A Real Ball, in an Imaginary Court

Ram – the Alcoholic

The room was bursting at its seams. Being the first time that an Imaginary Court was put into session by a hapless judiciary, the media had hyped it widely enough to ensure that every eyeball worth its socket was glued in front of their plasmas or HHD’s. From those with sight permanently impaired by LCD adorned gizmos, to the fortunate ones with Twenty20 type of vision, all were jostling to get into the thick the proceedings that were about to begin. Violent supporters for the Defendant were chanting slogans at decibels that only religious zealots can muster. Some scampered away to try and arm-twist the judge from appearing, or sting with a covert operation that questioned credibility. They blended with the masses, to prevent the event, even before it could occur. The possibility of such a preposterous institution being embraced by the under-prepared world, would spell scripture-perfect doom.

The nervous judge was ferried through a secret entrance, face masked by a pillow-case with slits that allowed all facial faculties to function unhindered. This was in order to protect well being (and NOT to appear diabolic), as the security agencies did not rule out the possibility of fatal retaliation by the antagonized, unreasonable opposition of the modern, immoral notion. The Imaginary Court was designed to be the fairest in the world, and judges who retained the fine ability to do justice to the balls that fell in it, were a rapidly dwindling species. They needed to be preserved and protected at all cost, even if it meant being acutely clandestine or incurring the wrath of Lincoln’s Ghost and Uncle Tom.

The courtroom was ordered to rise, and it took some coercion by the uniformed law enforcers to achieve decorum. The judge waited patiently outside the courtroom and allowed the Defendant further time to make his fashionably late entrance. “There He is!”, A voice pointed. “He looks just like Salman, that explains why he is being cast in the upcoming re-make of the epic,” another remarked. “Fool! That is Salman, making his once a blue-moon appearance, in the “Alistair Pereira type of open-shut” case. I meant – THERE! Look, it’s HIM!”

A hush fell over the court, as Lord Ram screeched his fourwheeler to a halt, and hurriedly alighted from it. A policeman flashed one of the shiny new breath analyzers that had been bulk-imported from China, (to astonishing results of fines and imprisonments), and made his way to the man. “Breathe into this, Shree Ram Chandra ji!” his prayed. Lord Ram obliged. The shiny machine did not beep. Before the trial had begun, the defense had scored a point. The mob went berserk, waving saffron and destroying the dome of the courhouse. In a crumbling, suburban apartment, Arun Govil, permanently glued to the TV, wiped a tear. Not having lost his religion or job, the constable escorted a god into the defendant’s box. The judge rushed to his seat and asked the inquisition to begin.

The counsel for the prosecution rose and was about to begin his address. “You cannot wear those goggles in my court,” the judge interrupted. “But, your honour, you cannot see me without them.” He pleaded. The judge thought for a minute and granted the permission. No one deserved to see more of that face. Not on public TV, which was being promoted as children’s viewing.

“Your honour! It is my party’s contention that the defendant is a raging alcoholic, wife-beater, pioneer of sati, traitor to friends, proponent of slavery and not even human, let alone divine. He is a symbol of Aryan tyranny that was meant to make poor Dravidians subservient and exploit their fear of nature. It is my appeal that the accused, who goes by a multitude of aliases, not restricted to Shri Ram, be found guilty on all counts and sentenced to maximum possible punishment. He is a repeat offender and this time the minimum term be more than 14 years in exile. Also, as a special request, this time the court must not allow his half-brother to keep the throne via proxy footwear on his behalf. That’s all, Your Honour.” The counsel adjusted his thick black frames, and rested. A marketer of televisions shuddered at the thought of the second request and its impact on Diwali sales. Another maker of footwear swooshed to a faint.

“How do you plead?” the judge asked.

“Obviously not guilty”, was the reply from a bald, old man – speaking on behalf of the Defendant. All those in the docks at the Imaginary Court were not allowed to speak for themselves, as per the rules of the judiciary. It was widely accepted and approved, since it was believed that lay people did not have the ability to express their thoughts coherently and singularly enough – leading to mistrials or misrepresentations. It was, therefore, the approved norm that they appoint a champion of their cause. One that was wise enough to understand the view exactly as it was, and present it in a manner that was not double entendre. The bald, old defense was required to make the difference between alcoholic contents and content alcoholic abundantly clear.

