Lawyer: Mr. Black, Mr. White
District Judge: Mr. Grey Black,
High Court Judge:Mr.Grey
Supreme Court Judge:Mr. Grey White
Junior Lawyer: Mr. Yellow
Clerk:Mr.Brown
Client: Mr. Green, Mr. Red
Journalist: Mr. Orange
Objection My Lord
Tales of Law, Lawyers and Litigation by Lawfing Lawyer
---
Prologue
"Where Law Meets Laughter, and Justice Brings Snacks"
In a country where tea breaks are longer than court hearings, and courtrooms are often mistaken for museums of delay, arises a tale so legally ludicrous—it could only be true.
This is not a novel about law.
This is a novel about the law-adjacent circus we lovingly call the Indian legal system.
---
The Origin of the Madness
The idea for this book was born in Courtroom , where:
The stenographer had typed "I object!" as "I omelette!"
The judge was dictating a judgment and in adjascent court room the counsels were arguing over whether "adjournment" should be granted because one of them had forgotten to bear his lawyer's gown.
It was then that I realized—this system isn’t broken... it’s just performing its own stand-up comedy set.
---
A Courtroom is Like Real Life Drama Set
Every courtroom is a Real Life film set:
The lawyers are overpaid extras delivering dramatic monologues.
The clerk is the background DJ, shuffling papers with the rhythm of bhangra beats.
The typist is always guessing spellings of Latin words like “Res Ipsa Loquitur” and hoping the judge doesn’t notice.
And the client?
Just a confused human, wondering if this is how one wins justice or accidentally signs over his ancestral land to a chaiwala.
Respectfully Ridiculous and submitted with humor and humility, [By The Lawfing Laywer, Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman, Patent and Trademark Attorney, Delhi High Court] [Lawfing Tales of Law, Lawyers and Litigation]
---
What You’ll Find Inside This Book
This book is a celebration of:
Lawyers who wear black coats even in 48°C heat just to sweat in style.
Judges who have mastered the art of post-lunch power naps with open eyes.
Opposite counsels who are trained like a parrot to say “Objection!”
And clerks who can type cricket commentary faster than case law.
Each chapter brings you a different flavor of courtroom lunacy:
From WhatsApp voice note judgments,
To love blooming over decades of adjournments,
To affidavits written in rhyming couplets (with surprisingly good meter).
And all of this?
Happening under oath.
Respectfully Ridiculous and submitted with humor and humility, [By The Lawfing Laywer, Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman, Patent and Trademark Attorney, Delhi High Court] [Lawfing Tales of Law, Lawyers and Litigation]
---
Disclaimer (Which You’ll Ignore, Like a Court Summons)
This novel is:
Not a law textbook.
Not bar exam preparation.
And definitely not endorsed by any Bar Association (they asked me to say that twice).
If you find yourself laughing and learning—report to the nearest courtroom and ask for directions to reality.
If you’re offended—please file a PIL. But remember, this book respects the court far more than some real-life lawyers do.
---
Final Plea Before We Begin
As you enter this hilarious hall of legal absurdities, remember:
Justice is not just blind.
Sometimes, it’s on lunch break.
So wear your black coat, bring a thermos of tea, and suspend your sense of logic.
Because the proceedings of this novel are about to begin.
Court humour is now in session.
Respectfully Ridiculous and submitted with humor and humility, [By The Lawfing Laywer, Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman, Patent and Trademark Attorney, Delhi High Court] [Lawfing Tales of Law, Lawyers and Litigation]
---
Acknowledgements
Gratitude Under Section: Ha-Ha v. Thank You
Writing a book about the Indian legal system is a bit like filing a case in 1992 and expecting a judgment before retirement—ambitious, painful, but strangely satisfying. This humble volume of legal lunacy would not have been possible without the silent support, loud laughter, and occasional legal threats from the following legends:
To the Hon’ble Courtrooms of India:
Thank you for providing a live comedy show every day, free of charge (except the court fees, typing charges, paper stamp costs, adjournment bribes—never mind). Your ceiling fans may rotate slowly, but your drama spins at full speed.
To the Typists, Clerks, and Peons:
You are the real infrastructure of justice. Also, the only people who know where the judge’s signature pad is. Without you, even justice would get lost in the registry section.
To the Lawyers Who Took Themselves Too Seriously:
Your dramatic sighs, Latin one-liners, and ability to shout “Milord!” louder than a temple bell inspired entire chapters. Thank you for being unaware that your courtroom tantrums were silently being converted into comedy gold.
To Adjournments:
Without you, this book would’ve been half its length and twice as boring. You gave love a chance, lunch an extension, and justice... well, some room to breathe.
To the Stenographers:
You typed everything—even when the judge dictated in riddles and metaphors. You once turned “Bail Rejected” into “Mail Collected,” and for that, you deserve a standing ovation.
To All the Judges Who Might Read This:
This book is a funny satire. Any resemblance to real persons, living or on pension, is purely coincidental, accidental, and totally appealable.
And finally…
To My Fellow Lawyers and Readers:
If you’ve ever sat in a courtroom and thought, “Is this real life or theatre?” — this book was written for you. May it bring you laughter, perspective, and the courage to sip tea even in a white shirt.
---
Respectfully Ridiculous and submitted with humor and humility, [By The Lawfing Laywer, Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman, Patent and Trademark Attorney, Delhi High Court] [Lawfing Tales of Law, Lawyers and Litigation]
---
Dedication
For the Love of Law... and Laughter
This book is dedicated to:
All those who entered a courtroom thinking they'd find justice,
but instead found chai, chaos, and a clerk playing Candy Crush.
To the lawyers who’ve memorized CPC, CrPC, and the canteen menu with equal seriousness.
To the clients who aged five years during one adjournment.
To the judges who sometimes forgot they were on mute during virtual hearings.
To the peons who knew every legal file’s location, except their own birthdays.
And above all,
To Lady Justice,
who may be blindfolded,
but probably peeks every now and then—
just to laugh at us all.
Respectfully Ridiculous and submitted with humor and humility, [By The Lawfing Laywer, Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman, Patent and Trademark Attorney, Delhi High Court] [Lawfing Tales of Law, Lawyers and Litigation]
AND ABOVE ALL
Because Even Satire Needs Legal Protection
Before you flip another page or file a PIL against this book, please allow me to submit this disclaimer, under Section Humor with Humility of the Unwritten Code of Common Sense:
This book is a work of satire, crafted with the deepest respect and admiration for:
The Hon’ble Judges who carry the burden of justice on their shoulders—and sometimes on their WhatsApp.
The learned lawyers who argue with passion, logic, and occasionally, Bollywood flair.
The litigants who place their faith in the legal system and patiently wait through dates, adjournments, and lunch breaks.
And the court staff who silently hold the chaotic machine of justice together—one stapled file and missing pen at a time.
Though the stories in this book are fictional and exaggerated for comic effect, they are born out of real experiences, sincere observations, and a lifetime of love for the legal world.
Any resemblance to real persons, courts, cases, or judgments is purely coincidental—or legally deniable.
If laughter is the best medicine, then consider this book a mild, over-the-counter dose—prescribed for those who’ve survived the legal process, studied it, or simply stood outside a courtroom wondering if “Next Date” is an actual calendar event or a poetic metaphor.
With folded hands, a black coat, and a smile,
I offer my laughter at the feet of Lady Justice—
Not to mock her,
But to remind us all that even in solemn halls,
A little humor can keep justice human.
Respectfully Ridiculous and submitted with humor and humility, [By The Lawfing Laywer, Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman, Patent and Trademark Attorney, Delhi High Court] [Lawfing Tales of Law, Lawyers and Litigation]
-----
Chapter 1: Mr. Black and Mr. White
On a particularly sunny Tuesday, when Delhi's heat could bake a bail application without an oven, two lawyers met for lunch at the canteen of the Litigants’ Paradise Restaurant—ironically located right opposite the Delhi High Court.
One was a classic black-and-white barrister: black coat, black trousers, black shoes, and even a black briefcase that had seen more adjournments than judgments.
The other? He looked like the legal profession had discovered lactose. Dressed head to toe in white—white linen shirt, white pleated trousers, white leather shoes, and a smile so blinding it violated fundamental rights under Article 21.
The lawyer in black paused mid-step, took off his sunglasses, squinted at the glowing apparition before him, and laughed.
"Are you going to court or auditioning for a fairness cream ad? You're glowing like a government tube light—full voltage, zero logic!"
The lawyer in white grinned proudly, “Why not? Everyone dresses like a Supreme Court bench in mourning! I prefer to shine like justice on a sunny day.”
The lawyer in black raised an eyebrow. “Justice? Brother, you look like justice got bleach-bathed and is now filing a defamation suit against detergent companies!”
Just then, the waiter arrived—a law student moonlighting to pay for his sixth semester re-admission fees. He brought two cups of over-boiled tea in chipped ceramic cups that looked older than the Constitution.
The waiter placed the cups on the table and stared at the man in white.
“Sir, with all due respect,” he said, squinting, “your outfit is brighter than my legal career prospects. But be careful—tea has a criminal record of first-degree staining!”
The man in white chuckled. “Don’t worry, my dear intern. I’ve cross-examined curry, survived tomato chutney, and even won a duel with pani puri. This shirt won’t even smell the splash.”
He delicately lifted the teacup with the finesse of a senior counsel handling a contempt notice.
Plop!
One rogue drop of tea leaped like a well-argued writ petition—and landed with poetic precision on the very center of his glorious white shirt.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Even the ceiling fan paused.
Then, uncontrollable laughter.
The lawyer in black wiped tears from his eyes. “You just lost your ‘spotless justice’ argument, my friend. In one sip, the verdict is out—guilty of overconfidence!”
The man in white stared at the brown stain like it was Section 420 impersonated.
Then he looked up, smiled, and said, “Well, now I have Exhibit A proving tea, too, attacks the innocent.”
They both laughed, the waiter nodded solemnly, and a pigeon pooped nearby—signaling the final judgment of nature.
As they sipped their tea and traded stories of adjournments, missing files, and that one judge who still thinks WhatsApp is a witchcraft app, it became clear:
In the Indian legal system, logic is optional, delay is mandatory, and white shirts are simply too optimistic.
---
Moral of the story:
Wearing white might win some cheer,
But stains will find you—far or near!
In court, be smart, not just polite—
Wear black, sip tea, and dodge the fight!
---
Chapter 2: Donot Judge a Judge
It All Began in the Canteen…
It was an ordinary morning in the court canteen — the kind of place where the samosas are crunchy, the gossip is spicier, and the tea is poured with the emotional intensity of a courtroom drama.
Mr. A and Mr. B had just finished debating whether the chai tasted better on Mondays or if that was just unemployment talking. Mr. A, dressed in his proudest white shirt — the kind people wear to funerals, interviews, and judgments they hope to win — was sipping tea like he was sipping status.
And then… fate took a tiny, steaming leap.
One rogue drop of tea, propelled by a sneeze, poor physics, or divine comedy, splashed directly onto Mr. A’s shirt.
Mr. A gasped like he'd been shot by a beverage.
