Justice delayed?

It's been said a thousand times before and I'm saying it again:
Someone shoot Arnab Goswami.
Now.

Though I've always had a death wish for him (remember how he declared war on India on behalf of Pakistan during the November terrorist attacks?) I completely lost my mind a few days ago while I was flipping channels during (another) rained out IPL game.

Apparently cashing in on the public outrage (?) that had erupted as soon as it became known that Qasab's new lawyer, Abbas Kazmi, made two applications before the special court - one, that he be given a period of four weeks to read the charge sheet and two, that Qasab be subjected to a medical test to determine his age - Times Now quickly assembled a cast of characters to voice their strong opinion against such "tactics" being adopted by the lawyer.

Arnab angrily pointed out how Qasab was now being given an ultra expensive lawyer from tax payer's money to a patient Majeed Memon.

"But surely there was no need to give him a extraordinary lawyer!" gasped Arnab, obviously referring to the fees (because it's OK for the State to pay extraordinary fees for a Special Public Prosecutor but not to a Defence Counsel)

"He's not extraordinary, just...ordinary" mumbled Memon, obviously not referring to just the fees.

Yee-ouch.

Anyway, the other panelists included a screechy Doctor who saved a life during the Taj siege by conducting a makeshift operation on a security personnel who was shot in the stomach, which was an incredible feat for which she has received many laurels. How this makes her capable of commenting on legal processes I fail to understand. She seemed very disturbed that some factions of the media were referring to Qasab as a "cutie" and referred to Facebook to point out that the sentiment of the public, in particular, young Indians (10 and 13 year olds, she clarified) wanted to tie a time bomb to Qasab's genitals and put him back on the boat where he came from.

I know that Times Now is full of other such ridiculous nonsense (if any news channel wants to pay me to blog on each and every episode of Arnab's panel questioning, I will gladly do so) and that no one besides Goswami takes it seriously, as a legal practitioner who deals with the pressures of conducting criminal trials on a regular basis, I would like to offer my humble opinion.

The other day, I accompanied a new Client who was being served with a copy of the charge sheet for allegedly committing an offence under the Maharashtra Protection of Trees (Urban Areas) Act. The Judge asked me how long I would need before he would explain the charge and record the plea.

I asked for a month. And I'll tell you why. This is what I needed before I decided my strategy in the case:

1. Clear instructions from my Client as to what exactly happened

2. An inspection of the site of the alleged offence

3. Studying the act, which was a new one

4. A good reading of the chargesheet and the witness statements to determine if any offence was made out from a bare reading of the chargesheet, and if so, what offence(s)

And of course as I handle so many other matters I need time to study those matters in as much detail, and hence, I asked for a month, and the Judge gave me two. (Blame it on the backlog)

And I'm not a spastic lawyer. I consider myself to be thorough and I do my homework. Quality is the least I can offer my Clients, right?

My point is this: we're talking about a 10,000 page chargesheet and some 300 different charges (mostly capital crimes) under at least 10 statutes that I can think of. Mr. Kazmi has not spent his entire life waiting for this one case and I'm sure he has other matters to deal with. As I recall he was Amicus Curaie in the 1993 blasts as well. Of course he would apply for adjournments in other cases (and most judges would willingly allow this) but my point is why should his Clients languish in jail because their lawyer was appointed to represent Qasab?

Look, I work here. Don't make a farce out of my profession. If you want this to be a "fair trial" to set an example to the world and what not, then let the law takes its own course and give the lawyer a fair chance to at least flip through a 10,000 page chargesheet. If you want vigilante justice then you should have just accidentally let his prison cell open and let the mob claw him to a gory end.

The screechy Doctor asked why we couldn't just have a trial like Saddam Hussein's? What a great idea!

One month isn't going to kill anyone. Except Qasab, ultimately.

Or are we all just worried that our laws and judicial system are so screwed up that this Lawyer might just get Qasab off the hook?

Culinary Pursuits

My roommate has moved away, and I officially live alone. One of the best parts of living alone is the independence of thought and planning - there's no chance of anyone even suggesting a course of action which is contrary to your own, even if you have none whatsoever. So after a whole spate of doing-everything-possible-in-Mumbai before A left, suspected flu, and another round of doing-everything-possible-in-Mumbai when A came back (quite similar to the first round, only with umbrellas), I spent what feels like the first Saturday in ages (1) Not working and (2) at home (3) not drinking, but that was only because my stash of Carlsberg was finished. The only productivity was thanks to my attempt at snacking before leaving for Dashavtaram with Bunny and Co., when I reached into my cheese box (30 cubes for 30 rupee discount) Who moved my cheese? Well, that didn't matter, but a trip to the Big Bazaar certainly was required. And I picked up a lof of exciting stir fry pastes from the Dollar Store, along with cold cuts, dressing, and a lot of other (discounted) goodies to experiment with at mealtimes.

Someone once expressed a lot of shock at the fact that I loved cooking and would cook for myself even when I lived alone, earlier.

"Isn't cooking for yourself boring?" she asked.

Of course it isn't. In fact, it leaves more scope for experimentation because there's only you to bear the results of your efforts. Also, there's no "other person" to think about - you may want to cook, your partner may be voraciously hungry, so ordering in is the most polite option, rather than have them hovering around you eating raw ingredients and hopping up and down. That's the sort of thing that brings out the worst in me (ask my sister). Also, as I am the least fussy eater I know (I eat anything that moves, and even stuff that doesn't), the widest variety of seasonal vegetables have made an entry into the kitchen pantry.

The painful bit is the preparing of the tiffin, not so much for the fact that I have to wake up early for that, but also because the tiffin is eaten in public view (office) and open to comments and questions from interested bystanders, basically, Pooh.

(You do remember Pooh, don't you?)

On one occasion where I chanced to bring ladyfinger (bhindi):

"What is that?"

"Bhindi"

"Oh God, why does it look like THAT?"

I was a little taken aback. Was there fungus on it?

"Huh?"

"Its in such small pieces!"

"Pooh, it cooks faster that way."

"Oh..."

Pooh prides herself on bringing sorry looking sabzis to office. Of course if you prompt her she will tell you this whole story about how she made her maid cut the vegetables but she didn't cut it properly, and so Pooh had to re-cut it, and make the sabzi along with another sabzi for dinner, and rotis, and so on, and how in the whole mess she missed the 9:00 Thane Mumbai AC Bus and then she had to take the 930 one, and that is why she made someone else rush to attend her matter at 11 at the Sessions Court. Despite all these efforts, her food tastes really crappy. For instance, she was so proud of a spinach curry which was so oversalted that I couldn't taste anything else.

All women who I know who make "dabbas" for their husbands/significant others complain about how much of an effort it is and how no one understands that. So I usually give them the option of the friendly neighbourhood dabbawaala, which they are not willing to discuss. Preparing a dabba for their loved one gives them a lot of pride, evidently. But, they still crib about it. The reason I feel the exact opposite (no pride, but no effort either) is because, I am convinced, that I am doing it for myself. I cook nice food to spoil myself. Where's the effort in that? There's no pride, because no one envies you for having yourself to cook for yourself. If nothing else, they feel sorry for you.

