If you think that this is going to be a review of Kafka’s book then you will be disappointed. That of course would depend on whether you want it done or just plain happy that I am not going to go into one of my inane reflections. The truth lies some where in between. In my last two posts I have been talking of finding myself in Kafkaesque situations and you must be really irritated at hearing that word again. I can’t help it for this guy seems to be popping into my head every now and then after so many years, may be because I have become more sensitive to the happenings around me over the years. Earlier I had been a satisfied banker having people around me to take care of small things like Aadhar card, ration card etc. I must have been a pretty useless banker for I could not get a proper ration card done during my tenure.
Now I find myself running around to have a motor pump fixed, paying electricity bills, telephone bills (thankfully I pay them online now) and generally lazing around the house in the pretext of helping my wife out. She knows the truth. Thankfully there is a washing machine and a dishwasher at home. My wife listens to everything I say but I end up doing everything she says. I hope she does not read this but my daughter would, but we have a secret pact that we do not spill the beans about each other. You may ask what’s so strange about it, for it happens in very household. The men may agree but the women may take umbrage. So I am sorry. My wife is worried for I get in to small arguments with the auto rickshaw drivers and vegetable vendors (over here they are pretty notorious) and let loose a string of expletives while driving the car at every infringement on my rights to the road. Of course the other party cannot hear as the windows are closed. Nevertheless I find my release.
Of course at this ripe young old age I have become self reliant, if that is how you call it. You see I have to fight my own battles now whether on the road or in the court. Well at last I have come to the point of a battle in a court, may be that is why am calling this post as ‘The Trial’. Now you at least know what motivated me to write all this. Let me make it clear that I am not the accused for I am worried that you may take me to be one after reading all that I have so far said. I am the petitioner here. This is a cheque bounce case. A cheque issued to me as return of the advance I had paid was returned unpaid. Details are not necessary as we are not conducting the case here. Being the banker that I had been with some basic knowledge still remaining, I filed a complaint under section 138 of the NI act. For my non banker friends Google will help you out. Though I had the occasion to attend some court hearings while in service it was always on behalf of the organisation and had the luxury of being called only when absolutely required. Adjournments used to be usual and I could pull up the advocates if things were not being speeded up. But now…well that’s another case!
After filing the application, given a hearing after three months only to go there and being told that the case had been transferred to the Fast Track court and given a date for a hearing twenty days later, I went today to attend it. I stood outside the court room waiting for my name to be called. I stood for a good three hours for there were no benches or any seating arrangements, for we had come only to be heard. Thankfully the Magistrate’s court is one of those old buildings with a lot of trees in the compound and they were kind enough to afford shade. The buildings are relics and so will the people who come their seeking deliverance become in course of time. Every time a name was called out on the speaker I would attentively and expectantly await my turn. And it did come after a hundred odd names and I was ultimately told by my advocate that the cases transferred to the
Track Court after a cut off date will be heard on
a date six months later. I was relieved not because of the postponement but
because I could stand no longer and that is literally, not like in the ration
office when I wanted to go the loo, now I wanted to go back home have lunch and
go to sleep.
The entire scenario there in the court was funereal what with all the black coats with black robes draped over them floatingaround. As I stood outside looking inside it was all surreal. To top it all the way people looked at each other you could ultimately end up believing you are the criminal.
So you see why I called it ‘The Trial’. The book relates the perplexing experiences of a man who is arrested on a charge which is never specified. I find myself in situations which are exasperating and at such times one feels helpless in a system that has taken charge of the conduct of your life.