Mr. B, ever the peacekeeper, said, “Come on, it’s just tea. Wipe it off, embrace imperfection. Gandhi had three outfits, none of them were spotless.”
But Mr. A, holding his stained shirt like it was the Constitution itself, thundered, “This is a violation of Article Cleanliness! Justice must be served, even if the tea wasn’t!”
Fast Forward: The Case of the Tea Stain vs. State of Logic
Courtroom No. 13 was packed once again. The last time someone had filed such a bizarre case, it involved a mango pickle and emotional damage.
Presiding over the matter was none other than Judge Mr. Grey, whose idea of excitement was switching from sugar to jaggery in his own tea.
Mr. A stood before the court with his now-light-brown shirt, holding it up like it was a piece of damning evidence from a crime documentary.
“Your Honour,” he cried, “this shirt was white! White as truth! And now... now it's a sepia-toned reminder of oppression!”
Mr. B sat at the back, facepalming so hard it echoed.
Arguments, Witnesses, and a Lukewarm Defense
The Canteen Bhaiya took the stand again.
“I only poured the tea, sir. The rest is destiny and Mr. A’s own elbow movement.”
“Could the tea have been more... directional?” asked Mr. A’s lawyer.
“Sir, it’s liquid. Not Wi-Fi,” replied Bhaiya.
Even the stenographer chuckled.
Mr. B was called as a witness.
He stood and said, “Sir, I was there. The shirt was clean. Then it wasn’t. That’s life.”
Judge Grey nodded solemnly and said, “Philosophical. Possibly useless, but philosophical.”
The Verdict: Justice with Milk and Sugar
Judge Grey leaned forward, adjusting his spectacles and the solemnity in his voice.
“This court has reviewed the evidence, the testimony, and the level of ridiculousness. While the tea did indeed fall, we must acknowledge — shirts will get stained, and sometimes so will our egos.
I hereby declare:
-
The canteen owes Mr. A a free wash of his shirt (budget permitting).
-
Mr. A owes the court a round of chai for wasting official time on personal laundry.
-
And Mr. B… deserves a stress ball.”
Court dismissed.
As they walked out, Mr. A muttered, “This system stains hope.”
Mr. B replied, “Bro, maybe next time just wear beige.”
From behind them, Judge Grey’s voice echoed, “And remember… don’t judge a judge… especially when he’s judging laundry cases with a side of lemon tea.”
Moral of the Story
A drop of tea can stain a shirt, but not the law’s decree,
Yet some will march to courts, for cloth and dignity.
So if you must chase justice, wear napkins just in case —
And never judge a judge who rules with chai on his face!---
-------------
Chapter 4: Dance of Wi fi
It All Began with a Buffering Bar...
Mr. B, calm and composed as always, had only one request that day:
Download a PDF of “Fundamental Rights for Dummies” before his hearing.
He sat with his phone, connected to the court's “FreeCourtWiFi_404,” a network that had promised speed, security, and spiritual patience. Instead, it delivered none of the above and left him staring at a spinning circle of doom for 47 straight minutes.
“It’s a constitutional crisis,” he whispered to Mr. A, “when even Article 19 is stuck on ‘connecting…’”
Mr. A Tries to Talk Him Down… Again
Mr. A, still emotionally healing from his tea-stain judgment, tried to dissuade him.
“Brother, it’s just bad Wi-Fi. Let it go.”
Mr. B, eyes twitching, replied:
“I tried. But when I searched for ‘Court Schedule’ and got a buffering GIF of Mahatma Gandhi doing yoga... I knew I had to act.”
The Complaint Is Filed
Mr. B drafted a nine-page, single-spaced complaint titled:
"Violation of Digital Human Rights in Legal Spaces of National Importance"
—with footnotes, memes, and a graph that showed his emotional stability declining with every refresh.
The respondents?
-
The IT Officer of the Court
-
The Maintenance Contractor
-
And a mysterious entity listed only as “The Ministry of Spiritual Connectivity” (later revealed to be the uncle of someone who once repaired a router in 2011).
Courtroom No. 13: Back in Action
Judge Mr. Grey sighed as the new case file landed on his desk.
Reading the title aloud, he murmured, “Spiritual… connectivity? What is this — a yoga retreat or a bandwidth audit?”
Mr. B stood confidently, holding his phone as evidence.
“Your Honour, in the 21st century, slow internet is a violation of mental peace, time management, and video clarity during lunch breaks.”
The Defense: An IT Guy and a PowerPoint
The Court’s IT Officer was summoned. He arrived 12 minutes late and blamed it on “low network inside the elevator.”
He brought a PowerPoint titled:
“Understanding Wi-Fi: It’s Mostly You, Not Us.”
Slide 1 showed a list of things that interfere with court Wi-Fi:
Mr. A laughed so hard, he choked on a dry samosa.
Judge Grey’s Final Ruling
After hearing the arguments, Judge Grey leaned forward and spoke with digital dignity.
“This court finds the Wi-Fi guilty of:
However, considering budget constraints and spiritual interference, I hereby declare:
-
Mr. B shall receive a personal hotspot card (valid only near the tea counter).
-
The IT Department shall change the Wi-Fi password from ‘12345678’ to something that at least sounds secure.
-
And the Ministry of Spiritual Connectivity shall be dissolved. Immediately.”
As They Walked Out…
Mr. B smiled.
Mr. A asked, “Feeling better now?”
Mr. B replied, “Yes. Justice isn’t just blind — sometimes, it’s offline too.”
Judge Grey’s voice echoed down the corridor:
“Don’t judge a judge… especially when he’s updating Chrome on 2G.”
Moral of the story
The Wi-Fi crawls, your hopes do too,
The justice waits while networks skew.
Raise your voice, but take care, friend —
For truth may load… by the weekend’s end!
-------
Chapter 5: Right to Sit
It All Began With a Lack of Support… Literally
On a particularly sweaty Thursday morning, Mr. A entered Courtroom No. 13 wearing his newly-washed white shirt (the one that had once survived the great tea tragedy). He looked around for his usual seat on the third bench — the spot with optimal cross-ventilation and minimum pigeon droppings.
But to his horror — his bench had vanished. Gone. Replaced by… nothing. Just a cold, empty stretch of floor that mocked his spinal cord.
He asked the clerk, “Where is my bench?”
The clerk shrugged. “Budget cut. It went for wood repurposing. Now it’s part of the judge’s new footrest.”
Mr. B Attempts Diplomacy
Mr. B, now seasoned in the art of legal absurdity, tried to mediate.
“Bro, it's just one bench. Stand for a day. Think of it as a fitness initiative.”
Mr. A replied with a dramatic pause and whispered, “Justice must be seated.”
Ten minutes later, a fresh complaint was filed under the title:
“Mr. A vs. Institutional Standing Fatigue: A Matter of Constitutional Posture”
Courtroom No. 13: Now With One Less Seat
Judge Mr. Grey looked visibly tired. His gavel had been replaced with a wooden spoon ever since the registrar took it for a ‘craft project’.
He read the case title and muttered, “I should’ve taken early retirement and become a yoga instructor.”
Mr. A stood in the middle of the courtroom, pointing at the floor like a man betrayed.
“Your Honour, I come not just with a sore back, but with a broken dream — the dream of sitting down to hear justice unfold!”
The Defense: One Chair, Many Excuses
The Administrative Officer was called in. He brought with him a printed Excel sheet and a broken folding chair as Exhibit B.
He explained:
-
“There is a nationwide shortage of reliable benches.”
-
“Three were eaten by termites.”
-
“One was donated to the Film City for a legal drama shoot.”
-
“And Mr. A, technically, didn’t reserve the seat on the app.”
Mr. A gasped. “There’s an app?”
Judge Grey Delivers the Ruling (From a Reclining Chair)
Judge Grey, lounging comfortably, announced:
“This court acknowledges:
-
That Mr. A has suffered physical discomfort.
-
That the institution has provided no cushion, either moral or literal.
-
And that justice, like chairs, must never be missing.
Therefore, I rule:
-
Mr. A shall receive a folding chair, cushion optional, to carry at all times.
-
Courtroom seating shall be redistributed via lottery and musical chairs.
-
And all future hearings shall have a 10-minute standing break for solidarity.”
As They Walked Out…
Mr. A limped slightly but held his new foldable chair with pride.
Mr. B asked, “Happy now?”
Mr. A replied, “Yes. Today, I sat for something… by standing up.”
Judge Grey’s voice echoed behind them, “Don’t judge a judge… especially when he’s sitting higher than all of you.”
Moral of the Chapter (Poetic Satire):
A missing bench may bend your spine,
But justice still won’t toe the line.
If comfort’s gone and backs are sore —
Just bring a chair… and maybe sue for more!
======
Chapter 6:Echo of EGO
It All Began With an Echo… Echo…
It was a breezy Monday morning in Courtroom No. 13. The chai had just reached the ideal 73°C, and Mr. B had come prepared — case files organized, hair combed back, and a fresh supply of sarcasm in his pocket.
He stood to make a compelling argument about legal delays, but as soon as he opened his mouth and said,
“Your Honour, justice must be swift—”
the mic boomed back:
“swift... swift... swift...”
The courtroom paused.
Then it repeated:
“Justice must... must... must…”
It was as if Mr. B’s voice had joined a bhajan group against its will.
Mr. A Tries to Laugh It Off
Mr. A, sitting on his now-personal folding chair, snorted.
“Maybe the mic is just passionate. It likes your ideas and wants to emphasize them.”
But Mr. B was not amused.
“I came to argue law, not do a surround sound solo concert.”
And just like that, a new complaint was born:
“Mr. B vs. Acoustics of Injustice: Echoes, Egos, and Electronic Interference”
Filed under: “Violation of Article 14 – Equality of Voice.”
Courtroom Chaos (and a Slight Reverb)
Judge Mr. Grey sighed as he read the complaint. He had barely recovered from the previous “bench” scandal.
He turned on his own mic and said, “Proceed… ceed… ceed…”
He frowned. “Good God, it’s haunted.”
Mr. B stood and began his opening statement.
“Your Honour, this mic is turning justice into a karaoke bar. It mocks clarity, mocks precision, and worse — mocks me.”
The Defense: An Audio Technician and a Goat Theory
The court’s part-time technician — a man named Nandu who also doubled as the chaiwala’s cousin — stepped forward.
“Sir, echo happens because the courtroom is shaped like a mango.”
Mr. A whispered, “Scientific.”
Nandu added, “Also, one of the cables was chewed by a goat during last month’s court picnic.”
Mr. B asked, “Is this courtroom being run by livestock and myth?”
Judge Grey replied, “Only on odd-numbered days.”
The Verdict: Echoes Be Gone!
After hearing all sides (and hearing them again and again), Judge Grey leaned forward — cautiously avoiding the mic.
“This court finds:
-
That Mr. B has suffered sonic injustice.
-
That the courtroom resembles an echo chamber — both acoustically and ideologically.
-
That goats shall henceforth be banned from technical zones.
Therefore, I rule:
-
Mr. B shall receive a personal clip-on mic with noise-canceling capabilities.