I stopped making myself a Dabba (I'd only carry a veggie, I'd buy rotis at a place near office) when my roommate moved in. There was no real issue in making one for her too - but it's not that simple. Anyway she had office catering, and then I'd just be cooking for myself, which was selfish, in an unexplainable kind of way.

Pooh once asked me what my roommate used to do when I'd be cooking.

"Nothing", I said after some thought.

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Well, most of the time she isn't home. If she is, well, she talks to me and all."

"I mean does she help you?"

"Well, she sets the table, and things like that, here and there."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

I hate that question, simply because it is evident from the previous conversation that the fact that she does not do anything has not even occurred to me, let alone cause me any anguish.

But there's another dimension to this.

Pooh gets up and makes breakfast for hubby, and then makes lunch and dinner. Her Husband wakes up, reads the paper, drinks his tea, and leaves at 730am for work. He'll come back and help her heat stuff in the microwave. But that doesn't bother Pooh, because he is a MAN - and its OK for men not to help around the kitchen.

Girls, on the other hand, need to "slave around". One girl "slaving around" for another is not acceptable.

"Pooh, I don't know about you, but I find cooking very destressing".

[For the record, Pooh does not find cooking destressing. In fact, when she has lots of guests over and insists on cooking, she actually takes the next day off to recuperate.]

But yes, cooking is destressing to me, because in a lot of ways it is the exact opposite of my professional world. Between 11am to 5pm, my life is full of frustration and uncertainties. I have a matter, I prepare for it, I have the precedents, I'm clear on the law, I'm ready to rock. However - sometimes the other side isn't present, sometimes they are present and aren't ready to argue. Sometimes the Judge isn't present, sometimes he's not willing to take up the matter. Sometimes the other side is present and ready to go on, sometimes the Judge is present and is ready to hear the matter, but they can't find the case papers. Sometimes the other side is present and ready to go on, sometimes the Judge is present and is ready to hear the matter, and they have the papers and I argue but the Judge doesn't order in my favour because he doesn't like my face, or because he's been bought by the other side, or because he just doesn't see my point. Sometimes the Judge rules in my favour and I am thrilled but only to step outside the Court and find the Court peon sneak upto me and tell me to tell my Client that the Judge is waiting for his last and final installment.

In my kitchen, however, there are no uncertainties. I prepare myself by using the best ingredients and I know my recipe well. The bright flames of the gas leap up and embrace the kadai I place on it, after a good rinse. The water droplets sizzle and boil away, the pan is as hot as it can get and calls upon me to present my case. In goes a little oil, and some spice, some excitement. I work furiously, with my spoons and spatulas, and the art continues - colourful vegetables, succulent meats, some seasoning. I let the heat and the steam do its work, and I become the master - a little too long, and it will burn, and little too less, and it will be raw. There are no distractions, no adjournments. In the end, I turn into the Judge in my own case, and I bear the consequences of my actions. No stress, just Art.

Am wondering whether I can drive Pooh to early retirement by bringing a dabba of phad thai noodles, kimchi salad and salami and cheese roll ups.

The thought of that is more destressing than even cooking. Hmm.

Always the professional

(Note: this is a highly technical post and involves a lot of legal procedural bullshit. Avoid if possible)

I just got back from a gruelling day of Trial Court litigation, with a glow on my face and a grin that could put Jack Nicholson to shame. On paper, it was a sucessful day, but in actuality, it was kick ass.

Where do I begin?

Cut to many many months ago, when I was a struggling clueless junior without a friend beyond the souls that inhabited my chamber. I latched onto friends of friends (very Orkut) who were the most easily available and who I would be hanging out with most of the time anyway. One such "friend of friend" was CP, friend of the much admired SP. They had started their careers together and were professional buddies, often appearing for co-accused. That means that if one of them, say SP, is approached by a pair of Accused persons, he will make CP represent one of them. Having different lawyers gives an impression of there being no nexus between the two Accused, and if you've got a buddy defending the co-accused then you can even have heated arguments during the cross examination while trying to pin the blame on one of the persons. Which goes a lot like this:

"So you saw the guy who did it"

"Yes"

"Was it him?"

"Or was it him?"

"No, it was him."

"But that guy was tall. My Client isnt tall."

"No, he could have been short"

"Stop trying to pin the blame on my Client"

"YOU stop trying to pin the blame on MY Client"

JUDGE: Aargh. Adjourn, adjourn!

(Note: No Judge ever says Order, Order. Not even in restaurants.)

This is done rapidly and repeatedly until the Public Prosecutor has lost his mind and everyone is clear beyond the shadow of a (reasonable) doubt.

Anyway CP and I would catch up for a tea here, a coffee there, maybe lunch at the Sessions Court canteen, mostly with SP, but we had become friends - for me it was the kind of friendship where you don't really care about the other person's feelings or remember their birthday but you feel comfortable in the knowledge that you have a familiar face in your surroundings. One day, he asks me to go for lunch with him. I'm expecting Pritam da Dhaba, we end up at one of the most happening restaurants in Mumbai (at that time, now it serves 6 stale prawns on 6 pieces of stale bread for 400 bucks) on the pretext that he needs to pick up papers from the owner, his Client (the former partners are our Clients. Co-Accused, tra la la). Random chit chat, and then a mention about his daughter.

"You're married?" I asked. Yes, blog slasher, I know it's a stupid question. And I know it makes it sound like I was disappointed to find out that he was married. I wasn't. I just found the whole thing shady.

Not mentioning your marital status is shady behaviour, in my book. Of course this doesn't mean that married people need to walk around with yellow stars or tattoos which say "married to ...", but if you've met someone and had actual conversation with them on several occasions and they do not tell you that they are married, it's pretty shady.

Hmm. That doesn't sound quite right.

Okay. It's not like the person has to make a curtsy and say "Look, I'm married. Now, about last night's Croatia Germany match...". It can be a very subtle reference, like "my husband and I went to big bazaar last week" or "my wife is allergic to mushrooms" or "my father in law has a gun license". It's pretty weird if you don't mention something like that.

Especially when, after not mentioning his marital status for several months, CP then asks me to go out for lunch with him every day.

I admit that in the beginning I would oblige. I mean, married men are supposed to be safe. [I should point out here that CP is too desi and unattractive for me to want for him to hit on me.] Anyway, married men never hit on other women, at least that's what I thought when I was 23. Especially when the married man in question had a "love marriage".

"Well, it wasn't really love", said CP. "I decided to marry her."

"So why isn't that a love marriage?", I asked.

"Because love and passion are things I'd like to keep away from marriage," he smiled, and winked at me.

