The adalat was packed. The air was thick with tension, sweat, humidity, and the uncomfortable black clothes of Indian lawyers and judges in summer. The defence team sat around fidgeting. As did the prosecution.
Jitendra Mehra, sat immaculately groomed in the katghara, the picture of Lokhandwala refinement. His crisp designer suit was pressed perfectly, though sweat stains in the AC-less room were making their debut. His hair was slicked back with expensive pomade, though that was beginning to unravel as the case turned heated. His face was the picture of calmness: the ability to buy as good a defence team as money can does that for you.
Today, though, it had failed to get him a better courtroom. Or witness. Or judge.
Jitendra's team had told him, several times over, that he had a rock-solid defence. Yes, he had been at the Andani's lavish terrace dinner party on the night of the crime, where Mahi's body had been found at the basement. His team had lined up dozens of the city's VIPs to testify that they saw him at different times in the party, no one remembered him leaving it.
They had shown that the time stamps of the CCTVs in the lifts had not added up. So many went down the lift for a quick sutta or to take a call. As many came up... there were so many gaps, anyone could have done her in. Their client liked a bit of a smoke and went down once or twice, what did that prove? The police was just putting bebuniyad ilzaam to close a shoddy investigation. The evidence was all circumstantial, speculative, and more fancy words that the defence team had found on Thesaurus.com, for which he had signed off on several fat cheques.
Nevertheless, the prosecutor some young, still-too-idealistic-to-be-bribed lady by name of Ranjeeta Kewalramani, had suddenly produced this one witness at the end of the last session, prolonging the mukadma. Another four-week adjournment, another four weeks of surrendered passport. Cayman Islands holiday bye-bye. Damn, she was good.
So the entire case now rested on this one chasmdeed gawah: Ramlal. A soft-spoken carpenter with calloused hands and that 3-mile body odour that only honest men seem to have. Had this man, whom he had never met, not been there at the mauka-e-vardat, there would have been no case.
Prosecution claimed that Ramlal’s testimony would destroy Jitendra's case. The defence monkeys did assure him that the Nasher Miles bag full of cash that landed at Ramlal's house yesterday would do all the talking.
“Gita par haath rakhke...”
“Gita par naa, judge saab”, Ramlal's voice steady, his stare unnerving the judge. “Ee dharam granth sab jhooth baa.”
The courtroom buzzed. Some tittered, some started in shock. The judge raised an eyebrow, then lowered it. “If you are an atheist, then just raise your hand and say that you solemnly affirm, Mr. Ramlal.”
The court clerk translated. Ramlal cleared his throat. “Naa malik. 18 mm plywood ke dugo patti mangwai debe, auro u ke saath Araldite.”
The audience guffawed, in the hopes of some courtroom comedy. Ms. Kewalramani's face visibly fell, to Jitendra's delight.
It had been easy to plan. Mahi Vij had motioned to him mid-party to follow her into the basement parking. Fed up of her constant blackmail, Jitendra felt he could turn the tables. He avoided going down with her in the same lift trip: people were coming and going and no one would ask him questions. What she thought was her strength—the desertion of the place and lack of CCTVs—would be her fatal weakness.
She lay in predatory wait for him in an under-construction security room. He walked out of the lift, slapped on latex gloves he had stolen from the bar, strangled her without conversation, stuffed the gloves into his pocket, and walked back to the party. Her body slumped, with the room's plywood walls collapsing around her. He was back in the party in under 3 minutes, depositing the latex gloves he had stolen from the waiters in the barside dustbin. There had been no witnesses to anything.
By the time the body would be discovered, his tracks would be muddied enough. By the time the detectives put together a picture, no CCTV footage would provide a coherent chain of appearances. And this being the Andanis' multi-story personal home, there really weren't that many CCTVs. He hadn't succeeded in life by being a slow thinker.
They prosecution had shown a series of UPI payments from an obscure bank account to Mahi's account. But they all came from the Gpay on Jitendra's phone. The defence monkeys had looked at him like that viral disappointed Pakistani fan. But they had managed to argue that a motive for a crime is not the same as proving a crime. Damn, they were good.
But they had one trump card, sort of. They had rummaged through the latex gloves in the bin (damn the guys who don't dispose of kachra on time). A pair was found with his fingerprints on the inside. They were so smudged, that the police couldn't claim that they were his with more than 95% certainty. His defence monkeys got it knocked down from evidence. Damn, they were good.
And now, all these months later after the public uproar of the murder, and the media circus and the bumbling police investigation that led to his arrest on weak, weak grounds, Ramlal was being just the perfect asshole he hadn't asked for. No jhoothi gawahi – just betuki, atrangi bakbak that would get his testimony dismissed. Damn, the defence monkeys were good. As if on cue, the judge roared, “What nonsense is this? Plywood? Araldite?”
Ramlal nodded solemnly, his gaze still unnervingly focussed on the judge. “Malik, eh duniya mein sab kuch jhooth ba. Dharam jhooth, bhai log ke pyaar jhooth, laikan ke pyaar jhooth. Saanch ba, to khali Araldite ba. Kaahe ki ek ber chipak gayil, malik, ta okara ke kachuo na tod sake.”
The judge called up the prosecutor and told her to discipline her witness. But Ramlal was adamant. He wouldn’t speak a word without his Araldite.
