Nearer the main building, the crowds grew dense, and an overwhelming sense of chaos hung over the area. People were surging in and out through the entranceway, those inside gesticulating frantically to their contacts in the compound, others on the outside yelling to the insiders to come out. Every now and then someone dropped their precious documents, and in trying to retrieve them, set off a scrimmage during which other things like hankies, chappals, caps, dupattas were lost.
While one great surge was flowing inwards, Dina allowed herself to be carried along. She found herself in a corridor overlooking the compound. Here, too, people were in perpetual motion, pouring into or out of overbrimming courtrooms, up and down the stairs, as though an epidemic of disorientation had overcome everyone. The rooms and hallways resounded in a constant din of voices. Sometimes it was a steady buzz with intermittent flashes of clamour. Dina wondered how anyone could follow the legal arguments.
She stood awhile in a doorway where a case appeared to be in progress. The judge sucked the stem of his spectacles meditatively. The defence lawyer had the floor. Not a word could be heard. His precise hand movements and bulging throat tendons were the only signs that he was engaged in presenting the facts.
Occasionally, people stopped dead in their tracks in the corridor and urgently yelled out a name or a number. Sometimes the search party split up and dashed off in various directions with that name or number on their lips. Could something have gone wrong in the judicial system, wondered Dina, a strike, perhaps? Maybe the peons and clerks and secretaries had phoned in sick, thus plunging the courthouse into this mad muddle.
She decided to closely follow one family who seemed to know what they were doing. She ran where they ran, she listened to what they said, she followed the gaze of their eyes. And after careful observation, she began to see a pattern emerge from the turmoil and disorder. Just like working with a new dress, she thought. Paper patterns also seemed haphazard, till they were systematically pieced together.
Now she was able to realize that all of the frantic commotion was part of a normal day at the courthouse. The stampeding crowds in the corridors, for example, were merely trying to find the notice board displaying their case number with the room location where the case would be heard. The groups huddling suspiciously in dark corners were middlemen negotiating bribes. The ones yelling out names were lawyers looking for their clients, or vice versa, because their cases were about to come up. After waiting for months, and sometimes years, the litigants’ frenzy was understandable. Nothing would have been more devastating than to have the bench reschedule the hearing because the solicitor had chosen that crucial moment to go to the toilet, or for a cup of tea, without informing the clerk.
Once Dina had traced the filament of order within the confusion, she felt more confident. She returned outside to the compound and inspected the lawyers for hire. Some were displaying handwritten signs listing their services and specialities: DIVORCE CASES HANDLED HERE; WILLS AND PROBATES; KIDNEY SALES ARRANGED; DEPOSITIONS DRAFTED WITH QUICKNESS amp; CLARITY IN GOOD ENGLISH.
Others preferred to call out their offerings like vendors in the marketplace: “True copies, five rupees only! Affidavits, fifteen rupees! All cases, all offences, low rates!”
She stopped by one whose billboard stated, at the top of the menu: RENT ACT DISPUTES — RS. 500 ONLY. As she was preparing to speak to him, a horde of them, sensing an opportunity, descended on her, their black jackets flapping. Many of these barely passed for black, the dye having faded to grey in the wash.
The lawyers jostled for her attention but maintained their dignity by keeping the contest impersonal. The professional rivalry did not show on their faces; there was not a frown or a cross word among them. Each seemed oblivious to the others’ presence while pleading to be considered.
One got in front of the rest and thrust his law credentials under her face. “Please, O madam! Look at this — genuine degree from good university! Lots of crooked fellows are pretending to be lawyers! Whoever you pick, be careful, always remember to check the qualifications!”
“Special offer!” yelled a man from the rear of the pack. “No extra charges for typing of documents — all inclusive in one low fee!”
They had her completely surrounded. Harried by the unwanted attention, she tried to extricate herself from the melee. “Excuse me please, I am — ”
“What are the charges, madam?” shouted someone standing on his toes to be seen. “I can handle criminal and civil!”
Specks of his spit landed on her glasses and cheeks. She flinched, and tried again to free herself. Then, in the crush, a hand squeezed her bottom, while another passed neatly over her breast.
“You rogues! You shameless rascals!” She struck out with her elbows, and managed to kick a shin or two before they scattered. She wished she had her pagoda parasol with her — what a lesson she would teach them.
Her hands were shaking, and she had to concentrate hard to place one foot in front of the other without losing her step. She retreated toa less crowded part of the compound, at the side of the building. Devoid of lawyers, the area was quiet. Wooden benches lined the compound railing. People were resting on the grass, taking naps with their sandals under their heads for safekeeping and for pillows. Others were eating from shiny stainless steel tiffin boxes. A mother peeled a chickoo with a penknife and fed the sweet brown fruit to her child. Music from a soft transistor radio buzzed like a dragonfly through the hot afternoon.
In this tranquil setting, on a broken bench, sat a man gazing up into a mango tree. Three little boys were throwing stones at the hard green fruit while their parents dozed on the lawn. Their efforts managed to dislodge one mango. They took bites and passed it around, the tart raw flesh making their mouths shrink. Shuddering with delight, eyes tightly shut, they clenched their teeth to savour its astringent pleasures.
The man on the broken bench smiled and nodded, relishing memories evoked by the children. His shirt pocket bulged with pens clipped inside a special plastic case. At his feet was a cardboard rectangle, about fifteen inches by ten, propped up with a brick.
Curious, Dina went closer and read the inscription on the board: Vasantrao Valmik — B.A., LL.B. Strange, she thought, that he should be content to sit here passively if he was a lawyer. And without so much as a black jacket, making no effort to obtain business.
“Madam, on behalf of my profession, I would like to apologize for that disgraceful display near the entrance,” said Mr. Valmik.
“Thank you,” said Dina.
“No, please, I must thank you for accepting the apology. It was shameful, the way they mobbed you. I saw it all from here.” He uncrossed his legs, and his toe nudged the cardboard sign, making it collapse. He straightened it and adjusted the supporting brick.
“From my seat here on the bench, there is much that I observe every day. And most of it makes me despair. But what else to expect, when judgement has fled to brutish beasts, and the country’s leaders have exchanged wisdom and good governance for cowardice and self-aggrandizement? Our society is decaying from the top downwards.”
He shifted to the edge of the ramshackle bench, making room for her on the less broken part of it. “Please, do sit down.”
Dina accepted, impressed by his speech and manners. She felt he was out of place in these surroundings. A tastefully appointed office with a mahogany desk, leather-upholstered chair, and well-stocked bookcases would have better suited him. “On this side of the courthouse everything is so calm,” she said.