What actually caused me to sit and wonder what the fuck was going on, were the shady (shady is as shady does) messages that I began to get:

"I miss you every time I don't see you."

"I'm depressed - I haven't seen you all week."

The Ick-o-meter was running amok. I gently tried to show my "I don't think I'm really comfortable" face to him, and he said it was "just a little harmless flirting". Alrighty!

And then, on New Year's:
"Last night I had the most wonderful dream - I dreamt that I was on a deserted island with you."

It was time to pull the plug. And strangely enough, I wound up feeling guilty about this, about being the "other woman" who a (presumably) happily married man finds no qualm about flirting with or dreaming about being on a deserted island with. Can't any normal guy want to be with me? And other similar whines.

Time went on, and I realized that I was no villain - CP, and many many other men that I encountered in Mumbai, were all suffering from the same asshole disease.

I've been handling a matter in the Magistrate's Court at Mazgaon, involving a case dating back to 1986, in which my Client, along with his wife and landlady, were accused of forgery by my Client's own cousin. In the last 22 years, my Client's wife and his landlady both expired. In 2006, my Client's cousin, the Complainant, also expired. Normally, in cases initiated by the Complainant before a Magistrate, if the Complainant dies, the case abates, unless you can find strong reasons supporting the Complainant being replaced. The Original Complainant's younger brother made an application to be substituted, and thereafter never turned up for 2 years. Family gossip says that the young boy, who was only 12 at the time of the alleged offence, had gone mad after an accident and does not recognize anyone. Be that as it may, for about 10 hearings no one turned up on the part of the wannabe substituted Complainant until yours truly went there and kicked up a royal fuss until a final notice was sent to cousin fruitcake.

I walk into court and ask to see the original court papers, when I hear a voice asking for the papers of my case. I whirl around.

I won't even ask you to guess who it was.

"CP, you are appearing in this?"

"Arre, you are there in this matter?"

Arre indeed.

Two questions later I realize that CP has no idea what he's getting into, and I also realize that though I thought I despised him beyond belief, I was actually okay, now, with CP.

"This is really something," he said, looking at the 2 ft pile of papers, known as the case file.

And just when I thought things had gotten better:

"I think we should take... a date." The last two words were whispered so close to my ear that I had to wipe my earlobes after jumping out of my chair.

Goes to show you, pigs is pigs.

Luckily the Judge walked in just then.

I was hopping mad about everything by then - the random flirting, the making me feel bad about myself, the unnecessary display of intimacy, and now, above it all, the fact that he was using all that to completely take me for granted and make a quick escape from the proceedings.

One should never let personal equations hamper legal practice. All the while, I only had my Client's interests at stake, I swear.

The Judge pulled out my application for dismissal. She asked CP to give his "say".

CP took out his pen and scribbled half a page. "Read it", he said, and I had to bear him coming closer to me so that I could read.

"The proposed Complainant has been attending the Court regularly and has been very diligent in dealing with the case".

I smiled. "CP, are you sure you want to keep this line in?"

CP gave me a very confident sidelong glance. "It's a standard reply."

I shrugged.

Our turn came around again, and the Judge asked if I was ready to argue.

After laying down the basic legal mumbo jumbo, I attacked the reply.

"First of all, the Advocate of this so called proposed complainant is making a clear misrepresentation to the court. While he says that his Client has been attending the Court regularly, the record of the Court will show that for the past 11 dates, neither the proposed complainant nor his advocate have been turning up for the hearings, whereas my Client, a senior citizen has not defaulted even once. If anyone is to be termed..." I pretended to relook at the reply "...diligent, it should be the Accused, and not this person."

The Judge snooped through the roznama and glared at CP.

CP took a break from asking me to adjourn the matter in whispers to make a legal point.

"My lady, the law on substitution is very clear."

"Is it?", I asked.

"My lady in case of the death of the Complainant his next of kin or other aggrieved person can step into his shoes and carry on the proceedings."

"My lady, I submit that this depends on which stage of the proceedings we are in"

So saying, I looked at CP for his reply. He had none, because he didn't know what stage this matter was on anyway.

I wasn't quite done yet.

"I don't blame my colleague for making such an error - I don't think he has been properly briefed. As it is, he is neither or record nor has he been instructed by the Advocate on record..."

The Judge glared even more and shuffled the papers for the Vakalatnama, CP was honest enough to admit that he had just been orally instructed and not formally authorized.

"Then?" asked the Judge, clearly irritated.

"My lady, a date may be given?", whimpered CP.

The Judge grunted and began to dictate the day's proceedings.

"The matter is adjourned for arguments on the application."

"Last chance?" I suggested.

"Yes Yes. 'The last chance is given to the Advocate for the proposed complainant to argue the matter.' " She looked at me thoughtfully. "With proper authorization".

CP muttered something while digging out his calendar. "Shall we take a date in September?"

"I'm okay with anything she says", I said, nonchalantly.

"Next date", announced the Judge.

"My lady, September..."

"July 1st!" roared the Judge.

CP bowed down and cringed at the case file.

"Much obliged", we chanted in unison.

I stepped into the corridor to appraise my Client of what exactly happened there, he isn't very good with english but he figured something had clicked for us. CP rushed past me after a quick "bye". I walked down with my Client and as I walked into the compound, I saw CP's balding head turn towards me. He was talking to a young girl, who I recognized to be the trembling intern who was trying to keep her Senior's matter back earlier that morning. When our matter was called out for the second time, I had to go find CP, and he had been in a corner of the corridor chatting with this same girl.

CP gave me a smile - not "a" smile, but "the" smile, a smile I don't think he would have given me even if he won the case we were arguing. As far as he was concerned, CP had won his case, and he was very happy about it.

I still can't wipe the smirk off my face.

Moving out: Or why you should dump the bastard NOW

Sometimes moving out is as difficult as moving on.

My current pre-occupation, a case under the Domestic Violence Act, involves a couple who dated for ten years and then got married in their late 20's, which is a great step towards a "mature" relationship, right? Some months later, the Husband smashes her nose into a bloodied pulp in an alcoholic rage, but they make up over several rhinoplasties, she gets pregnant, he gives her a hard time, and even when a baby can't salvage the situation, she leaves the house to retain her sanity, and when she tries to go back to talk to her Husband, he isn't home.

And he's changed the lock on the door.

After a much contested order from what can be only described as a very stoned Magistrate, I obtain interim relief for my Client in being able to enter her house and reclaim her belongings. So braving an auto strike, me, my Client and her Dad travel in an Armada to the back of beyond suburb in an attempt to reclaim her life.

The house was already teeming with people - the Husband (who had been sweet talking me all week), his friends, his lawyer (who only was asked to come because I was coming) and his lawyer's friend, my Client and her father, and her friend (a celebrity nutritionist), and me. It was like a funeral - everyone recounting the good times and the eventual demise of the loved one - in this case, the relationship.