-
The courtroom shall be fitted with anti-echo foam — or at least lots of curtains.
-
And this court shall henceforth NOT repeat itself... repeat itself... repeat itself.”
As They Walked Out…
Mr. A asked, “Feeling heard?”
Mr. B replied, “Yes. Clearly, loudly, and only once.”
From the bench, Judge Grey called after them,
“Don’t judge a judge… especially when he’s arguing with ghosts in the sound system.”
Moral of the Chapter (Poetic Satire):
In echo halls where justice sways,
Each word you speak may twice replay.
But when the mic begins to preach —
Just mute the court… or file free speech!
======
Chapter 7: Justice of Silence
It All Began With a Shhh…
Mr. A, armed with legal documents and a heart full of democratic ideals, entered Courtroom No. 13. He was excited.
Today was his chance to present arguments on “Public Infrastructure and Human Dignity,” and he had even practiced aloud — in front of a mirror, two pigeons, and a very confused chaiwala.
He cleared his throat, stood up, and began confidently:
“Your Honour, the people deserve—”
SHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…
A loud hiss echoed from the side — not from the mic this time — but from the Court Librarian, a 70-year-old enigma in human form, who had been posted “accidentally” inside Courtroom 13 due to a clerical reshuffle in 1992.
Mr. B Smells Trouble
Mr. B, sipping sugarless tea, raised an eyebrow.
“Did you just get shhh’ed in the middle of democracy?”
Mr. A whispered back, “Yes. Twice. Once by the librarian and once by her emotional support cactus, I think.”
But before he could continue, another “SHHHH” slashed through the air — sharper than a Supreme Court observation.
Mr. A had had enough.
That evening, he filed a complaint titled:
“Mr. A vs. The Order of Silence: A Fight for the Right to Raise One’s Voice (Slightly)”
Filed under: Noise Rights and Misplaced Librarianship.
Courtroom: Quieter Than a Mausoleum with Wi-Fi Issues
Judge Mr. Grey entered the courtroom in slippers (his courtroom shoes were stolen last week by a monkey — unrelated subplot).
He picked up the complaint and rubbed his temple.
“Am I presiding over a judiciary or a sitcom with attendance?”
Mr. A rose to speak.
“Your Honour, I am here to fight for volume — not violence. I was silenced by an unofficial librarian with no legal standing and possibly an expired badge.”
The Librarian stood too. She had brought a typewriter (manual), a rubber stamp, and an aura of disapproval.
The Defense: Library Protocol and Ancient Echoes
The Librarian stated:
-
“Courtrooms must maintain silence, or justice evaporates.”
-
“Even books get offended when people speak loudly.”
-
“Back in 1978, a man coughed during a verdict and got life imprisonment — for disturbing the sacred stillness.”
Mr. A countered:
“Ma’am, with all due respect, your typewriter is louder than my argument.”
Mr. B added helpfully, “And I’ve heard your cactus emits passive-aggressive vibrations.”
Judge Grey’s Final Whisper
Judge Grey sipped his coffee (decaf, because justice doesn’t sleep, but judges should).
“This court finds:
-
That silence is golden, but democracy needs a mic.
-
That Courtroom 13 is a courtroom, not a Sanskrit monastery.
-
And that the librarian, while legendary, is hereby reassigned to the archives — far, far away.”
He then stood, looked meaningfully at Mr. A and said:
“From now on, speak freely. But not like election rally freely. More like… All India Radio after 10 p.m. freely.”
As They Walked Out…
Mr. A smiled wide. “I feel like I just won freedom of expression — in decibels!”
Mr. B replied, “Be careful. The librarian may still haunt you through silent judging.”
From the bench, Judge Grey’s soft voice floated out:
“Don’t judge a judge… especially when he’s trying not to sneeze during closing arguments.”
Moral of the Chapter (Poetic Satire):
In halls where silence reigns supreme,
One loud idea may break the scheme.
But if they “shhh” your every plea —
Just file a writ… respectfully.
======
Chapter 8:Hunger Strikes
It All Began With a Rumbling… Stomach
It was a particularly tense Thursday. Mr. B had prepped an airtight argument, printed 73 pages of annexures (double-sided, environmental-friendly), and even skipped breakfast to reach Courtroom No. 13 by 11:00 AM sharp.
At 11:03 AM, he was informed:
“The Honourable Magistrate is at lunch.”
At 12:00 PM — still lunch.
At 1:00 PM — still lunch.
By 2:15 PM, Mr. B’s stomach had stopped growling and entered a state of philosophical fasting.
Meanwhile, whispers circulated:
“The magistrate has gone to Royal Mutton Point, the new Mughlai place near the court gate.”
“Rumor is… he orders extra raita and no hearing before biriyani.”
Mr. A Attempts Satirical Intervention
Mr. A, now a certified bench-holder and known for his peacekeeping (and mild mischief), offered Mr. B a packet of glucose biscuits.
“Here, have these. They're technically food. Also technically building materials.”
Mr. B replied, chewing frustration and glucose,
“I didn’t come here for a hunger strike. I came for justice. But looks like justice needs a digestive first!”
At 3:00 PM, the magistrate finally entered — licking his fingers (metaphorically) and humming a Ghazal.
Mr. B, now slightly dizzy from biscuit overdose, stood up and said,
“Your Honour, this is not a lunchroom with a constitution — this is a courtroom with a canteen problem!”
By 3:15 PM, he had filed a new complaint:
“Mr. B vs. Gastronomic Injustice: A Case of Delayed Hearings and Early Appetites”
Filed under: Article 21 – Right to Timely Justice and Tempered Hunger.
The Defense: Spices and Scheduling
The magistrate’s office replied with a detailed affidavit:
-
“Biriyani promotes judicial calmness.”
-
“Digestive clarity is essential for fair verdicts.”
-
“Lunch from 11 AM to 3 PM allows time for starters, main course, and post-meal contemplation.”
They attached a menu as Exhibit A.
Judge Mr. Grey Weighs In (Lightly Salted)
Judge Grey, summoned for this unique matter, arrived while munching on roasted peanuts.
“This court finds:
-
That delayed justice causes indigestion, metaphorical and otherwise.
-
That a lunch exceeding courtroom hours borders on culinary misconduct.
-
That biriyani, while delicious, must not interrupt the legal rice of the common man.”
He ruled:
-
“All judicial lunch breaks shall not exceed 45 minutes. After that, hearings resume — burp or no burp.
-
Judges who extend lunch for ‘mental preparation’ must provide proof of digestion, not just decision.
-
Mr. B is awarded a complimentary lunch coupon at the same biriyani joint, for emotional compensation.”
As They Walked Out…
Mr. B held his coupon triumphantly. “Justice, like biriyani, must be served hot and without unnecessary sides.”
Mr. A laughed, “And definitely before raita turns room temperature.”
From behind, Judge Grey muttered,
“Don’t judge a judge… especially when he’s dealing with both judicial backlog and biriyani backplate.”
Moral of the Chapter (Poetic Satire):
When hunger stalls the legal route,
And biriyani becomes the suit—
Remember this in courtly scenes:
Justice should not marinate in beans.
======
Chapter :9 : Paper Jam , Traffic Jam
It All Began With a Click… That Printed Nothing
Mr. A entered Courtroom No. 13 with the energy of a freshly ironed kurta and a flash drive full of legal thunder.
He approached the court’s humble, aging printer — the legendary HP (Hopes Pending) 1320 — and confidently hit “Print.”
Nothing.
He checked the tray.
He checked the cable.
He checked his karma.
Nothing.
He whispered to Mr. B, sipping masala chai near the bench:
“It’s vanished! My 58-page affidavit has gone into digital purgatory!”
Mr. B replied, “Maybe the printer is unionized. They don’t print post-lunch unless it’s poetry.”
The Printer’s History: A Rap Sheet of Refusals
Court clerks whispered tales about the printer:
-
It once printed a 32-page divorce petition as a horoscope match.
-
It jammed during an urgent bail hearing and spit out Diwali greetings from 2016.
-
Rumors said it only worked if you gently sang “Vande Mataram” to it.
Despite all this, it had never faced trial — until now.
Mr. A Goes Legal
Fueled by caffeine and crushed expectations, Mr. A filed a formal complaint:
“Mr. A vs. The Court Printer: A Plea for Paper-based Justice”
Filed under: Article 19(1)(a) – Right to Express, Even via Dot Matrix.
The Defense: A Printer, a Clerk, and a Cursed USB Port
The court assigned its IT department — which consisted of one overworked intern named Pintu and a stapler with seniority.
Pintu offered explanations:
-
“Printer runs on mood-based algorithms.”
-
“Yesterday, it printed a grocery list instead of a criminal FIR.”
-
“There’s a small chance the USB slot is possessed by the ghost of a pending file from 2004.”
Judge Mr. Grey, wiping his glasses and his patience, leaned in.
“Possessed USB ports? This is a court, not a paranormal tech support hotline.”
Mr. B Joins the Prosecution (and the Drama)
Mr. B, now emotionally invested, added:
“If we cannot trust our printers, next thing you know, the fax machine starts sending divorce papers to Parliament!”
Mr. A nodded. “Justice should not depend on whether the toner is feeling shy!”
Judge Grey’s Historic Verdict (Typed by Hand)
Judge Grey, after observing the emotional damage and two wasted reams of A4 paper, declared:
“This court finds:
-
That court infrastructure is directly proportional to democratic dignity.
-
That a printer, however vintage, cannot be the bottleneck of liberty.
-
That Exhibit A (the missing file) is now also Exhibit B (missing from Exhibit A).”
Final ruling:
-
Court shall install a new multifunctional printer named “Nyay-Print 3000.”
-
Mr. A shall receive reprints of his documents with complimentary lamination.
-
The old printer will be respectfully retired — or sent to the High Court as is tradition.
As They Walked Out…
Mr. B whispered, “Do you think the scanner will scan this verdict?”
Mr. A replied, “Not if it detects our faces and files contempt charges.”
From the bench, Judge Grey’s voice rang out:
“Don’t judge a judge… especially when he’s fighting both paper jams and judicial traffic jams.”
Moral of the Chapter (Poetic Satire):
When justice hits a paper wall,
And printers ghost your legal call—
Just file a case, then print it twice,
Or handwrite truth — with legal spice.
====
Chapter 3: The Battle of the Chair
Where Possession Was Nine-Tenths... of Lunch
It was 1:27 p.m. at the District Court Canteen, that sacred sanctuary where lawyers argued less and ate more. The air was thick with the aroma of samosas, stale judgment copies, and pre-hearing anxiety.
Advocate Chaturvedi, known for his dramatic cross-examinations and Olympic-level sprinting toward empty seats, entered the canteen like a man on a mission. His gown was flowing, his stomach was growling, and his eyes were laser-focused on a single chair at the corner table.
That chair—oh, that blessed chair—looked abandoned. Just a lonely bag resting on it, as if it had lost the will to stand trial.
"Chair spotted. Bag on it. No human in sight. I object to this reservation!"
Without consulting any Section or Sub-clause, Chaturvedi yanked the bag off, gently, like a surgeon removing irrelevant evidence. He placed it on the table, muttered “Exhibit A: Unattended,” and parked himself.
