In this life, humans suffer many kinds of deprivations and agonies. Some are deprived of wealth, some of love, some of dignity, some of food, and some of sleep. But there exists another class of humans whose pain is neither seen, nor understood, nor met with any empathy. This is the class of people who have never touched alcohol.
These are the souls who have kept their lips miles away from the mystical liquid that society alternately calls a “bad habit” and “a reason for happiness.” These people, who soothe themselves with titles like disciplined, devout, idealistic, and cultured, live a life where there's no chapter on thrill, frolic, or self-deception.
Whenever these beings arrive at social gatherings—birthdays, weddings, or office parties—they are instantly viewed with suspicion. As soon as someone asks, “What can I get for you?” and they reply, “Just plain water,” a strange silence descends. It’s as if someone just chanted an anti-national slogan on the mic. All eyes turn toward them. Whispers spread across the room: “That’s the guy who never drinks…”, “His wife must be really strict…”, “He must be religious…” and so on, birthing countless theories.
One person asks, “Is your health okay?” Another suggests, “Just start with a little—it kills stress.”
When this non-drinker answers all these curiosities with poise, he’s diplomatically escorted to a corner. No colorful liquid fills his glass. No ice cubes clink. No dazed smile graces his face. He sits there quietly, sipping lemonade, wondering, “Should’ve just asked for milk instead.”
As the night progresses and the crowd slowly tips into intoxicated abandon—dancing, wobbling, colliding with walls, and filming shaky videos—this disciplined soul collects his water bottle and whispers to himself, “Time to head home.” The weight of designated driver is also generously placed on his shoulders. While his drunk friends collapse like cargo in the backseat, he steers with one hand and plays devotional hymns with the other—just to maintain some balance on the road and in life.
His romantic life? Tragic. Women often find themselves drawn to men who are mysterious, slightly messed up, a bit broken. Drinkers embody this package. They hold the bottle, exhale dramatically and say, “I’m shattered,” and the woman’s heart melts. She says, “I’ll put you back together…” and love begins. Meanwhile, the non-drinker approaches a woman and says, “I drink tulsi-cinnamon tea,” and is promptly crowned “Bhaiya” (brother) and dismissed.
Health-wise, these men face a cosmic injustice. They wake up early, do yoga, sip lukewarm water, chew raw garlic, and meditate on their breath. But when the health report arrives, the doctor casually says, “Blood pressure’s a bit high. Don’t worry—just age catching up.” And when the same doctor sees the report of a chronic drinker, he gasps: “Your liver is in perfect condition!” One must wonder—was all this restraint just a long road to silent humiliation?
Even at home, there’s no reward. The wife says, “At least act like a man when you go out!” The kids say, “Dad’s so boring—never has any fun.” And when a relative visits and asks, “What do you keep in your stash?” he shyly replies, “Spice boxes.” He’s never seen as someone with hobbies. No one calls him “cool.” His life is neither bright nor dark—it’s just one long, straight road on which he walks daily with an umbrella, and if even one raindrop falls, he sighs with regret.
He never knows the thrill of disaster. He never wakes up saying, “What happened last night? I don’t remember…” because he remembers everything. Not once does he say, “Dude, I was wrecked yesterday…” His biggest mishap in life? “Too much sugar in the tea.” His version of excitement? Eating unsalted curd, biting into a chili-free samosa, or accidentally swapping pillows mid-sleep.
When he tells people that he has never touched alcohol, some swell with pride. They say, “You’re a great man!” But in the very next moment, the same people pop open a beer and say, “Come on, this life ain’t for you.”
This is a society that praises restraint, but never embraces the restrained.
And so, one day, this man sits alone in his room. In his hands, a cup of ginger tea. Before him, a religious book. In his ears, a devotional tune. He reflects, “I never did anything bad in life… and yet people never saw me as good.” Somewhere, in the distant corner of a party, his drunken friend, slumped with a bottle, murmurs: “Bro, you’re a really good guy… but not party material.”
So dear readers, if you ever meet someone who’s stayed away from alcohol their entire life, hug them. Understand their pain. Because while they may never have been broken by a bottle, they’ve surely been broken within—by neglect, by a joyless routine, by a society that couldn’t find fun in their discipline.
In court, delay is like a magic trick — sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But in office, delay is like chai: everyone wants it, but nobody admits they drink too much!
This chapter is about two very different interns. One comes so early, even the office fan is still sleeping. The other? Well, he thinks time is like Delhi traffic — sometimes it’s there, sometimes it’s not!
Watches beep, coffee cups spill, and naps become secret weapons. All happening in Mr. Black’s office — a lawyer who wins cases even when he is late, but often deliver timely!
So get ready to laugh, because here the real question is — how much late is too late? Lets dive in timely to unfold the law of Lateness.
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It was a normal Tuesday morning in the office of Mr. Black, a High Court lawyer who was famous for two things—winning impossible cases and avoiding responsibility like it was a traffic fine. People said Mr. Black could convince a judge to see evidence that wasn’t even there. Some also said he could get adjournments faster than tea gets cold.
At exactly 9:55 AM, the office door opened like a court room rising for the judge.