There was a clear divide - there were some, like the Husband's friends, who all had participated in the couple's clandestine dating rituals and seen them right from the time that he "proposed her", who still looked hopeful and all maintained that "he didn't mean almost trying to kill her", and still calling her Bhabhi much like bereaved relatives who keep calling out to a dead person in the hope that they will suddenly awake. There were some who were actually relieved that it was over - like the nutritionist friend. And then there were some who probably would have killed it had it not died its own death - like her father.

"She's so educated," he lamented, "and she married this disgusting man." He had sneered at his soon-to-be-ex-son-in-law's attempts to offer him Iced tea "to refresh himself". I rejected on the ground of added sugar (and perhaps added sedatives. Dude, he disfigured a woman's face. Don't think I was going to push my luck). "Actually whatever happened, and what ever is happening now, only she is to blame."

The Husband's lawyers put down their newspapers and suddenly leaned forward, having obviously heard this strange admission. I was also shocked. "Why on earth would you say something like that?"

"She was the one who wanted to marry him, she married him, it was her mistake. He is like that only. We all knew his character, we told her so many times. But she was stubborn."

The eavesdroppers leaned back and went back to their newspapers. I was intrigued. "What do you mean you knew his character?"

The Father removes his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He inhaled deeply.

"We used to hear her speak to him on the phone. All she would be doing is soothing him and apologizing. Some parents hear their children say 'I love you', we had to hear 'Sorry, sorry, sorry'. But she was stubborn."

I remained silent.

"And then he breaks her nose. The sick, sick man." I thought he would spit, but he didn't. "And she didn't tell us. She told us, she fell in the house. And we thought OK, she must have fell in the house. That sick sick man."

'Sick' was obviously this man's equivalent of the worst vernacular cuss-word I knew.

"I spent 8 lakhs on her wedding. 8 lakhs. And I didn't even want her to get married to him. If she had told me, then, then... well, even we know people. We could have gotten things done. He only did this to her because he knew that he could get away with it."

I could sense his helplessness mount and his cynicism about me handling his daughter's case (he was slightly shocked to see me on the first day of the hearing) was slowly withering away. In the meanwhile, my Client was huffing and puffing over all of the items "mentioned in para 30 of the Petition" and some which she forgot, which her husband was, in a clear attempt to pacify, handing over to her.

She looked around at the things she set up, she paid for, all of the things she had done to her own house, her very own house, and now, she was stuffing all that into Big Bazaar bags and carting them unceremoniously into an uncertain future.

The packing was mingled with her Husband's trying to make polite conversation with me and the nutritionist ("He hates my guts and didn't let her even speak to me throughout the marriage", whispered the Nutritionist, "He's really pulling out all the stops now."), some small memories which seeped through the building concrete of pain ("we bought this in Australia, don't you remember?", "this was a birthday present to you, you should keep it"), and despite everything, little moments of tenderness. As she was going through her books, she found the Holy Bible.

"Keep this properly ya, or your parents will kill you." There was a slight tone of warmth and humour, probably some inside joke. The Husband smiled in recognition.

A quick relook at the things she needed to take back, she walked into the kitchen and opened a cupboard to see a huge stash of foreign liquor, that he collected from the duty free on the way back from his last tour.

"This is all yours only na!", quipped the nutritionist, sarcastically, referring to the Husband's reply to our domestic violence complaint in which he called her an alcoholic.

My Client gave her Husband a scathing look.

"Come on sweetie. Yeh sab likhna padta hai. She should know." pointing to me, of course.

"Nice try." I retorted.

Packing over, it was time to leave. But not just yet.

I was obliged to bring up the fact that since the Husband had made an offer to "Settle out of court" that now we were willing to try and end this "as smoothly as possible". At this, Husband makes a cool "why don't we have dinner" offer to my Client.

"What is there to discuss?" she asked him.

"Everything!" he replied earnestly.

"Arre..." she looked at him, began to say something, and then stopped and urged him to enter the bedroom to discuss the situation in private.

From the hazy reflections on the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, I could make out vigorous hand movements, agitated expressions and even a very filmi tug-and hug. For a minute, I wondered if they would come out of the room, hand in hand, ready to renew their vows. I was then disappointed at the fact that I was so vehemently against this happening. It seemed like the ultimate anti climax. But weren't we supposed to work towards preserving the family, I thought wryly as I remembered the preamble to the Domestic Violence Act.

As we all sat in anticipation, the father of the Client came up to see what was taking us so long.

"They are talking", I informed him.

"There's nothing left to talk about" he said, under his breath, and charged into the room and asked his daughter to come out. A very timely intervention, because my Client was visibly irritated and stormed out as soon as she heard her father's voice.

Thereafter we had a very late lunch and lots of girl bonding between the Nutritionist, the pained survivor of Domestic Violence, and me, the buy-a-lawyer-get-a-friend-and-shoulder-to-cry-on-free. Beyond the call of duty, and moreso when I even went up to say hello to my Client's 7 month year old daughter.

Can you really know a person well enough to eliminate the possibility of having to enter your own house on the strength of a Court Order and trying to remember which of the fab india pillow covers you had bought with your own money? How does love end up resulting in pulverized nasal bones? I remembered the first time I supervised this kind of job, I saw a girl, 5 years younger than me, sitting there and packing her school books (the "urgent" belongings we got a Court Order for), shaking her head over having married her College Sweetheart in a fit of QSQT like headrush. Especially when he placed her under house arrest and wouldn't let her attend College, and beat her with a bamboo stick if she would protest. It left me shaken, and I realized that this time, I was still shaken, and even more so. God forbid tomorrow I would have to hold the hand of a friend who had to undergo the same torture - mental, physical, emotional, in the end, they all leave scars which take as much time to heal. These women all have the same pattern - the surrounding society disliking the guy, her slowly sinking away from her friends, and silent suffering. While the women themselves may be responsible for the relationship and the man for the violence - every single loved one and well wisher of that woman is responsible for not telling her what she needed to hear - dump the bastard now. But of course, would she be listening?

I don't think, with this level of involvement, that I would make a good "lawyer". But then again, is that really what I want to be?

In Spite

Today I bunked work. It wasn't about the fact that I had very little sleep over the weekend and particularly the previous night thanks to a 20 hour visit by Q, or the fact that some of the most fantastic women from my batch in College were in town, or the fact that the workoholic law firm which my roommate works for had declared a holiday despite the fact that Gudi Padwa was yesterday. Oh no. Nothing of that sort, nothing that meaningful a reason.

I was stretching out on my makeshift bed in the living room, all set for a day in Office, conquering the world etc etc. having had fulfilling weekend of chilling, alcohol, partying with friends, alcohol, junk food, some more alcohol and of course, the boy. My phone rang and I reached for it lazily. It was Pooh.