He had barely dipped his samosa into the green chutney when a voice thundered across the room:
“Objection, Your Lunch!”
It was Advocate Shukla—fellow litigator, known for quoting Latin phrases in bar fights and storing all his case files in a single torn jhola. His eyes were wide. His forehead creased like a petition filed in a hurry.
“You have sat on my chair!” he exclaimed, dramatically pointing a trembling finger like a man who had just discovered an illegal occupation of ancestral property.
Chaturvedi, unbothered, took a bite and calmly replied, “You left a bag, not your backside. The chair was legally vacant.”
Shukla gasped. “Sir! That bag was my placeholder! It was saving my seat!”
The canteen, sensing a live debate, turned into a courtroom. The tea stall boy became the judge (mostly because he had a wooden counter and a bored expression), and fellow lawyers became the jury with samosas as gavels.
“Order! Order! Masala dosa for table 3!” shouted the tea boy, forgetting momentarily which courtroom he was running.
Shukla presented his argument: “Section Common Sense, Clause 1: Everyone knows a bag means ‘seat taken.’ It’s unwritten law, like not asking a judge why hearings start late.”
Chaturvedi countered: “Section Logical Occupancy, Clause ‘Finders Keepers’: A bag is not a body. A chair needs warmth, not zippers. Your claim is weak—like that affidavit you filed last week.”
The jury laughed. Someone dropped a chutney-stained napkin and declared it a mistrial.
Shukla pulled out a precedent. “In the case of Lunchwala vs Tiffinbag, 2011, the Hon’ble High Court of Snack Time observed that ‘a placed object does indicate intent to return.’”
Chaturvedi smirked. “Intent is not presence. And this chair didn’t sign an MOU with your bag.”
At this point, the tea boy banged a steel glass and declared:
“I am adjourning this case to five minutes from now. Meanwhile, both of you stand and share the chair.”
Which they did.
Half a cheek each. One samosa between them. And shared chutney custody.
Justice, as always, was served—lukewarm but spicy.
---
Moral of the story:
If you want a chair, sit fast.
If you leave a bag, it won’t last.
The law may be slow, but hunger is swift—
And in court canteens, squatters get the lift
------
Chapter 4: The Case of the "Finally Final Adjournment"
Where Delays Became an Art Form and Patience a Punishable Offense
It was 10:03 a.m. in Courtroom No. 8, and the Hon’ble Justice Tripathi had already consumed two things: one lukewarm tea and ten fresh reasons for adjournments. His left eyebrow had been twitching since 9:47 a.m.—a sign known in legal circles as Pre-Contempt Syndrome.
Enter Mr. Black—a senior advocate dressed like a barrister from a noir film. He looked around cautiously, as if searching for a window to jump out of, but alas, the only exit was toward the bench.
He stood up, cleared his throat, and in his most respectful tone, uttered the three most dangerous words in the judicial dictionary:
“My Lord, adjournment.”
The courtroom went still. Even the ceiling fan paused.
Justice Tripathi peered over his glasses with the intensity of an unpaid landlord.
“Mr. Black,” he said slowly, “the last date you sought an adjournment because your file was with your junior in Haridwar. Before that, because your junior was in rehab from Haridwar. And before that, because your cat had eaten the file. What is the reason today?”
Mr. Black blinked. “My Lord, today’s adjournment is different. This is the finally final one.”
The judge’s gavel shook with emotion. “Finally... final?”
“Yes, My Lord,” Mr. Black continued. “This is not like last time’s final. That was temporary-final. This is permanent-final. Conclusive. Non-renewable. Adjournment 2.0. Now with extra resolve.”
The courtroom murmured. A stenographer silently whispered, “He’s doing it again…”
Justice Tripathi leaned back and sighed.
“Mr. Black, if your client had the same commitment to truth as you have to adjournments, we might have finished this case before GST was born.”
Mr. Black adjusted his gown. “My Lord, with deepest reverence, justice delayed is still cheaper than justice denied.”
The judge responded dryly, “And in your case, it’s also justice retired.”
The junior counsel stood up to help. “My Lord, I would like to assist…”
Tripathi cut him off. “What would you assist? Explaining how ‘final’ has five sequels?”
The court clerk began reading from the case sheet like a doomsday list:
2017: Adjournment due to missing witness.
2018: Adjournment due to found witness, now missing lawyer.
2019: Adjournment due to elections.
2020: Adjournment due to pandemic.
2021: Adjournment due to recovery from post-pandemic travel.
2022: Adjournment due to lawyer’s new startup.
2023: Adjournment due to court picnic.
2024: Adjournment due to file misplaced in birthday celebration.
Justice Tripathi had had enough.
He looked at Mr. Black and said, “You have turned this courtroom into a waiting lounge. But today—no more!”
Mr. Black paused dramatically. “Then my Lord… in the interest of poetic justice… may I file a petition to adjourn the adjournment?”
There was silence. Then chaos.
The opposing counsel burst out laughing. A peon clapped. The stenographer fainted. And the judge stood up, removed his spectacles, and said the three words no lawyer wants to hear:
“Matter is dismissed.”
Mr. Black looked defeated but dignified. As he walked out, he muttered to his junior:
“It's okay. The dismissal is not final. We’ll file a restoration application. Call it… Post-Final-Revival.”
Moral of the Story:
Adjournments come like monsoon rain,
With every drop, more legal pain.
Say “final” once, then twice, then thrice—
But justice runs on legal dice!
------
Chapter 5: The Case of the Invisible Reasoned Order
“At the Request of Mr. Black…”—A Legacy of Adjournment
It was a historic morning in Courtroom No. 2 of the High Court. The Division Bench—Justices S.S. Mehta and B.L. Rao—took their seats with the grace of two philosophers forced to read 97 volumes of boring poetry.
The court had a board heavier than the GST Act, with 125 matters listed and only 3 functioning pens between the two lords. The law clerks had already declared a mental bandh.
And yet, rising from the first row with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn’t yet accepted defeat was…
Mr. Black.
Yes, the Mr. Black. Our seasoned adjournment connoisseur. But this time, he wasn’t asking for delay.
Oh no.
He was demanding urgency.
“My Lords,” he began with Shakespearean drama, “this matter requires immediate stay. The impugned order is so injurious, it makes Section 144 look like a group hug!”
Justice Mehta sighed. “Mr. Black, we’re already overwhelmed. There are 27 fresh matters, 16 part-heard, 12 death-bed cases, and one advocate who has threatened to cry.”
Justice Rao chimed in, flipping through the file half-heartedly, “Also, Mr. Black, we don’t have time to pass a detailed order today. You can’t just barge in and expect a miracle.”
“But My Lords,” Mr. Black protested, holding his gown like a sari in a rainstorm, “at least give a reasoned order with a brief stay. The situation is desperate.”
The Bench exchanged glances. The stenographer looked up, ready to type something—anything.
Justice Mehta leaned forward. “Mr. Black, do you want a hearing or a feeling? Because we don’t have time for either.”
“Then,” said Mr. Black, still standing nobly, “at least record that I prayed for a reasoned order with stay and your Lordships considered it.”
Justice Rao, now visibly amused, nodded.
And then came the historic pronouncement:
> “At the request of Mr. Black, the matter is adjourned.”
Bang. Gavel. Over.
The courtroom echoed with a silence so sharp it could cut an overgrown affidavit.
Mr. Black stood frozen.
He whispered to his junior, “But... I never requested adjournment!”
The junior replied, “You only requested a hearing, stay, and reason. In legal terms, that’s three new causes of delay.”
The court clerk handed the order sheet. It read:
> 'At the request of Mr. Black, matter is adjourned. No coercive action till next date. No reasoned order issued due to heavy board and light patience.'
Mr. Black clutched the paper like a rejected lover.
As he walked out, someone from the gallery said,
“Next time, just bring coffee and write the order yourself.”
Moral of the story:
You may plead with logic, with flair and display,
But justice, dear friend, comes its own way.
If the board is heavy and judges are bored,
Your appeal becomes… a polite ignored.
-----
Chapter 6: Love Merger Denied Due to Irreconcilable Liabilities
“When Matrimony Became a Merger and Divorce, a Winding-Up Petition”
It was a regular Tuesday in Family Court No. 3, where emotions ran high, tissues ran out, and judgments were usually served with side dishes of sarcasm.
On the list that day was a particularly messy matrimonial case:
Ritu vs. Ramesh – Seeking Divorce on Grounds of Cruelty, Desertion, and TV Remote Monopoly.
Enter none other than Mr. Black—our beloved courtroom legend known for quoting irrelevant laws at lightning speed and making adjournment seem like a constitutional right.
But today, Mr. Black had ventured out of his usual territory. He had accidentally accepted a family law brief, mistaking it for a corporate commercial dispute.
He strutted in with three leather-bound commentaries, a laptop bag filled with balance sheets, and a voice full of misplaced confidence.
“My Lord,” he began solemnly, “this is a classic case of hostile takeover!”
Judge B.N. Bakshi looked up, puzzled. “Mr. Black… this is a divorce petition.”
“Exactly, My Lord,” Mr. Black replied. “The petitioner, my client Ritu, entered into a verbal partnership with the respondent in 2018. However, the respondent has failed to fulfill his emotional capital obligations and stands in breach of fiduciary cuddling responsibilities.”
A pause.
“Are you... arguing corporate law in a divorce?” the judge asked, blinking twice for clarity.
Mr. Black nodded proudly. “My Lord, love is the original joint venture. But this one has gone insolvent—no affection, no dividends, no return on emotional investment.”
The respondent’s lawyer, Mr. Sundar Nath, tried to intervene. “My Lord, we strongly object! He’s citing SEBI guidelines for a case involving Tupperware fights and in-law trauma!”
But Mr. Black was on a roll.
He cited FEMA to highlight emotional interference from NRI relatives, quoted the Companies Act to demand “winding up of this emotionally bankrupt venture,” and concluded with a request:
“We pray for an immediate stay on further emotional harassment and division of household assets under Schedule III, post due diligence.”
The judge leaned back, visibly amused but mentally exhausted.
“Mr. Black,” he said slowly, “this isn’t the NCLT. This is Family Court. And the only merger we recognize here is when two toothbrushes share the same cup.”
Mr. Black, undeterred, added one final point:
“My Lord, at the very least, let this case be treated as a demerger with severance pay.”
ORDER:
> “The court appreciates the creativity of Mr. Black and his brave attempt to de-list a marriage. However, the legal remedy lies under the Hindu Marriage Act, not the Companies Act.
The only balance sheet required here is of mutual respect, and the only audit is of each other’s patience.”
The courtroom laughed. Even the bailiff whispered, “Next time he’ll file Form 26AS with the alimony petition.”
As Mr. Black walked out, he muttered to himself,
“Note to self: Never accept briefs after midnight WhatsApp forwards.”
---
Moral of the story:
Marriages aren’t mergers, love’s not a share,
You can’t audit feelings or list ‘em with care.
Before quoting Companies Act in a fight,
Make sure it's divorce—not corporate plight!