“Ramlal, apni maa ki kasam khaakar bolo ki tumne defence se paise nahi liye.”
The defence howled. The judge roared, “Madam Prosecutor!”
“I apologise, Your Honour,” the prosecutor stood up, but Ramlal interrupted.
“Malik, aara hathauda ke kasam, eko paisa naikhi lele. Haath kat jaaye ose pahile.”
“Your Honour, we request an adjournment to... procure the necessary materials.”
The defence objected, “Your Honour, this witness is clearly insane, and if his testimony is the linchpin of my learned opponement's entire case, I plead that it be dismissed entirely.”
The judge looked at Ms Kewalramani. She bowed, saying, “The state will appeal, Milord. My witness may be idiosyncratic, but any pyschologist can cerify that he is sane. He must get a chance.”
There being no other combination of letters that terrifies a judge than the word appeal, milord sighed and instructed the clerk to procure some pieces of plywood.
“Na, ee naa hoi. Ee matra 9 mm motai ba. Avuri ee toh 10 mm tak naikhe. Aap naikhi samjhat, naa. Sirf 18 mm plywood jeevan bhar chalela. Baaki kachuo jhooth avuri beimaan ba.”
The judge was furious. “You have one hour, Ms. Kewalramani, to secure whatever he wants. After that, the case will be dismissed if Mr. Ramlal does not testify.”
The court erupted into chaos, till the marshals had to baton everyone out. The prosecutor darted out of the court, grabbed Ramlal, and dashed into her car.
Jitendra looked at the clock. Forty-five minutes had already passed. For some bizarre reason, he had to sit in court in that blasted katghara, instead of his air-conditioned car. By now, he was sweating bullets. It isn't nervousness, he told himself. It's just hot.
With five minutes to go, Ms. Kewalramani burst into the adalat, placing two 18 mm planks on the clerk's table. But the clerk was out to lunch, as was the judge.
Crowds were filling up the benches. The adjournment had given the media enough time to send reporters to hear what would be the testimony of a lifetime.
Neither turned up for the next fifteen minutes, letting the humid heat sap the energy out of everyone. Jitendra glared at Ramlal, who just returned the same frog-like stare that had unnerved the judge.
“Yes, Ms. Kewalramani, why are you late?”
Even Jitendra felt that this was unfair of the judge.
“Your Honour, one shop had plywood, but it wasn’t thick enough. Another had the right size, but it was warped. The glue was another disaster—every shop had run out of Araldite, and one shop even suggested Fevicol as a substitute, almost sending my witness into a meltdown. We had a hard tme finiding all he wanted....”
“Yes, yes, alright.” The judge, visibly bored, waved her away. “Now swear the witness in.”
Ramlal opened the box of Araldite with reverence, revealing two tubes. “Dekha malik...” he began, as though giving a lecture, “Araldite doo bhaag mein aavela. Ek tube hardener se bharal, doosra epoxy se bharal. Dunu ke sahi matra mein ek sange milave ke padela.” He carefully squeezed out equal amounts of both onto a piece of cardboard. “Dunu ke mila ke bahute majboot jod ban jala... tab kehu okara ke naa tod sakela. kauno solvent okara ke ghula na sake—ubalat pani tak naa.”
The courtroom watched in fascinated silence as Ramlal mixed the two components with the precision of a surgeon. The resin and hardener blended into a thick, clear paste, which he then spread delicately between the two plywood planks. With calm focus, he pressed the planks together, holding them firmly for a minute, allowing the Araldite to set. “Ab hum shapath leve khatir taiyaar bani.”
The entire court leaned forward as he put his hand on the Araldited planks and swore to tell the truth and nothing else but the truth. The room fell silent as Ramlal gave his testimony. His words were clear, unwavering.
He had finished his work in the back of the building, and had come to the basement to change out of his work clothes. He was half-dressed in a dark corner behind a car, when he heard the security box come apart. “Hum pahile man hi man sochani ki ee apna kamjori se dhah gayil ba, U thekedar ko ham chetavni dele rahle ki 15 mm ke plywood ke istemaal Araldite ke sange kayil jaye, lekin hamaar baat ke sunat ba? Thekedar 6 mm ke kamjor plywood avuri sasta, pheeka gond chunle, Fevicol tak na!”. When he looked up, he saw Jitendra as clear as daylight, and the body of Mahi slumping down. The sight was burned into his memory. There was no doubt.
The judge listened carefully, his brow furrowed. Thrice he asked Ramlal whether he had identified the defendant correctly. Thrice Ramlal swore upon his Araldited 12 mm planks. As he was dismissed, the entire adalat watched him as he gently pressed the plywood planks to his chest and walked out.
The judge's face turned judgier and judgier. The defense vakils' faces turned paler with each swear. They knew—and Jitendra knew—that this wasn't because the testimony shattered Jitendra’s case. They could still win this on appeal to High Court and Supreme Court. But this weirdo carpenter had just given the judge to pass a guilty verdict and keep the extra-large American Tourister full of cash.
This AI-assisted story is a tribute to my carpenter Ramlal Vishwakarma who swears his life on Araldite. In a world of lies and deceit, he also swears by 18a mm plywood.
Comments