Pooh works in my Office, and makes everything seem more difficult than it really is. Pooh used to live at Churchgate and would get to office after everyone else managed their hour long commutes, Pooh would cry after getting adjournments from the Court, Pooh would forget procedural niceties and get our cases dismissed for default, then Pooh got married and angsted so much that I still get the heebie jeebies when someone says the "M" word, and now, now, Pooh has moved to Thane.

Pooh has developed a strange strain of the flu since December, about the time she moved to Thane, which kicks in everytime she has a particularly long day. By a "long day" I mean her coming to Office from Thane and maybe attending a Court or two in between. She develops fever, a bad throat, and will croak pleas to us who need to then run around and handle her matters as well as our own. For the past 2 weeks, the flu has had her completely dead and she hasn't been coming in to work.

You, of course, think I'm a bitch for dissing her like this. You think I'm being a meanie. And you may also be wondering what the fuck this has to do with my bunking work today. Well.

Today Pooh called me, and told me in her oh-my-God-I-am-going-to-die voice that there was a matter she was handling on today at Girgaum, and she was going to come (really, but I'll come by 12), so was it possible for me to pick up the papers from Office and come to the Court by 11 to hold the matter till then?

Taking a cue from A, who had sarcastically suggested a way to handle this situation, I choked my throat and spoke in a oh-my-God-Pooh-these-could-be-my-last-words voice:

"Pooh man, I've been puking all morning. I don't think I'll be coming to Office man."

Don't be fooled. I didn't call in 'sick' I called in 'spite'.

And for all of you who think I'm being mean, not only has Boss told her to take the next 3 weeks off, and not only had he told her not to come during the monsoon season, and not only is she allowed to leave office to catch the 7:05 Thane Fast every day, but also, every month, my Boss gives us both a paycheque - of the same amount.

"Poor thing." said Boss, in a rare display of sensitivity. "It's the commuting that makes her sick. She should actually move closer to here."

I waited a minute actually expecting him to trump up an empty flat in Colaba for her to move into. Then I let it out.

"All of us Commute, and I think we're doing just fine."

He smiled at me.

"You're different"

Oh, how I hate that line. But for now, I am going to have brunch at the Juhu Mocha. :)

Lights, Camera, Argh!

Every lawyer dreams of gaining recognition as the expert on their subject - some people are recognized by a ever increasing clientele, some people by academic interventions, but the most sought after form of recognition is certainly the TV Interview. So when I was approached, after almost two seemingly unsuccessful years as a legal practitioner, for my thoughts on an aspect of criminal law which can only be described as explosive, why was I hiding under the table?

Well, first of all, the "show" in question was not a glamorous BBC debate, but rather, a show to decide who gets 25 lakhs on the basis of SMS votes (oh no, not that again). Secondly, because the 'cause' which was being represented, and for which I was sought to be roped in as a brand ambassador, had a very very dubious history for which you can look here.

Capt. Bahadur, who apparently still has not caught the eyes of the armed forced for falsely carrying on with a fake title attached to his name, is at it again. This time, he's managed to find a platform for his angst - a TV Channel has introduced a TV Show in which every day, one lucky person wins 5 lakh rupees on the basis of convincing an audience to send 5 rupee SMSes in his favour. At the end of the series, which till now has been consisting of people who want to go on a second honeymoon and people who want to build a golden plated commode (hmm...), there will be a bumper round wherein people will actually be competing for 25 lakhs. Obviously these 25 lakh guys will have to be bigger freaks than the ones with the gold fetish. And you can't get freakier than Capt. Bahadur, can you?

With the 25 lakhs, Capt. Bahadur wants to give a boost to the PAWAM Legal Aid Cell, and in addition to that, Petition the Supreme Court to introduce men-friendly laws. This is what was told to us when Capt. Bahadur peeped into the conference room a few months ago and asked Boss for a moment of his time.

"Yes, what is it, Captain?" my Boss asked, nonchalantly.

In stormed a huge crew of people, some holding cameras, some holding microphones, one with a Styrofoam board. I rushed out of the room in a panic, and partly out of spite, because I was having a particularly nasty encounter with my Boss that day and I thought it would serve him right to be stuck with the Captain and his crew of Media Jimboes.

Turns out, Captain needed a sound byte from reputed (ha ha ha) people who knew him.

"So," asked the crewman, "how do you know Captain Bahadur?"

"Well I met him when he appointed me as his lawyer to get him out of Jail when his wife put him behind bars."

Apparently even with an introduction like that, Captain managed to convince the Channel that he was an asset to their TRP ratings. I guess they realized that they'd be competing with the Indian Premier League and so they needed to pull out all the stops. Next, Captain needed to get some experts in the field to discuss the issues he was proposing and give their honest opinion on his work and, well, whatever. Captain has used Boss up for intro, he gets another senior lawyer (a constitutional criminal expert) to give his opinion, and then the Channel needed a female lawyer who works on Domestic Violence related issues who would be able to give a few bytes on the subject.

One Saturday morning, my Boss gives me a call. "Captain wants you to go with him for a shooting. He wants some thoughts on all this 498A B whatever he does, you know."

I use some okay-to-use-in-front-of-boss expletives.

"Feel free to say whatever you want - that he's crazy or whatever."

Unfortunately I had a meeting in office, and thereafter a plan to head home with Lax and make big plans for our Absinthe party. Despite Captain's fervent requests - he was being nice to a woman, which makes you realize how desperate he really was - I manged to switch my phone off and the rest of the day is a subject of an earlier post.

The other day, however, dodging him was not so easy, but I was smooth and did not take any calls from unknown numbers, and finally found myself trapped at one end of the conference table having finished with all the conferences for the day, when there was a tap on the door.

It was a dead end. I had screwed up royally by not assigning a matter that was on a date on which I was at home, and so I owed one to Boss. After being assured that there was only one minute of shooting time left, I was led to a corner of the office where a crew - a smaller one this time - let me have one minute to brush my hair and set my new haircut (with bangs!) and put a little lipstick on my lips which I had chewed to a pulp in the Sessions Court.

I was made to stand, and then sit, turn my head, look up and down, until they found an angle to cover both me and the lawbooks which were behind me. The lawbooks were important to establish my credibility, of course. I asked a guy in the crew if I looked okay.

"You don't look like a lawyer", he smiled.

Apparently that was a compliment!

After achieving an acceptable angle, I was getting used to the strange bent of neck when I noticed something sliding up to me. I lowered my eyes to see a man holding a long black pole, on which a foam mike was mounted, and positioning it next to my lap. I looked at Sameer, the in-charge, very disconcertingly.

"Try not to look at it" he suggested helpfully.

Yeah, right.

The interview began with a few plain questions which were easy enough. Then he asked me about me about the 'legal' aspects of the issues which got me a little excited, at which Sameer remarked that I was the best of the lot that was interviewed. I smiled in spite of my scary-criminal-lawyer-who-means-business efforts. As I began to answer (the camera was paused while I let the colour drain from my cheeks), the cameraman clicked his tongue in disappointment - they were all out of reel.