-----
Chapter 7: The Case of the Staring Contest
“Justice is Blind, But Apparently Not Immune to Eye Contact”
It was a breezy Monday morning in Courtroom No. 17, and the usual suspects were all present—the overworked stenographer, the underpaid clerk, and the judge who had already regretted skipping breakfast.
Two seasoned lawyers stood at the bar. On the left: Mr. Black, defender of justice, procedural errors, and free adjournments. On the right: Mr. Brown, a senior counsel with a gaze so sharp, it could allegedly tear through affidavits.
Now, this was no ordinary trial. There was no FIR, no accused, no prayer for relief. The entire courtroom was gathered... because someone had stared.
It began innocently.
Mr. Black, adjusting his coat with dramatic flair, suddenly whispered, “My Lord, I object!”
The judge blinked. “To what?”
“To that counsel’s excessive and sustained… staring,” Mr. Black declared, pointing indignantly at Mr. Brown.
Mr. Brown scoffed. “Your Lordship, I was merely observing the opposition’s line of argument. With my eyes. As nature intended.”
Mr. Black wasn't backing down. “He has been staring at me for fifteen minutes without blinking. I demand judicial protection from retinal intimidation!”
The courtroom murmured.
The judge sighed and removed his spectacles. “Gentlemen… you want me to adjudicate a staring contest?”
Mr. Black, with a proud puff of his chest: “This is not just staring, My Lord. It’s psychological warfare. My concentration is being held hostage by his irises!”
Mr. Brown smirked. “If I may respond, Your Lordship—I was merely defending my client against the ocular aggression of the opposing counsel, who, I might add, stared first.”
The court clerk dropped his pen. The stenographer paused, unsure whether to record this as "eye contact, sustained" or "mutual glares."
The judge rubbed his temples. “You both want to turn this into a full-blown litigation… over staring?”
Mr. Black nodded solemnly. “Your Lordship, we request interim relief—perhaps a curtain?”
The judge had had enough. He stood up slowly, looked at both men, and declared:
“There are no provisions under the Civil Procedure Code, CrPC, or the Indian Penal Code, dealing with the act of continuous gazing. You’re wasting judicial time and... my will to live.”
He banged his gavel (more dramatically than necessary).
“Case dismissed. And for the record— you’re both weird.”**
As the judge stormed off muttering something about early retirement, the lawyers froze. The courtroom was silent for a moment... and then both lawyers—simultaneously—resumed staring at each other.
This time, just for fun.
The clerk shook his head and scribbled in the daily log:
“Today’s summary: Counsel vs. Counsel. Outcome: Eye-ronic.”
Later that evening, Mr. Black and Mr. Brown were spotted having chai together outside the court canteen, laughing about "The Great Eye War of 2025."
Turns out, it wasn’t personal—it was professional. And partially just boredom.
---
Moral of the Story
In courts where tempers rise and glare,
Some lawyers fight with just a stare.
But eyes can't file a plaint or plea—
So let them rest... or charge a fee!
------
Chapter 8: The Termite Agreement: When Corruption Goes Wood-Deep
“Mr. Black Uncovers a Conspiracy with… Bite!”
It was a particularly humid afternoon in Courtroom No. 22 — the kind of weather where even the air conditioning filed a resignation.
Mr. Black appeared, brief in hand, drenched in both sweat and confidence.
“Your Lordship,” he began dramatically, “this is not just a case of missing files. This is a systemic rot. Quite literally.”
The case at hand? A Public Interest Litigation (PIL) filed by Mr. Black himself. He alleged that crucial government records related to illegal land transfers had mysteriously vanished from the municipal office.
The municipal officer, Mr. Dahiya, had only one explanation:
“Sir, termite attack. Entire file cupboard chewed up. Including the affidavit. And also the chai menu.”
The court erupted in murmurs.
Mr. Black wasn’t buying it. “Termites, my Lord, are now being used as legal scapegoats. Soon they’ll be summoned as co-accused!”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying termites are part of a conspiracy?”
“I’m saying,” Mr. Black replied, wagging a finger, “that the termites didn’t act alone. They had inside help.”
Gasps.
Mr. Dahiya fumbled with his handkerchief. “My Lord, it’s not true! They even ate my lunchbox one day!”
But Mr. Black was already pulling out Exhibit A — a half-eaten corner of a government file. “Behold! The last surviving remnant of truth. Nibbled, but not silenced.”
Then came Exhibit B: A video clip from the office CCTV. At 3 a.m., Mr. Dahiya could be seen feeding wood polish to a termite nest behind the cupboard.
The courtroom fell silent.
Judge: “Are you… nurturing termites?”
Mr. Dahiya: “It was… preventive maintenance?”
Mr. Black: “Your Lordship, it was bribery in cellulose form!”
But the real bombshell came when Mr. Black presented Exhibit C — a tiny, chewed-up agreement, apparently signed in crooked ink lines by a termite named Ramu (on behalf of Colony No. 7), and counter-signed by Dahiya.
It read:
> “We, the Undersigned (Termites), agree to destroy File Nos. 78 to 98 in exchange for continued access to wooden furniture, confidential corners, and leftover biscuits.”
Even the stenographer paused typing to blink at the absurdity.
The judge leaned back. “So you’re saying this officer had… entered into an agreement with termites to destroy evidence?”
Mr. Black nodded solemnly. “Your Lordship, this is the first known case of corruption through cohabitation with insects. We must act before files are replaced with sawdust!”
The judge rubbed his forehead.
“Fine. This Court hereby orders:
1. A forensic entomologist shall examine the remains.
2. Officer Dahiya is suspended.
3. All government cupboards must now be made of termite-proof steel.
4. Mr. Black, please stop bringing animals, insects, or birds into legal analogies.”
As Mr. Black walked out, victorious, someone from the back whispered,
“Next PIL—alleging pigeons have been spying on tenders.”
---
Moral of the story
If your files are gone, and you blame the bugs,
Make sure there's no footage of your secret hugs.
Even termites have ethics (when not misled),
But corrupt minds feed them legal bread!
-----
Chapter 8: The Termite Agreement: When Corruption Goes Wood-Deep
“Mr. Black Uncovers a Conspiracy with… Bite!”
It was a particularly humid afternoon in Courtroom No. 22 — the kind of weather where even the air conditioning filed a resignation.
Mr. Black appeared, brief in hand, drenched in both sweat and confidence.
“Your Lordship,” he began dramatically, “this is not just a case of missing files. This is a systemic rot. Quite literally.”
The case at hand? A Public Interest Litigation (PIL) filed by Mr. Black himself. He alleged that crucial government records related to illegal land transfers had mysteriously vanished from the municipal office.
The municipal officer, Mr. Dahiya, had only one explanation:
“Sir, termite attack. Entire file cupboard chewed up. Including the affidavit. And also the chai menu.”
The court erupted in murmurs.
Mr. Black wasn’t buying it. “Termites, my Lord, are now being used as legal scapegoats. Soon they’ll be summoned as co-accused!”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying termites are part of a conspiracy?”
“I’m saying,” Mr. Black replied, wagging a finger, “that the termites didn’t act alone. They had inside help.”
Gasps.
Mr. Dahiya fumbled with his handkerchief. “My Lord, it’s not true! They even ate my lunchbox one day!”
But Mr. Black was already pulling out Exhibit A — a half-eaten corner of a government file. “Behold! The last surviving remnant of truth. Nibbled, but not silenced.”
Then came Exhibit B: A video clip from the office CCTV. At 3 a.m., Mr. Dahiya could be seen feeding wood polish to a termite nest behind the cupboard.
The courtroom fell silent.
Judge: “Are you… nurturing termites?”
Mr. Dahiya: “It was… preventive maintenance?”
Mr. Black: “Your Lordship, it was bribery in cellulose form!”
But the real bombshell came when Mr. Black presented Exhibit C — a tiny, chewed-up agreement, apparently signed in crooked ink lines by a termite named Ramu (on behalf of Colony No. 7), and counter-signed by Dahiya.
It read:
> “We, the Undersigned (Termites), agree to destroy File Nos. 78 to 98 in exchange for continued access to wooden furniture, confidential corners, and leftover biscuits.”
Even the stenographer paused typing to blink at the absurdity.
The judge leaned back. “So you’re saying this officer had… entered into an agreement with termites to destroy evidence?”
Mr. Black nodded solemnly. “Your Lordship, this is the first known case of corruption through cohabitation with insects. We must act before files are replaced with sawdust!”
The judge rubbed his forehead.
“Fine. This Court hereby orders:
1. A forensic entomologist shall examine the remains.
2. Officer Dahiya is suspended.
3. All government cupboards must now be made of termite-proof steel.
4. Mr. Black, please stop bringing animals, insects, or birds into legal analogies.”
As Mr. Black walked out, victorious, someone from the back whispered,
“Next PIL—alleging pigeons have been spying on tenders.”
---
Moral of the story
If your files are gone, and you blame the bugs,
Make sure there's no footage of your secret hugs.
Even termites have ethics (when not misled),
But corrupt minds feed them legal bread!
-----
Chapter 9: The Conestitutional Rights of Parking Spots
“Mr. Black vs. The Car That Sat Too Long”
It was a slow day in Courtroom No. 31, where nothing moved—not the files, not the judge’s pen, not even the clock (rumor had it the wall clock had adjourned itself for lack of interest).
Enter Mr. Black, flanked by an assistant wheeling in... four traffic cones. Bright orange, reflective stripes, and looking emotionally scarred.
The judge peered over his glasses. “Mr. Black… are those evidence or... clients?”
Mr. Black adjusted his black tie. “Your Lordship, I appear today on behalf of a voiceless, coned minority—the designated parking spots that are eternally occupied without cause or concern.”
Gasps echoed across the courtroom. A few traffic wardens in the back row nodded solemnly.
“These parking spots,” Mr. Black thundered, “have been reserved, coned, and ignored. Their only guardians? These noble orange cones. And yet, rogue drivers push them aside, trample them beneath tires, or worse—convert them into cricket stumps.”
One cone trembled slightly.
The judge blinked. “Are you saying traffic cones have legal standing?”
Mr. Black raised a finger. “If animals have rights, trees have personhood, and rivers can sue, why not cones? They serve the law, Your Lordship! They're the unpaid bouncers of the pavement!”
Opposing Counsel, a weary man from the Municipal Corporation, shuffled his papers. “My Lord, this is absurd. They’re... cones.”
“Objection!” shouted Mr. Black. “These cones are silent sentinels of civil order! They’ve been displaced, kicked, and even used as megaphones by street vendors! They demand redress!”
The judge sighed. “What exactly is the prayer?”
Mr. Black read aloud:
1. Immediate recognition of cones as Public Order Assistants.
2. Legal protection against unauthorized shifting.
3. Rs. 50,000 in damages for each cone, for “emotional flattening and public humiliation.”
One cone tipped over dramatically as if on cue.
The judge rubbed his eyes. “Do you have any evidence?”
Mr. Black triumphantly presented a photo: a luxury car, arrogantly parked across two coned-off spaces. “Behold! Exhibit A: Cone Violation in Broad Daylight!”
