The Obiter Truth: The wearer and the gown

As it plopped down in a red-green sea of chutney, I let out a cry that momentarily paused the munch-chop-clutter of the whole court canteen. “I knew you were pure evil,” I pointed an accusing finger at the decimated bun samosa, “but to do this to me today of all days?! I am to appear after lunch before a judge I don’t know at all! What will I do without my gown? I’d barely started fitting into it. Do you know how many files I’ve carried to broaden these shoulders? How many sleepless nights I’ve suffered to match the black under my eyes? My appearance will have no meaning without my gown. Not to me, not to the client and certainly not to the judge.” I looked around helplessly and took off the chutney-stained gown like an aspiring superhero robbed of power yet to be flexed.

The lawyers on my canteen table were concerned, but not enough to lend me their gowns. The one in the sun-browned pleats shook his head, “I watched closely that bun-fall, noted every tiny detail. I have to say, the real weakness in your appeal is that fleeting look of disdain you gave my gown before you asked for it. A High Court lawyer might ignore that sort of thing, but it doesn’t escape us district court people.”  Like a criminal in police custody, I denied the charge in innocent head-shakes but he remained unaffected, “my gown is meant for the adventures of bike rides, umbrella negotiations and superintendent offices. It won’t sit well on complacent shoulders,” he slurped the last bit of his paper-cup chai and left the table.

The senior counsel in the next chair betrayed no interest, choosing instead to look away into the distance. His gown was shiny and squeaky clean, made from that silken, unattainable material that never creases. He wouldn’t lend me his gown, I knew instinctively, but I had to try, even though it had too much personality for me to carry. I’d seen the senior himself twitch uncomfortably beneath it sometimes. But these were desperate times. The judge I’d never seen before was playing on my mind.  In an effort to sound convincing, I started to narrate the whole malady in laborious detail from the beginning, but nervousness caught up with me and I nonsensically blurted, “sir, someone stole my gown”- about as far removed from the correct facts as was conceivable. “Just come to the main point,” he responded impatiently, anticipating the whole conversation in his mind. “You want my gown, but you don’t know how to ask for it and you’re not sure you can carry it." I nodded with relief. He seemed to have understood the matter. He said, “don’t worry, child, there’s no need to ask for my gown. It will come to you when it thinks you’re ready. You just keep working on those shoulders and eye bags.” With that he patted my head, rose from the table and slow-marched out of the canteen amidst a procession of juniors who carried his black train of glory, leaving me thoroughly confused. Did he or did he not agree to give me the gown Evidently not, I looked around. My circumstances hadn’t changed at all from his intervention, regardless of whether it was meant to be deeply insightful or a mere abstraction. I was still without a gown.

In absolute trepidation, I left the table for the courtroom, but never made it inside, preferring instead to sink into a chair just outside, head in hands. Someone rap-tapped my shoulder in a rhythm that was familiar and perfect “What is it counsel?” the voice said evenly. I rambled endlessly without looking up. The many gowns, the many wearers. “I get it, you know, every gown is precious to its wearer. For someone starting out, it is just a fancy thing to be acquired because it seems to have superpowers. But as you go along, it takes on the personality of its wearer. There are unique experiences that make up its texture and the weight of many decisions nestles in its folds. So I can understand that nobody wants to part with his gown-”

“Here. Take mine,” the voice said simply, placing a gown on my lap. It looked grey, but in the most wonderous, silvery way possible. It sort of shone, but it was so very heavy, I could barely hold it.

“Why would you want to share your gown?” I asked sulkily, without looking up.

“Well, it gives me a pain in the neck to sit with a thing so heavy and fend off endless demands. Someone or the other is always unhappy no matter what I do. And if everybody is happy, I worry I’ve not done what I was supposed to do”.

“But it is yours,” I wonder aloud, head in hands. “You must’ve done something to make it yours."

“Well, yes and no. Unlike other gowns, this one has a personality of its own. I can’t take it off. Even when I do, it follows me. It has a supernatural hold on my mind. I am always thinking about it. Whatever I do, whoever I speak to, wherever I go, I follow the commands of my gown."

“Gosh! That sounds harsh. I’m not sure I want this gown. I mean, what if you make your gown unhappy?”

“Then it punishes me. When I disrespect other lawyers, or give priority to commercial issues over human rights, or act in a way that creates doubts about my judgment, my gown loses some of its sheen. The whole world gets to know that I’ve done something wrong. Sometimes, this gown can light up courtrooms. Other times, it casts shadows on the very chair in which its wearer sits. Which is quite insulting, to be honest, especially when the whole world is looking to see what you’re up to. I did once consider getting a standing desk to ease the pain in my back, but then reconsidered it for this very reason. The others tell me it feels like a punishment when you’re already the most elevated table in the classroom…I mean, courtroom.”

Realisation hit me like the rap-tap of his lordship’s hammer, as I raised my eyes to finally meet his. Fumbling forward, I bowed to the only eager beaver in town who’d willingly lend away his gown.

Note from the author: Thank you, readers, for following up on the next post and the book. I am on it, on it! The book should be out soon and we have planned some fun as a hat tip to the followers of this blog. Will reach out about it shortly!