No problems, said Sameer, they'd just reshoot. And reshoot they did. A few more questions on why this cause should get the 25 lakhs - "Well, it's a cause which certainly will find it tough to make money - you don't find too many men saying 'hey, my wife harassed me, so I'm donating 25 lakhs to the cause" - and on Capt. Bahadur where I stated very diplomatically "well a lot of people go through bad experiences when they are falsely accused of committing crimes, but Bahadur is actually using his experiences to make a difference...".

Interview over, amidst kudos for my poise, I asked if I could see myself on camera. Why not?

The Camera view flap was opened, a headphone set was pushed onto my head and the reel began.

They say the Camera adds 10 pounds. Guess what? They lie. It's more like 20.

I gaped in horror as my face took up all of the screen in the horrid close up view they took of me. My bangs, which I thought were smartly pulled in a side parting, were puffed up, looking like I had worn 3 toupees to work. And the light dabbing of lipstick made me look like I was on the Balaji Telefilms payroll.

"Uh... Sameer? can I talk to you for a second?"

"What's up?"

"Don't you think I look a little funny?"

"Oh this is a small frame. It'll look fine on the big screen."

I furrowed my brow. "Look, I think I look a little - um..." and averting my eyes from Sameer who was spilling out of the swivel chair on which he was seated,"...um, fat."

"Oh you women," he laughed. "Don't worry." He suddenly looked very puzzled. "Don't you want to know when it'll be aired?"

I smiled. "I'll be in touch".

I then realized how a lot of the things I said on camera can be effectively cut pasted to make it look like I was a Dick in a Chick's clothing. Oh well. Just remember one thing - please don't believe everything you see on TV.

Pretty please?

Legal Paranoia

Lawyering screws with your head. You know how they say, "Doctors make the worst patients?" Well, Lawyers make the worst everything - friends, sisters, girlfriends, mothers, anything. When I say Lawyers, I essentially mean Litigators, though my Corporate Shark friends may have their own point of view. If you watch Boston Legal, two names of the firm "Crane, Poole and Schmidt" are mentally deranged. Can you blame them?

Is this a sudden realization? Not really, though I must confess that the first nags came to me while I was working for an NGO which dealt with relief for women in troubled marriages. Most of my day would involve sitting with young girls, some of them my age, with three kids, crying about how they were beaten by their husbands, how their husbands were having affairs, how their husbands tried to sell them off... for some unexplained reason, the "client counselling" techniques would require one to probe into the history of the relationship, and many of them, surprise, surprise, would begin with a happy happy love story, with some minor aberrations ("once only... we were at bandstand, and he pinched me..." or "he would joke, see, by marrying you I am losing out on 2 crores dowry, ha ha") and then post marriage, it would work out to some sort of living hell. I was very sympathetic, having gone through an abusive relationship for about 3 years myself. Then, however, I began internalizing it. After a long day (and trust me, working there ensured very long days) when I would meet my then boyfriend, who was also working in Mumbai, I found myself over analyzing every small quirk he displayed, thinking, ohmigawd, this is it, he's a psychopath, he's going to sell me to some Arab shaikh once we get married, oh help, oh help.

So when my Sister spoke to me last night, talking about her psycho boyfriend, and asking me for my take on the matter, I had to stop myself several times from giving her "legal" advice. I did point out that he sounded remarkably like the trash a lot of my Clients are married to, and that she should think twice about going long term. She then moved to point out that it's usually me who is doing the trash dating, but at that I decided to change the subject. Whew!

Our entire office is plagued with the paranoia. Yesterday my Boss's crazy brother in law (i.e., crazier than him) landed up with a bag of diabetes medication, credit cards, a cell phone and an ID card, all belonging to the same person. He claimed that someone had left this in a cafe where he was having coffee. Why anyone would keep their entire world in a .5mm thick plastic bag was beyond me. The Crazy had left the bag with the bodyguard, saying that he had called the owner of the belongings and asked him to pick it up. My Boss was highly unconvinced. He stared at the bag in his strange sort of way, stared at me, stared at the bodyguard, and then began reciting the wordings of a Panchnama Report, which was possibly being prepared just as we were innocently studying the contents of the bag:

"He then led us to the Kingpin to whom he had given the stolen goods and who had accepted the goods, knowing them to be stolen. He led us to the third floor of XYZ Building to the office of Advocate...."

Crazy was called back and given the bag, and shown the butt of the Bodyguard's Carbine.

Lawyering, particularly work and research on Terrorism, makes it impossible for me to travel in peace. As if I weren't scared enough of flying, the prospect of getting bombed doesn't make it any easier for me. And last night in the 8:36 Andheri harbour Local, was the pits.

I step into the compartment to find a young girl sitting there, appearing to be slightly imbalanced. You know what I mean? Like there will be the cuckoos who walk around the street, screaming away and laughing at themselves, and everyone knows that they are crazy, and that it's easy to just shove them into a car, take them to the nearest mental hospital and earn the 1000 bucks + blanket + banana (please tell me that the reward for turning in a madman has been revised!). And then again, you have the people who look like all is not well in the brain box, but it's kind of politically incorrect to call for help to deal with the person.

She was wearing a dress, long sleeves, long skirt. Her face was covered with pock marks, it appeared, slit eyed, unkempt hair yet pulled into a ponytail. What got me thinking was not her appearance, at first. It was the fact that she didn't get off the train when it pulled in at VT. She just stood there. I opened my mouth to say something to her. But somehow I couldn't. Maybe she changed her mind, maybe she slept through the Masjid Stop and wants to go back. Fine.

She sat on one end of the compartment and I on the other. Other women got into the train, and two sat directly opposite her. Everyone was oblivious to the girl, some gave her a curious look, but she went largely ignored.

She looked like she was in a trance. I suddenly remembered the tactic of suicide bombers to swallow nerve relaxants before embarking on their last mission. This woman's dress was also funnily shaped. Her waist belt seemed to be unnaturally wide, and slightly protruding. I tensed in a panic, my heart racing. What if this was it? What if she was going to blow us all up? Her hand raised to her face and she looked at them seriously. Maybe she was going to pull the plug, or press the button, or do whatever these suicide bomber types do. I stood up, my face pale, grasping the edge of the seat, wondering which direction I should turn my face to, oh what was the point, these bombs were stuffed with metal shrapnel for deadly impact within a 50m radius, I am such a goner, oh hell... I nearly shut my eyes while she brought her hand up right next to her face... and then into her mouth.

She began eating her fingers, and then eating her fist. She chewed them very purposefully, and even had a look of pleasure on her face, as if the chewing of her digits was satisfying her hunger. He entire hand began disappearing into her mouth, and her eyes kept closing. The women sitting opposite her were still oblivious, and looked up only when she started slipping to the floor in a stupor. Suddenly they realized that she was not wearing any shoes.

They got up and rushed to my side of the compartment. They were frightened by her lack of footwear. We all then moved to the door and tried to get Police intervention, but as usual, there was no one to help us.