In walked Mr. P, the intern who treated time like his religion. Everyone called him Mr. Punctual. His shirt was ironed so well, even a file would feel underdressed near him. His shoes shined like he was going for viva. He looked at his computer like it was a Constitution Bench. The screen turned on, and he smiled like he had already won one PIL before breakfast.
He sat, opened his notes, and said to himself, “One more day, one more victory against lateness!”
Just then, the door opened again.
In came Mr. C, with sleepy eyes and a coffee cup that looked more awake than him. People called him Mr. Casual. He didn’t believe in clocks. He believed in cappuccino. He thought alarm clocks were a scam and time was just a suggestion. His entry was so slow, even the office lizard nodded off.
Mr. C (taking a sip of coffee):“Don’t stress so much, bro. Time is not onion to cut so finely.”
Mr. P (adjusting his collar like a lawyer ready for PIL):“Being on time shows respect—for work, for self, for system. Even Sun and Moon come on time.”
Mr. C (sitting back like a baba giving gyaan):“They come on time, but also go on time. Here, we come at fixed time but no fixed time to leave. So I take rest during work. That’s called balance.”
Mr. P:“Rest? You call watching YouTube in office 'soul care'?”
Mr. C (with calm confidence):“See, bro, people who come on time are always scared inside. Always rushing. Me? I am tension-free. Even Einstein never followed time. He discovered theory of time, but never wore watch.”
Mr. P (raising his eyebrow like a judge in mood):“Einstein gave theory of relativity. You are giving excuses of regularity.”
Mr. C:“Newton also didn’t care about time. One apple fell, boom—laws of gravity. No timetable needed. You want to stop me from becoming legend?”
Mr. P (firmly):“You mix legends with laziness. Delivering work late is not genius. It’s just delay.”
Mr. C:“I never delay. I may come late, but always finish my work on time. That is the real talent.”
Mr. P:“You’re lucky Mr. Black doesn’t care when we come. Otherwise, you’d be arguing your lateness in Labour Court.”
Mr. C (smiling like he won case in Supreme Court):“Exactly! Mr. Black cares about results, not wristwatch. He wins cases by being sharp—not by showing up early.”
Just then, Mr. Black entered the office. He looked around like a judge entering court. Everyone straightened up. Even the computer fans stopped buzzing.
Mr. Black (looking at Mr. C):“That infringement file—is it done?”
Mr. C suddenly sat straight. His fingers flew on the keyboard like they were on a deadline mission.
Mr. C (serious tone):“Yes sir, just completing the conclusion. Will send in 5 minutes.”
Mr. Black nodded and left without a word. But that one nod felt like a gold medal in courtroom Olympics.
Mr. C (turning to Mr. P):“See? I may not come like train on time, but I always land on time. Work done, boss happy. Balance achieved.”
Mr. P (thinking):“Maybe… being too early or too lazy—both are not great. Main thing is work should be done properly and on time.”
Mr. C:“Exactly! If you come too early, you get bored. If you come too late, you get scolded. But if you come smartly and finish work—then you win.”
TThe two interns looked at each other. The argument was over. Both had spoken enough. Silence came in the room, only the sound of the ceiling fan was left.
Mr. C leaned back, stretched his arms and smiled,“Yaar, from timekeepers to sleep seekers, all of us just want one thing—no tension in office and no shouting from sir.”
Mr. P let out a small sigh and smiled back,“True bro... I also get tired of running behind time daily. Half the time I'm early, but still stressed. Maybe you’re right... being too strict with time also doesn't help much. Main thing is—boss should be happy, work should be done.”
Both nodded. One was tired of chasing the clock, the other tired of explaining his delay. But in that moment, both agreed—Whether you come early like metro or walk in slow like WiFi, work should be clean, complete and on time.
Final Conclusion:If you are too punctual, you’ll feel pressure.If you are too lazy, you’ll face problems.
So better to be balanced—not too fast, not too slow. Just finish your work well and on time.
Respectfully funny and submitted with smile,
By The Lawfing Lawyer, Advocate Ajay Amitabh Suman
Patent and Trademark Attorney, Delhi High Court
Lawfing Tales of Law, Lawyers, and Litigation
Chapter 3: Forgiveness is Free... But Not the Court Fee
(from the funny satirical legal series “What a Judge Cannot Judge”)
It was one of those classic mornings at the High Court — foggy air, noisy tea stalls, and a courtroom full of eager faces. The reason? Mr. White and Mr. Black were going head-to-head. Again.This time, the case seemed simple. The clients had made peace. Smiles were exchanged. Hugs were almost given. And then... came a surprising request — followed by a loud thud, some hopping on one foot, and legal arguments that sounded more like a courtroom talent show.All seemed calm... until the judge gave a reply that no one saw coming.
What did he decide?
Let’s dive in.
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The courtroom was packed — not because of the importance of the case, but because everyone knew Mr. White and Mr. Black were going head-to-head. Again.
These two were courtroom celebrities. Not the kind with PR agents or Instagram accounts — the real deal. Mr. Black, known for his icy calm and surgical arguments. Mr. White, famous for drama, flair, and quoting poetry in written submissions. In a legal world full of gray suits, these two were pure theatre.
