises (also highly recommended) was anything but hot. A got the 10 rupee Femina guy the day before, however, so I just shook my head at the vendor.

The train pulls into the station, and suddenly I am surrounded by women all ready to pounce into the compartment. Everyone wants a place to sit. And then everyone wants a corner of the seat to park their ass. And then everyone wants a place to stand in the middle of the seating area so that when someone gets up, they can snatch their place. I find myself a place in the corner and open "High Fidelity" and wait for the train to start. It's only 7:15.