Well. In the meanwhile I am trying to plan a holiday with the boy, and he's told me that I'm over-planning the entire thing, just because I got a little excited while booking a hotel and went completely ballistic with the IRCTC website today for repeatedly rejecting my transactions. (Internet reservations my ass...) Incidentally, I am also reviewing a Domestic Violence Case which my boss has thrown on my head. He's filed for Divorce, on grounds of mental instability:

"She would be completely paranoid while making even the most simple arrangements, and though I would tell her to relax she would hyperventilate and start screaming. In case anything did not happen according to plan, she would start screaming and beating inanimate objects which she thought were responsible, and even curse the weather gods. She thus had ample symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia..."

Gulp.

Pissing Off

The problem with blogging is that I always get overcome with the desire to blog every time anything even remotely out of the way comes up, but I never have the time. But this time, I even scribbled some notes on my N-72 notepad to keep the hope alive till the weekend, and here I am, here I am.

I spent most of my week working out of the Intercontinental at Marine Drive, appalled at being 6 floors below the availability of the city's best Long Island Iced Tea, and having to work on the world's most bizarre software.

For the record, I'm still a Criminal Lawyer.

Anyway, one morning my pressed schedule got me to the IC at 7am, where I sat in the coffee shop drafting urgent petitions with my Clients. The waitress would come by at regular intervals to offer me a refill on my coffee, which I accepted for lack of a better response. After this, I was expected at Kurla at 11am, before which I had to file a Consumer Complaint at Bandra at 1030am. My Clients had to be in Santacruz at 1030, so we left the Hotel in a rush. I was placed in the air conditioned Innova and we were on our way. As I was dropped at the Bandra Highway, I realized that I had forgotten something very important.

I had forgotten about the need to empty my bladder.

It's funny how your body accustoms itself to whatever warped schedule you are used to, and accommodates your finickiness, to whatever absurd extent it may take you. So I have a cup of tea in the morning, and then I come to work, and go to Court by 11am. Sometimes, I'm in Court from 11am to 5pm. I eat lunch in the Court canteen. I do not use the bathroom in this period. I don't even have to. The prospect of using the Court loos was appalling enough to put my bladder on hold. I am never overcome with the urge to release. I hold my cup of tea, another cup of tea, and about a litre of water with exceptional poise. Back at the office, I allow myself to be human again. Many people are amazed with this talent. It has not been easy, cultivating such self restraint.

Firstly, I have excessive hangups about loo cleanliness. My Sunday routine is scrubbing the hell out of my loo. My mantra is that when you leave, no one should have any indication as to what exactly was going on in there. Look before you leave. Simple. I can't understand why people don't get it. People who have less than perfect loo habits deserve no sympathy. In fact, a one year intense relationship came to a screeching halt when, the morning after, I creeped out of bed without disturbing the love of my life, as he was then referred to as, to use the bathroom. My romantic weekend getaway went for a head first collision with what I saw in the toilet. The flush had been used, no doubt, but there was some remnants which were, well, beyond the reach of the flush, which could have been cleaned up by the use of the hand shower like thing attached to the pot (for a shady hotel on the outskirts of Coorg, it had decent facilities). I recoiled in disgust and reevaluated my entire relationship while smoothing out my tousled hair. I lay awake in bed, traumatized, with my bladder frozen in a state of shock.

We broke up a month later.

(Ok, not exactly, but that's the way I'd like to remember it)

Years of bus travel have also helped in my self restraint. You don't want to know what condition loos are at bus pit stops. If I woke up to find that I had turned a man for a day, I'd stand up and pee. And then I'd go back to sleep.

Anyway, my body having been so fine tuned to my own habits, I was pretty confident that I could bear any burden.

Until I felt the strange pangs when I walked out of the Bandra Court to catch an auto to Kurla.

Never underestimate the power of caffeine.

My discomfort continued, and worsened over the non existent roads through the Bandra Kurla Complex. Every bump and pothole worsened my agony. It was already 1130, and I was late for my case. I would probably make it just in time. I imagined the paranoid corporate manager who was the accused I was representing pacing up and down the corridors of the Court waiting for me.

I ignored my urgency. I could handle this.

I clambered up the stairs of the Courtroom and rushed into the Court, checked the Board. The Judge was a weirdo who liked his cases called out in reverse order. My Case was at Serial No. 23. Number 33 was called out. Ten cases. That's time to get to a bathroom, I thought. From the corner of my eye, I saw my Client, looking highly relieved.

Just as I pulled out my files, Number 30 was called out. This Judge was in a mighty hurry. Luckily, so was I. I began to twitch my ankle, unconsciously. Somehow, this distracted my discomfort. The case wasn't to go on for long, I just had to take a date, pretty much.

29, 28, 27, 26, 25 (the idiot lawyer made some kind of application which took 3 whole minutes to decide. grr.), 24...

Finally. I began to stand up as soon as 24 was adjourned, like some smug kid who knows he's going to get the "best student" prize.

"Number 22..."

What?

I hurriedly sat down and panicked. What just happened? How is this possible?

I hissed to the clerk. "What the hell is going on? What happened to 23?"

The Clerk smiled. "Madam, the file is lost. We'll call out the matter when the file is called"

Oof. "And how long will that take?"

"The peon has gone to find it. He'll be back any minute."

Which was essentially any time between now and the apocalypse.

I waited 5 minutes. "Where is he?"

"He's just gone down to get the file madam. It is in the warrants department.He'll just be back."

I knew exactly what was happening. The Peon was sitting in the canteen, smoking a beedi, yapping with some other peons. I was getting highly restless.

"Look. I need to go down. Can I finish my work and come in 10 minutes?" Hey, I couldn't tell this guy I needed to pee, right?

The Clerk looked at me doubtfully. "How long will you take?"

"5 minutes. I need to check something. Please."

"OK" he said, grudgingly. "But 5 minutes only. Remand will start then."

I nearly ran out of the Courtroom.

In Court, its easy to find the loo. Just follow the stench. I went to the ground floor, which was where the bar room was. I walked a few rooms ahead of it, and stopped where it stunk the most. There were two doors - one locked, and one unlocked. A male lawyer walked out of the open door, wringing his hands on a kerchief. He looked at me strangely as I moved to walk into the loo. I saw a clerk standing near the closed door.

"This is the loo, right?"

"Yes Madam," he said.

"Well... can I go in?"

He looked a little uncertain, and pointed towards the locked door.

"Ladies"

By now, I was really losing control. Being this close to a loo and still having to make polite conversation was really playing unsafe.

"And?"

"Madam, the key is with the Bar Association. Ask that Peon."

So I went back to the Bar Association Room and asked the Peon for the key.

He looked me up and down. "You new here?"

"Huh?"

"Are you a member of the Kurla Bar?"