The courtroom gasped.
“And who owns this car?” the judge asked.
“Your Lordship...” Mr. Black hesitated. “According to RTO records... it’s registered in the name of the City Parking Superintendent’s wife.”
Silence. A pen dropped.
Even the judge straightened. “Well. In that case…”
Judgment was swift:
“The cones shall be restored to their original positions.”
“The car owner shall tender a public apology.”
“All traffic cones shall henceforth enjoy standing rights under the Pavement Preservation and Parking Peace Protocol, as per this Court's wholly imaginary but emotionally sound judgment.”
Mr. Black beamed. The cones glowed—metaphorically and due to their reflective tape.
Outside the courtroom, one reporter whispered, “Mr. Black just got cones legally acknowledged... What’s next?”
Another muttered, “Rumor is—next week, he’s filing a PIL on behalf of ignored elevator mirrors.”
---
Moral of the story:
When cones get crushed and spots abused,
Justice must not stay confused.
They guard, they stand, yet no one cares—
But thanks to Black, they now get stares!
------
Chapter 10: The Courageous Lawyer Without Clients
“Mr. Black and the Courtroom of Courage”
The courtroom was buzzing with the usual chaos—lawyers arguing, clerks scrambling, and the faint smell of stale coffee hanging in the air. But today, in Courtroom No. 53, a new kind of drama was unfolding.
Mr. Black stood at the front, shoulders squared, brow furrowed in determined concentration, as he made his argument before the bench. His words echoed in the courtroom, filled with passion and intensity. If there was one thing Mr. Black had, it was aggressive argumentation.
“Your Honor,” Mr. Black bellowed, “justice is not some passive idea that we wait for to fall into our laps! No! It is a battle we must fight! We must demand justice with the full force of the law, like an untamed stallion galloping toward victory!”
The judge, a seasoned man with a reputation for being both wise and sleep-deprived, sat back in his chair and adjusted his glasses. He listened attentively, but with the tired look of someone who’d heard all the grand speeches before.
“Mr. Black,” the judge said, nodding slowly. “I appreciate your courage in making such an aggressive argument. You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But, the question is, do you have a client?”
Mr. Black froze for a moment, his words hanging in the air like an awkward silence. He cleared his throat, then flashed a confident grin.
“Well, Your Honor, this is the only thing I have—my courage! It’s a little like a well-worn suit that I keep using, even though it’s a bit threadbare,” he said, adjusting his tie. “But I must admit, it would have been much better if I had clients too.”
The courtroom erupted in snickers, and even the judge raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. Mr. Black, undeterred, continued.
“You see, Your Honor,” he said, “I have passion, I have enthusiasm, and I have daring arguments, but what I don’t have is a paying client. The last one I had ran away after hearing my opening statement, and now I’m left to fend for myself in this jungle of legal paperwork.”
The judge leaned forward, his tone slightly amused. “Mr. Black, I believe you’re arguing your case very aggressively. But, perhaps you should try arguing for a client next time?”
Mr. Black sighed dramatically, turning to the gallery of onlookers. “Your Honor, if I could find just one client who believes in justice, or at least in paying me for services rendered, I would be happy to argue for them. Until then, I shall remain the lone warrior in this courtroom, fighting a battle without any soldiers.”
A low murmur rippled through the audience. Some were clearly impressed by Mr. Black’s bravado, others were just happy he hadn’t called for another adjournment.
The judge raised his gavel, about to speak, when Mr. Black, ever the performer, added one last flourish. “Your Honor, if you happen to know of any clients in need of legal representation, I’m happy to take them on, for a small fee of course. I’ll even throw in a free consultation—if you can pay me in coffee.”
The judge blinked, clearly trying to suppress a chuckle. “Mr. Black,” he said, “I have no clients for you. But, if you continue like this, I might hire you to represent me in my next nap.”
The courtroom burst into laughter, and even Mr. Black cracked a smile, taking a theatrical bow.
“Well, Your Honor,” he said, “I guess we can add one more thing to my list of skills: courtroom comedy. If clients don’t show up, at least I can entertain.”
---
Moral of the story
Courage is strong, but clients are key,
Without them, you’re just a legal spree.
Argue with heart, fight with flair,
But don’t forget—clients are rare!
---
Chapter 11: Wi-Fi Wapsi and The Case of the Frozen Zoom
The Hon’ble Delhi High Court had declared a new reform:
> “From now on, hybrid hearings shall be the norm. Justice must be as accessible as Wi-Fi!”
The bar room broke into applause. But no one noticed that the Wi-Fi had already disconnected.
---
Scene 1: Zoom Ka Zoom
It was 10:15 AM. Judge A.C. Bakra was ready. Gavel polished. Robe ironed. Laptop open. And Courtroom No. 7 transformed into a tech warzone.
White-Shirt joined in from home, camera on, face well-lit like he was auditioning for Indian Idol: Legal Edition.
Black-Coat, however, appeared on Zoom with a mysterious shadow on his face and an unexplainable echo, as though speaking from inside a water tank.
“Milord,” came his voice, “my internet is strong, but my neighbor is stronger. He just started streaming Bahubali 2 in 4K.”
Judge Bakra frowned. “Please ask him to pause. Justice cannot wait for Katappa to stab again.”
Meanwhile, the Petitioner’s lawyer appeared frozen on-screen. He had been stuck mid-sneeze for ten full minutes.
The Respondent was worse—he had joined from his bathroom and forgot to mute. Everyone could now hear him argue with his wife about toothpaste placement.
---
Scene 2: Wi-Fi Outage & the Hacked Verdict
Just as Judge Bakra was about to deliver an interim order on a property dispute (where two cousins had filed 27 petitions on who owns the lemon tree), the screen went black.
“Your Internet Connection is Unstable,” it announced—like a cruel prophecy.
Five minutes later, the screen came alive—not with Judge Bakra, but with a random teenager named GoluGamer_99.
“Yo, what’s up High Court! Subscribe to my YouTube channel or contempt hoga!”
Gasps in courtroom. Panic in the IT department. Someone swore they saw the statue of Mahatma Gandhi cover its ears.
Judge Bakra finally reappeared, visibly shaken.
“I was hacked by a child with rainbow hair. He issued a fake bail order and signed it… ‘Bhai ka Nyay’.”
---
Scene 3: The Judgment That Got Delivered to Zomato
In a parallel disaster, a bail order PDF accidentally got attached to a paneer butter masala order on Zomato. The delivery boy—now technically in contempt of court—was last seen explaining habeas corpus to a confused aunty in Karol Bagh.
---
Courtroom Reaction
Judge Bakra sighed.
“This hybrid model is more hybrid than useful. One leg in law, one in Ludo King.”
He issued a Digital Decorum Directive, which included:
No attending court from toilets.
No cat-face filters during final arguments.
And under no condition shall anyone shout “Objection Your Honour!” at Alexa.
---
Exit Scene
As White-Shirt and Black-Coat walked out, dodging both pigeons and lagging advocates, Black-Coat said,
“You know what we need? A courtroom reboot.”
White-Shirt replied, “Yes. Ctrl + Alt + Deliver Justice.”
---
Moral of the story:
When court goes live and Wi-Fi dies,
Justice too, just buffers and sighs.
So argue not, from bed or bath,
Else Zoom might mute your legal path!
-----
Chapter 12: The Case of the Confused Bench: When More Minds Mean More Confusion
“Mr. Black and the Courtroom Conundrum”
It was a typical day in Courtroom 17. The walls were lined with case files, the air was filled with the sound of distant whispers, and a few last-minute arguments were being prepared. But today, there was an unusual sense of anticipation. All eyes were on the bench, as Judge Patel took his seat, preparing to deliver his ruling.
Mr. Black, as usual, was sitting in his usual place—center stage, right in front of the judge, confidently tapping his pen against the desk. His client, Mr. Paperclip, had been represented by him in yet another office supplies battle (still unresolved, but not for lack of effort). But today was different.
“Mr. Black,” Judge Patel began, with an air of quiet exasperation, “I have a situation before me. There are two conflicting opinions from two Division Benches on the same issue. The matter is confusing. I think it’s best if we refer this case to a larger bench, comprising more than two judges, to get clarity.”
The courtroom fell silent. A larger bench? More judges? More minds? More opinions? That could only mean one thing—more confusion.
Mr. Black straightened up in his seat, his eyes lighting up with curiosity. “Your Honor,” he said, with all the gravity of a seasoned lawyer who had seen it all, “with all due respect, I must object to your proposal.”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “Objection? Mr. Black, this is a matter of procedure. I’m merely suggesting a larger bench to resolve this conflict between the two opinions.”
Mr. Black leaned forward, a glint of mischief in his eye. “But, Your Honor, isn’t common knowledge that when you apply more minds to the same issue, you end up with a plethora of confusion?”
The judge blinked. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Black’s face lit up with the joy of a well-crafted argument. “Well, Your Honor, it’s like adding more cooks to the kitchen. The more people you have deciding how to cook the soup, the more likely it is that someone will burn the broth. You’ll have so many opinions, you’ll lose track of what the original issue was!”
The court clerk, sitting at the back of the room, stifled a laugh. Even the judge couldn’t help but smile at the audacity of Mr. Black’s reasoning.
“More minds don’t always lead to better clarity,” Mr. Black continued. “In fact, in my experience, when five judges are involved, you end up with five different interpretations of the same issue. And then, suddenly, you have a case that could last for decades—just trying to figure out who misunderstood what!”
The judge rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You make an interesting point, Mr. Black. But surely, the consensus of a larger bench would help avoid confusion?”
Mr. Black shook his head slowly. “Ah, Your Honor, consensus can be as elusive as a confused witness. It’s a mirage! If a smaller bench can’t agree, how will a larger bench—comprising more judges—reach anything but absolute confusion?”
He paused for dramatic effect. “In fact, it might end up being like a jury of lawyers—no agreement, just more arguments, and the real issue gets lost in the middle.”
The judge let out a small chuckle. “Well, you do have a point, Mr. Black. Perhaps referring this case to a larger bench might only lead to more chaos.”
Mr. Black smiled, his victory feeling almost too easy. “Exactly, Your Honor. Why make things more complicated than they need to be? Just pick one bench, and let them decide. The more minds you apply, the more confusion you create, just like when a lawyer decides to argue both sides in a case. Eventually, everyone forgets why they were arguing in the first place!”
The judge nodded thoughtfully. “So, you’re suggesting we should simplify the issue?”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Black, “A smaller bench, one decision, and no unnecessary complications. If you bring in more minds, you risk opening a can of worms, or worse, a whole warehouse of worms!”
The judge chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll take your advice under consideration, Mr. Black. It seems that sometimes, the solution lies in less complexity, not more.”
As the judge deliberated, Mr. Black turned to his client, giving him a satisfied wink. Mr. Paperclip, who had been a passive observer in the courtroom, smiled back—after all, his lawyer had just managed to argue his way out of another potential delay.
---
Moral of the story
More minds, more confusion, that’s the key,
Too many opinions just make you see,
The more you add, the less you find,
Sometimes, simpler minds are best for the mind!