The counsel for the persecution got up again, and a lethal cross-fire ensued – causing many a bystander to become casual collateral.

“Did he not take liberal quantities of soma?” the prosecution thundered.
“Soma is the nectar of the Gods!” the defense retorted.
“Did he not betray Jambuvant?”
“You would to, if you were offered Hanuman as payment for the hit, and knew what Hanumant could do!”
“Hanumant means “large jawed” in Sanskrit. Anyways, what could Hanuman do?”
“Stay a bachelor, celibate and yet, stable for years.”
“The Vatican can do that too!”
“Yeah right! Ask the little boys. Not to mention he could grow his tail and burn it brighter than the Beijing Olympic Torch in Taiwan.”
“Taiwan has refused to carry the Beijing Olympic Torch. Get your facts right. And anyways, does that allow one to murder?”
“Well, there is also the ability to lift a mountain and rip his chest apart to show full-colour pictures way before the Lumiere brothers could shout action!”

A patriot made notes, and went looking for the Neem Foundation for Chess and Ramanujan to lodge a national interest petition. One member of the Bajrang Dal shouted “Jai Shri Ram!” and hurled a stone at the prosecutor. It killed a Muslim child brought there by his father. The rioteer was promptly arrested, with an understanding that a release would be secured before the next twilight zoned.

“ And what about making thousands of South Indians work like slaves?”
“They were not humans. They were monkeys. Is that illegal? Ask the pharma companies!”
“Vanaras does not mean monkey, you dimwit.”
“Objection, Your honour”
“Objection overruled”
“Thank you, milord. Vanaras does not mean monkey. It was the slang for South Indians. Like nigger or chinky or, for that matter, Desi.”
“They were doing it out of choice. It was for their own good. Have you not seen Manderlay? Why it is because of Him that squirrels have stripes on their backs.”
“That’s easy for you to say, you North Indian tyrant.”
“Objection, your honour!”
“Objection sustained.”
“Then what about asking his wife to jump into fire. Do you know how many women in India did not have the good pedigree required to stay alive on their husband’s pyre? Do you know how many women still die because of Sati?’
“That was Manu, it has nothing to do with Ram!”
“Another Aryan!”
“He’s not on trial. This man here is. Stick to the point!”
“He wronged his wife!”
“Who doesn’t?”
The judge squirmed.
“He betrayed his brothers, and killed his own cousins”
“That’s Arjun. He’s not on trial”.
“Another Aryan.”
“He’s not on trial! Next you’ll say my client propagated the Swastik Army, in Germany.”
“Well, he did use the Swastika!”
“Conjencture!”
“Have you read the Ramayana?”
“What has that got to do with anything? That Ved Vyas was the alcoholic.”
“Not Ved Vyas, Valmiki, Get your facts right. Who’s Ved Vyas?’
“Who’s Valmiki?”
“Anyways, the Bhagwat Geeta, I mean the Ramayana, clearly says…”

The sentence was interrupted by a loud gunshot. The prosecutor clutched his throat, as blood gushed out of it. In slow motion, the thick black glasses flew off his face, and hit the ground seconds before the lifeless torso. The assassin fired another round at the cloaked judge, who had jumped behind his solid mahogany desk. The bulled ricocheted off a metal typewriter and lodged itself into the bald defense lawyers forehead – leaving a vermillion line. A melee ensued, hundreds were trampled in the stampede. In the commotion that followed, no one bothered to notice that the Defendant had vanished from everyone’s imagination, just like the trampled nameless would. Another round was fired, before the inspector shot the murderer down. The bullet strayed over a few ducking heads, and hit the fading photograph of another bald, bespectacled man. A wise old bundle of tolerance, whose naked face had hung behind the masked judge all the while, as it does even in non-Imaginary Courts.

“Hey Ram!” were the picture’s last words. Before it crashed into the ground.

Imaginary Court dismissed.