At this time, I imagined that giving into this uncontrollable urge would serve all of these people right, the useless bureaucracy of the lower judiciary, to have to clean up the ensuing mess. Anyway, I have to put up with their shit, so its only fair that they get to deal with my pee."

"What, only Kurla Bar Members get to go, or what?"

The Peon shrugged his shoulders. "Return it when you're done."

I walked as fast as was socially acceptable, in the circumstances. I unlocked the door, which I half expected to be jammed, and went it and locked the door from the inside. The overwhelming stench of a stinky loo denied the facility of ventilation hit me like a truck, and I hung my bag from a hook which thankfully existed (the state of the floor was unmentionable) yanked up my salwar, and stepped into the toilet area, refused to look down at what already existed there, undid apparel and...

Sigh. Don't even ask me to describe the feeling. Words fail me.

I washed my fingers, unlocked the door and came out. After locking the door, I adjusted my clothing, despite the various people hanging around. I refused to entertain the possibility of my trouser cuffs touching the ground in there. I locked the door, handed the peon the key, and went back to the Court.

For the record, they never found the file. I stood up, informed the Judge, who adjourned the case anyway.

Bad toilets just make being a woman that much more painful than it isn't.

Courting Violence

I came home to find that there have been serial blasts all over Uttar Pradesh. 6 blasts, and 13 people have been killed, so far. Extremely tragic, but what is interesting is that these blasts were all in Court premises.

I knew this was coming.

Security in Courts, at least in Mumbai, is pathetic. The High Court has a metal detector and any baggage is scanned, fine, but other Courts are oblivious to the need for security. Even Courts which have high profile cases going on. The only Court that takes any serious measures is the Maharashtra Control of Organized Crimes Act Court at the Sessions Court of Mumbai. Not that the measures are really impressive, though.

Once, I sat in the Court while a visibly disturbed individual came in. He pushed his way through the Security Check, and no one really protested because he was a lawyer. He came in, and started asking everyone something. Then he saw me looking intently at him.

"Is the Bomb Blast Case today?", he yelled.

"Shh...." I admonished him.

He came closer, bent down to my ear, and said:

"IS THE BOMB BLAST CASE TODAY?"

Luckily the Judge didn't notice. But everyone else did, and I got really flustered and rushed out of the Court. The guy followed.

"What Madam, you got angry because I shouted? I did not shout. I AM NOT SHOUTING!"

"Will you quiet down?" I hissed.

A Havaldar came to my rescue and led him out of the enclosure. I angrily walked up to the dozen Policemen who stood outside the Courtroom.

"What is your problem? How could you let this guy in?" I was so wild that I actually began hopping up and down.

"Sorry Madam, but he said he was an Advocate!"

"So what?" I asked. "Remember Ashwin Naik?"

Ashwin Naik, brother of Underworld biggie Amar Naik, was gunned down in the premises of the Sessions Court by two assailants who were dressed as lawyers.

"Yes, what Madam is saying is right," said one Cop, shaking his head from side to side like all Marathis do.

"I'm not here to play Underworld Trivia. I'm serious. I'm here almost every day, and I refuse to be killed because you guys can't do your job properly. If I ever see any random people inside again, you've had it. And what's wrong with checking every one who walks in? Check me, I have no objection."

"No no no no Madam, how can we?" the Havaldar blushed.

I sighed resignedly. This was really going nowhere.

But it got me thinking. So what if you were checked at the door of the MCOCA Court? You could walk into the Court with a bomb and explode it subsequently. You could walk to the door with a gun and shoot the set of decorative policemen down. Anything was possible. Even at the risk of having to get to Court ten minutes in advance to get through Security checks and get to Court by 11, is a worthy sacrifice, as long as it assures that you get out alive.

But why lawyers?

The blasts came a week after the Uttar Pradesh police along with central security agencies busted a Jaish-e-Mohammed module who wanted to target Rahul Gandhi. Lawyers had thrashed the three JeM militants when they were being produced before a court here. Police believe the lawyers were targeted because they refused to appear in cases where suspected militants arrested.

For more see here.

True. A suspected Militant in India would find it very difficult to find a lawyer. After the July 11th Serial Bomb Blasts in Mumbai, Raj Thackeray made the infamous 'fatwa' against any lawyer who would defend anyone arrested in connection with the blasts. Lawyers refusing to defend accused persons is probably one of the most blatant denials to the rights of persons which exist. Accused persons being beaten up by lawyers is also highly shameful conduct, doubtlessly. However, this is in no way a justification for blowing up Courts and killing lawyers. Needless to say that anyone arrested in this case probably will have the worst time getting a fair trial.

Another pointless Act of violence. And very scary. Because when these blasts went off, I was, well, in Court. Thousands of kilometers away, perhaps, but still.

All in a day's work

Well, another day, another adventure. I went to explore the Goregaon New Sessions Court today, which is not such a bad place because 1. There's a direct bus from home to the Court 2. It's pretty clean, and spacious (for now) and 3. The canteen serves Chinese. Have still named it Boregaon, though. The Court is more like a maze, with rooms opening into corridors, and staircases which end, abruptly. It's kind of like one of the locations of a pointless nightmare, which is full of unconnected and random circumstances and all you can see is yourself running around and getting yourself into the most random of circumstances. Anyway, I had to get the Bail formalities done of a man who had murdered his wife and injured his son in the process. Sorry, did I forget to mention the 'allegedly'? Right, so Bail formalities completed, I packed off killer's brother to Thane Jail with instructions to get his brother out of Jail and to kindly never get him to office.

All in a day's work for the Criminal Lawyer.

Yesterday a close friend called me to tell me that she was getting married. She's the first 'normal' case among my friends (batchmates, to be precise) to be getting married. Not that the others are abnormal. It was just that they had their own excuses, like:

1. Her guy's dad was seriously ill, wanted to see bete ka sehra etc etc.

2. She was dating a guy who was about to hit 30, and was in danger of losing a bet that he'd get married before 30.

3. She was the kind you never dated, only married.

It leaves you with mixed emotions. Like now, your kind was being targetted. Like you could be next.

I guess all of us are slowly but steadily coming to terms with the fact that we are growing up and that commitment isn't as remote a possibility as it seemed before. When you see people around you settling down, you realize that it's not such a bad thing. Of course logistically it all seems difficult.

At one time, in an earlier relationship, I was much more idealistic, in the sense that I thought that distance and differences in opinions and ambitions didn't matter, and that if you felt strongly enough for each other, it was enough to get you through. I hesitate to use the word 'love' in this particular case. Of course, it wasn't. We kind of differed in the ambitions being more important than the relationship itself.

Some may say that its a sense of maturity, some may say its just learning from your mistakes. Left to me, I'd say its like this - when the time is right, everything falls into place as easy as can be. Now I have no issues in looking ahead. I feel no ego pinch when I think of changing plans to fit into a larger scheme. And I certainly don't have a problem in using the "L" word.

Having said that, I'm still freaked out.

But am very happy for my birdie :)