-----
Chapter 13: Contempt of Court: The Case of the Junior Parrot Counsel
Courtroom No. 14 had seen many strange things—lawyers quoting Bollywood dialogues, clients fainting from anxiety, even a police constable who once objected mid-hearing because “Milord, he insulted my moustache!”
But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared Judge A.C. Bakra for what walked (well, perched) in that Monday morning.
---
Scene 1: Entry of Adv. Chaturnath & Adv. Mitthu
Advocate Chaturnath Saxena entered, briefcase in one hand, and his left shoulder occupied by a… parrot.
A real, live, bright green parrot.
The bird wore a tiny black ribbon around its neck, a miniature coat stitched over its wings, and carried a rolled-up paper in its claw. On the roll: “AOR – Advocate on Recitation.”
The court clerk blinked. The stenographer spilled tea. One intern whispered, “Is this the new AI-powered junior?”
Judge Bakra looked up and froze. “Mr. Saxena… is that… a parrot?”
Chaturnath beamed proudly. “Yes, Milord. Meet Mitthu. My junior counsel. He’s especially trained in legal Latin and sharp objection!”
Mitthu squawked:
“Res Ipsa Loquitur! Habeas Parrot!”
---
Scene 2: Legal Arguments… With Feathers
Chaturnath began his argument in a contract breach case. “Milord, the other party has violated every term. Even my parrot knows better!”
Mitthu puffed his chest and shouted:
“Objection! Bad faith! Breach of trust! Bad boy! Bad boy!”
The courtroom cracked. Black-Coat whispered, “He’s better than some human juniors.”
White-Shirt laughed, “And more concise!”
Judge Bakra raised his hand. “Mr. Saxena, remove that bird at once. This is a court of law, not a jungle jury!”
Chaturnath objected, “Milord, as per the Bar Council Rules, there's no explicit ban on avian assistants. Also, Mitthu has passed my personal viva!”
Mitthu added:
“Suo Motu! Tota Motu!”
---
Scene 3: Contempt Contemplation
Things escalated when Mitthu flew across the room and landed on the Respondent’s head mid-cross-examination, shouting:
“You lie! You die! Bail denied!”
The judge stood up.
“That’s it. This is not legal practice—it’s a flying circus! I am issuing a contempt notice to both you and your… feathery intern.”
Chaturnath bowed dramatically, “Milord, I request a chance to defend Mitthu. He’s just exercising freedom of speech.”
Mitthu chimed:
“Article 19! Tweet, not jail!”
---
Scene 4: Resolution & Punishment
After 40 minutes of heated arguments (half of them from a parrot), Judge Bakra delivered a creative verdict:
> “The Hon’ble Court hereby holds that legal representation by parrots, pigeons, or pet poodles violates the decorum of court. However, considering Mitthu's command over Latin and IPC, punishment shall be as follows:
1. Mitthu must undergo 3 months of ‘Silence Training’ with the Court Typist.
2. Chaturnath must donate 10 law books to the local bird sanctuary library.”
Chaturnath nodded solemnly. “Justice has been delivered.”
Mitthu muttered, “Kanoon Zindabad.”
---
Exit Scene
Outside the courtroom, reporters asked Chaturnath, “What next?”
He replied, “We’re appealing. Today, it's a parrot. Tomorrow, maybe a litigating Labrador.”
Meanwhile, Mitthu was last seen attempting to cross-examine a crow outside Gate No. 3.
---
Moral of the story:
A courtroom’s sacred, not a zoo,
No parrots shouting “IPC Two!”
Keep pets at home, briefs in hand—
Or risk contempt you didn’t plan!
-----
Chapter 14: The Love Story of Two Lawyers Who Fell for Each Other During Adjournments
They met like most legendary courtroom couples do — outside Courtroom No. 7, between a delayed matter and a postponed summons.
He was Advocate Ramesh (popularly known as “Adjournment Singh” for his skill in escaping arguments with unmatched grace).
She was Advocate Priya (known for filing writs against everything from potholes to papads, and always carried three colored highlighters and one broken heart).
---
Scene 1: "Milord, Kindly Adjourn… Our Destiny"
It was a rainy Thursday. Courtroom No. 7 was packed tighter than a litigation file held together by a dying paperclip.
Judge: “Next matter?”
Clerk: “Ramesh vs. Municipal Corporation. For final hearing.”
Priya stood up from the other side.
Ramesh turned. He saw her—black robe, tired eyes, and a cup of cutting chai that smelled like delayed dreams.
He whispered to himself, “Objection, my heart.”
Judge Bakra (on time, for once): “Arguments ready?”
Ramesh stammered, “Milord… I forgot the annexures... and… emotions are running high. Request adjournment.”
Priya raised one eyebrow. The Judge sighed. “Fine. Adjourned to three weeks later.”
And just like that, Cupid got his first date courtesy of CrPC.
---
Scene 2: Love in the Time of Listings
Over the next few weeks, Ramesh and Priya ran into each other everywhere — the photocopy shop, the typing guy with the suspicious keyboard, even the Bar canteen where samosas were eternally undercooked.
Ramesh: “Do you believe in destiny… or just default dates?”
Priya: “Only in double-spaced typed destiny… with proper pagination.”
They laughed.
One day, while waiting for a judge stuck in traffic, they shared a bench and a sandwich.
She asked, “What’s your favorite section?”
He replied, “Section 144. No public gatherings—except for two.”
She blushed. That day, two bar members found common law.
---
Scene 3: The Objection
But all love stories have a villain. Enter: Advocate Tripathi, senior counsel and permanent discourager of happiness.
Tripathi: “Love in the corridors of justice? What’s next—honeymoon in filing section?”
He even filed an anonymous complaint with the Bar Association:
> “Two lawyers seen smiling in the hallway during serious matters. Highly unethical. Smiles should be reserved for judgments and GST refunds.”
The matter reached Judge Bakra’s ears.
---
Scene 4: The Courtroom Proposal
Judge Bakra called them in.
Judge: “So, is it true you two are… adjournment allies?”
Priya stepped forward, brave: “Yes, Milord. We met because our matter got adjourned eleven times.”
Ramesh: “And we’d like to request one final order… to make it permanent.”
He pulled out a small velvet box. Inside? A ring with a miniature gavel on it.
Judge Bakra raised an eyebrow. Then smiled.
“Granted. But only on one condition—no honeymoon leave exceeding 10 working days. Court cannot run on love alone.”
---
Epilogue
They got married in the Bar Library Room. The priest was the same typist who did their affidavit for marriage registration.
Their wedding invite read:
“You are cordially invited to the merger of Ramesh & Priya LLP — Litigating Love Permanently.”
And yes, their first child’s name?
“Stay Order.”
---
Moral of the Story:
When courtrooms stall, and tempers cool,
Sometimes love walks in like it owns the rule.
Delay is pain, but also a chance—
For justice, or just courtroom romance!
-----
Chapter 15: The Judge Who Delivered Judgments Through WhatsApp Voice Notes
Judge B.S. TikTokwala was an unusual man.
No, he didn’t dance to Bollywood tracks during recess (not after the Bar Association warned him twice). But he loved two things:
1. Speedy Justice, and
2. His mobile phone, which he carried like it was Article 21 itself.
He had a motto:
“Why write judgments when you can voice them?”
---
Scene 1: Judgment Reserved… and Then Forwarded
One fine day, Courtroom No. 12 was packed. The famous matter of Sharma v. Sharma (over a disputed chair inherited from their late grandmother) was due for final judgment.
Lawyers were anxious. Clients were chewing their nails like it was a biryani buffet.
But Judge TikTokwala didn’t show up in the courtroom. Instead, the court clerk walked in holding a phone like it was holy scripture.
“Milords and Counsel,” he said, “the Hon’ble Judge has sent today’s judgment… via WhatsApp.”
Gasps.
The clerk pressed play.
> [Voice note]
“Hmm… after listening to both parties… itna confusion toh maine Bigg Boss mein bhi nahi dekha.
Chair belongs to elder Sharma. Reason? He brought it to court for three hearings, sat on it every time—ownership by possession and posterior patience.
Judgment delivered. Now mute me—I’m in a family group fight.”
---
Scene 2: The "Judgments" Keep Coming
It became a trend.
Every judgment, from petty theft to property disputes, started arriving as 2-minute voice notes—with background noise ranging from pressure cookers to barking dogs.
One judgment began with:
> “Milords, today’s order… but before that—whoever’s chewing chips behind me, please stop.”
Another one had a ringtone in the middle:
> “Tera Ghata… Mera Kuch Nahi Jaata…”
“Sorry. That was for a different party.”
---
Scene 3: The Landmark PIL: “Please Type It, TikTokwala!”
One day, a PIL was filed by a desperate lawyer association:
> “Kindly direct Judge TikTokwala to deliver judgments in writing, like the Constitution intended… and not with emojis.”
Their complaint included a judgment screenshot where the final order had a thumbs-up emoji, and one where the losing party got a voice note ending with:
> “Lol. Better luck next appeal!”
Judge TikTokwala replied in his usual style:
> [Voice note]
“Who has time to type when truth can be spoken? Why use ink when justice has Wi-Fi?”
The Chief Justice sighed. “He’s not wrong, but he’s also very wrong.”
---
Scene 4: A Temporary Solution… Kinda
Eventually, a compromise was reached.
Judge TikTokwala was allowed to continue WhatsApp-Justice, but with conditions:
1. All voice notes must be transcribed.
2. No judgments during traffic jams or while making tea.
3. Emojis strictly banned (except the scales of justice).
4. No adding lawyers to his “Legal Jokes Forward Group.”
---
Epilogue: The Future Is… Audible?
Now, every morning in Courtroom 12, lawyers wait not for the court bell, but for the WhatsApp ping.
Some say justice delayed is justice denied. But under TikTokwala, justice arrives at 2x speed, with voice modulation and accidental background music.
White-Shirt lawyer says, “At least it’s faster than typing.”
Black-Coat sighs, “True. But last week, he accidentally forwarded my client’s conviction to the Kabir Singh Memes Group.”
---
Moral of the story:
When judgments echo on WhatsApp tone,
And justice speaks through speakerphone,
Make sure you mute your guilty fears—
Or your verdict plays in all your peers!
----
Chapter 16: When WhatsApp Judgments Went Viral (Literally)
It was a quiet Monday morning. Courtroom No. 12, as usual, was empty of its judge but full of pinging phones.
Judge TikTokwala had taken his WhatsApp judgments to a new level — now he’d also started using voice filters.
---
Scene 1: The Micky Mouse Verdict
The case: Mohanlal v. Traffic Constable, a minor challan matter over illegal U-turns.
The parties waited.
The court clerk solemnly opened the courtroom WhatsApp group (“Courtroom12—Only Orders, No Forwards”), clicked play:
> [Voice note, with helium voice filter]
“This Court, after reviewing the evidence (mostly traffic selfies and one very emotional poem by the accused), finds that Mohanlal is guilty of turning left from a ‘No Left’ sign.
Penalty: Rs. 500 and one apology to the nation. Judgment pronounced. Order delivered. Squeak squeak.”
