Even as a teenager, as the eldest son of a lawyer in Poonamallee, a town in Tamil Nadu, I was conversant with legal terms such as adjournment, affidavit, codicil, ex-parte, sub judice, probate and vakalat nama . My father’s library housed rows and rows of stout books, Morocco-leather bound, with gold letters on the spine, standing in rows like sentinels in steel bureaus and behind glass doors. The bulky case papers were on tall, wooden racks. Some of them were decades old, as litigation was (even now ) a long-drawn-out, time-consuming process. He had two clerks, sitting on the two thinnais , one on each, surrounded by the clients. They will not talk to each other, for reasons not known to me. It was a mystery how my father was running his practice with lack of communication between the two.
On a particular Sunday, when both the clerks were on leave and the thinnais were unfilled, I heard someone calling out, “ sami ”.
The caller was a tall gentleman, ebony dark, with a broad chest, long arms and bare feet. He had on a long shirt, a dhoti of eight cubit, with red finger-thick border that ran the length of the dhoti’s bottom end. His broad forehead was smeared with vibhuti with a round ornamentation of sandal paste at the centre, under which a dash of red vermilion stood out in relief.
He introduced himself briefly. He told me he had come to sign the vakalat nama , empowering my father to represent him in the court.
“Sami told me to come today to sign it. Is he in his office room?”
“No, sir. He is not in town. Had to leave for Tiruvallur urgently.”
“Is the clerk Rajagopal available?”
“No. He has gone with him. Clerk Arumugam will not come today.”
His face registered no emotion. Not even disappointment at being unable to meet any one of the three.
“But wait sir, I have been told about your arrival today. The blank vakalat is kept ready for your signature. If you will wait for a while seated on the thinnai , I will bring it. But before that, will you care for some buttermilk?”
His face brightened. He nodded gratefully. “I wont mind. It is only 10 in the morning but so hot. You are sami’s eldest son? Aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you doing?”
“I am in college, studying chemistry.”
“Not law? Don’t you want to follow your father’s profession? You can take over his practice, his large number of clients.”
“That is for my father to decide, sir.”
He nodded, “Quite right. Quite right. Well said.”
He drank the cool, spicy buttermilk I brought, in one go, and thankfully accepted my offer of a repeat. He released a muted belch in contentment, wiping his lips with his upper towel.
Standing up, he made preparations to leave, but I pointed out about the signing of the vakalat .
“No, need, sir. It will not be required.”
I could not comprehend what made him say so.
“I will explain. I came here to file a case against my elder brother. There is a dispute on sharing the mango groves between the two of us. Last time when I met your father, he told me not to fight with one’s own brother, who had come out of the same lady’s loin, but go for amicable settlement. But I was not in a mood at that time to listen to him. He told me to think again before taking the legal course. My wife advised me not to fight with my elder brother, who was like my father. But I was adamant.”
He looked at his right hand thoughtfully which was bandaged.
“Elders say man proposes and god disposes. How true? I fractured my right palm yesterday in our mango grove. My wife said it was a signal from the gods, not to go for the case. Yet, I was adamant. If my right hand cannot sign, I will use my left for thumb impression.”
He laughed cynically. “Even that was not to be. At the bus stand, as I alighted, someone rushing out collided with me, his heavy steel trunk injuring my left thumb. I went to the doctor at the end of this street and got it bandaged. Now, I can’t use either hand. Perhaps it is a divine ruling. No case. And so, no vakalat .”
“Here comes the best mango fruits our grove has yielded, a small gift from me. My gardener who came by the next bus has just now brought it. About not fighting with my own brother, I should say, Sami proposed, even forgoing his fees, and god seconded.”
The baskets of ripe mango fruits filled my home with fragrance. It lingered on for a long time even after he left.
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