There was silence.
Then uncontrolled laughter.
---
Scene 2: The Voice That Traveled
But things got serious when a judgment accidentally went viral.
TikTokwala’s judgment in Rani v. Raja, a matrimonial case, had everything:
Drama
Emotion
A sudden twist
And background audio of his mother yelling, “Lunch kab khayega?”
The voice note leaked onto social media, captioned:
> “When a judge gives more plot than daily soaps.”
It got 2 million views, #JusticeWithMasala started trending.
Netflix called. “Can we adapt this into a limited series?”
---
Scene 3: Bar Council Strikes Back
The Bar Council had seen enough.
They passed a stern resolution:
> “Judgments must not include filters, musical interludes, or personal ringtones.
Justice is not a podcast.”
Judge TikTokwala responded like always:
> [Voice note]
“I object to this objection. Who says justice must be boring? Better a speaking judgment than a sleeping one.”
The council, unsure whether he was joking or just very committed to content, filed a show-cause notice… via WhatsApp.
---
Scene 4: A Surprise Supporter
Just as suspension loomed, an unexpected letter came—from a 74-year-old retired judge from Kerala.
> “In my time, we wrote 400 pages per case. Half the parties died before reading it.
Let this man speak. At least people listen now.”
Support poured in from law students across the nation:
“He made CrPC sound like ASMR!”
“His voice note helped me pass my viva!”
“I proposed to my girlfriend using his ‘Order of Love’ judgment!”
---
Scene 5: A Balanced Verdict
The High Court intervened.
They issued a historic order:
> “Voice-note judgments are permitted for routine and non-controversial matters, provided they are transcribed, recorded officially, and do not contain bhajans, Bollywood, or biscuit crunching.”
Judge TikTokwala agreed, reluctantly retiring his “Jalwa” ringtone.
--
Epilogue: The New Normal
Now, every Friday in Courtroom 12 is called “Fast-Track Friday” — 20 minor orders in 20 minutes, all via voice note, with occasional legal poetry.
The last judgment of the day?
> “Case dismissed for lack of evidence... and lack of punctuality. Next time, don’t confuse the summons with your grocery list. Jai Nyaya!”
---
Moral of the story:
When justice speaks through audio waves,
It’s swift, it’s sharp—and sometimes brave.
But filters, ringtones, and meme confusion—
Might lead to lawful sonic illusion!
Chapter 17: The Judge Who Judged Others, But Could Not Judge Himself
Every court in India had heard of Justice Omprakash “Omni” Tyaagi.
A man of strict morals, stern eyebrows, and a gavel heavier than most people’s conscience.
He once fined a lawyer for saying “Good morning” instead of “May it please the court.”
He scolded a litigant for wearing chappals that squeaked.
And legend says he once held a tree in contempt for dropping a leaf during his dictation.
But what set Justice Tyaagi apart was his unshakable belief that he was infallible.
> “I am not biased,” he once said, “I am just consistently correct.”
---
Scene 1: The Self-Contempt Case
One rainy Wednesday, while dictating a routine order in a property case (about a 3x3 sq. ft. disputed corner where everyone kept their slippers), Tyaagi suddenly paused.
He furrowed his brows. He re-read his own judgment.
And for the first time in 35 years, whispered:
> “Wait... this sounds... wrong.”
The stenographer gasped.
The lawyers fainted.
The tea-boy dropped his kulhad in shock.
Justice Tyaagi stood, stared at his own signature, and muttered:
> “Objection, Milord. Sustained… against myself.”
---
Scene 2: Courtroom v. Courtroom
Unable to rest, he filed a suo motu contempt petition against his own past judgment.
Yes. Tyaagi vs. Tyaagi.
He assigned a Bench to hear the matter.
He would sit as the judge.
And also appear as the respondent.
> Courtroom 1: He sat in the judge’s chair wearing spectacles.
Courtroom 2: He sat in the witness box wearing sunglasses.
The courtroom was divided.
One side had placards: “Justice for Tyaagi!”
The other side screamed: “Justice from Tyaagi!”
---
Scene 3: The Cross-Examination of the Soul
Judge Tyaagi (as judge): “Mr. Tyaagi, do you admit you once passed a judgment based on a WhatsApp forward?”
Tyaagi (as respondent): “Objection! That was a widely forwarded message!”
Judge Tyaagi: “Overruled. And over-confident.”
He grilled himself on every contradiction, every order with vague Latin phrases like “post facto facto facto” (which he made up just to sound fancy).
> “Is it true you once used the phrase ‘judicial vibes suggest guilt’ in a bail order?”
“I was going through a jurisprudentially emotional phase.”
The gallery sobbed. This was courtroom drama like never before.
---
Scene 4: The Verdict… Or Lack Thereof
After three days of inner turmoil and outer arguments, Tyaagi stood up.
“I cannot pronounce judgment in this case,” he said.
“Because no judge can fairly judge himself. Especially not someone as stubborn as me.”
He looked into the mirror on the courtroom wall, pointed, and declared:
> “Contempt… withdrawn. But reflection… ordered.”
He then issued a suo motu Judgment of Humility, declaring:
1. All judges must attend a monthly workshop titled “Judge Not, Lest Ye Judge Weirdly.”
2. Every judgment shall be reviewed after one year by a jury of retired typists.
3. All gavels shall be replaced with rubber stamps that say “Are You Sure?”
---
Epilogue: The Judgeless Judging
Justice Tyaagi retired that same week, voluntarily.
He now lives in a small house near the court complex, where he reviews his old judgments like diary entries, laughs at his legal Latin, and teaches street dogs to follow principles of natural justice before barking.
He no longer says, “May it please the court.”
Now he simply says,
> “May it please… common sense.”
---
Moral of the Novel:
The court is blind, but the judge can see—
Yet even he must sometimes agree,
That justice isn’t robes or rage—
It’s learning to step off the stage.
Written by Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman
Patent & Trademark Attorney, Delhi High Court
“The Judge’s Eye Sees All… Except Himself.”
---
The Final Judgemental Judgement: A Satire
The Judge’s Eye Acts for Others, Not Himself
They say justice is blind.
But in Indian courts, justice wears bifocals, reads WhatsApp forwards as evidence, and occasionally adjusts its black robe while checking if lunch has arrived.
But there's something even more miraculous than a speedy trial in our system:
A judge who thinks he could be wrong.
Unfortunately, such a judge is as rare as a working ceiling fan in a district courtroom.
---
Act I: The Sacred Eye of Judicial Wisdom
Our judges are trained early. From day one at the academy, they are told:
> "Thou shalt correct the lawyers’ grammar, the clients’ morality, the peon’s outfit, the constable’s handwriting, the Constitution’s interpretation, and occasionally, Google Maps.
But thou shalt NEVER question thyself."
The judge’s eye scans the world with surgical precision:
A missing comma in a writ petition? Adjourned!
A witness blinking too much? Clearly guilty.
An advocate with spiked hair? Held in contempt of courtroom fashion.
But when it comes to self-reflection?
The judge’s eye behaves like a mobile camera with a broken selfie mode.
---
Act II: The Mirror Test
In a mythical courtroom, a brave intern once dared to ask:
> “Sir, what if the judgment seems… unfair?”
The judge smiled, the way a lion smiles at a confused goat.
> “Young man, unfairness is like body odor—only others have it.”
Every judgment they pass, even if filled with contradictions, typos, and Latin that even Romans wouldn’t understand, is treated as sacred scripture carved in granite by Lord Manu himself.
One judge famously declared:
> “I may be wrong. But until the Supreme Court says so, I’m right. And even then, they’re wrong.”
---
Act III: The Judge’s Emotional Support Echo Chamber
Judges are surrounded by a well-trained support staff who react to every pronouncement like it’s Shakespeare and Mahabharata rolled into one:
Court Clerk: “Brilliant, Sir. The way you cited Section 420 while talking about a traffic challan… pure genius.”
Typist: “Sir, you made a typing error, but even your typos deserve citations!”
Peon: “Sir, should I bring tea or applause?”
No one dares to say, “Sir, you gave a 300-page order for a lost slipper case.”
Because judicial ego is like a soap bubble—shiny, delicate, and legally explosive if touched.
---
Act IV: The Metaphorical Blindfold
The statue of Justice wears a blindfold.
Not because she’s impartial, but possibly because she saw a judgment so twisted, she couldn't bear to look anymore.
And that’s the irony.
The judicial eye can detect the smallest lie in a trembling witness…
…yet is completely blind to its own biases, delays, monologues, or occasional nap between hearings.
A judge may quote 83 precedents before lunch, but will never quote the one inner voice that says:
> “Maybe I’m just being a bit too dramatic about this parking dispute.”
---
Act V: The Humble (Yet Imaginary) Judge
Imagine a judge who finishes a verdict and says:
> “Hmm. I could’ve written that better. Also, maybe that poor man wasn’t lying just because he had a nervous cough.”
That would shake the very foundations of courtroom architecture.
The ceiling fan might spin the other way.
Lawyers would drop their black coats and whisper, “Is this... empathy?”
But don’t worry. Such a judge exists only in folklore, next to the timely adjournment unicorn and the courtroom with a clean washroom.
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Final Submission to the Hon’ble Readers
In the grand courtroom of life,
Everyone is judged.
Everyone is questioned.
Except the one doing the judging.
Because the Judge’s Eye?
It acts for others.
But when it comes to himself…
It’s on vacation.
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Satirically Signed,
An Advocate of Laughter, Law, and Legal Lunacy
Inspired by the bar, baffled by the bench.
In Love with Law, Lawyers and Litigation
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Afterword
And Justice for All… Eventually (After 23 Adjournments)
So here we are—at the end of this literary trial.
You’ve survived law without a law degree, satire without sedation, and courtrooms without contempt. For that alone, you deserve a certified copy of your bravery (delivered in 4–6 weeks, conditions apply).
Now, if you expected this book to deliver solutions to the Indian legal system’s delays, complexities, and mysterious missing case files—I object!
That’s like expecting a typist to find “Res Judicata” in Microsoft Word’s autocorrect.
This book was never meant to reform the system.
It was meant to laugh with it, at it, and sometimes, in it (silently, behind the last bench).
Because satire, like justice, must be served cold… preferably with tea and samosas.
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What Have We Learned?
That love can bloom over adjournments.
That parrots can object (but not cross-examine).
That affidavits in rhyme are poetic… but legally catastrophic.
That even judges may prefer WhatsApp over open court.
And that wearing white to court is not a fashion statement—it’s an invitation for tea stains and irony.
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A Final Thought (Before This Gets Adjourned Too)
In every courtroom, while one side wins and the other loses, the real drama unfolds between the lines:
In the weary sighs of litigants,
In the tea breaks that turn into therapy sessions,
And in the quiet laughter shared by juniors hiding behind file stacks.
The law is serious.
But those who live with it day after day?
They need humor like clients need hope.
So if this book gave you a smile, a snort, or even a suspicious glance from your judge while reading under the table—mission accomplished.
And if it didn’t—don’t worry.
The matter is sub judice.
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With love, laughter, and legal disclaimers,
Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman
