Baksheesh and bribe

IN the good old days, the Bombay High Court's “Associates” (court masters) were a very friendly and helpful lot. They were particularly nice to us juniors.

If they expected a tip for facilitating our file’s movement through the labyrinthine registry to the table of the right milord in court, they were very subtle about it.

“Why have you come for such a small job? Who is your clerk? Oh, Bigmani? Why don't you send him?”

They would not say anything openly and we had not yet wizened to the symbolism and significance of the perennially half-open drawers of their ancient tables.

Our wily clerk Bigmani knew not just all the pujaris in that temple of justice but, more importantly, the fixed dakshinas to be given for each puja. These donations were always very reasonable, never exorbitant. The rates for each step were fixed.

Thus the ‘out of pocket’ expenses could be factored into our professional bills and no client ever complained about such chai-paani to the registry staff. It was an accepted mode of getting things done and no one made an issue of it.

The best part was that no one was very judgmental about these tips, including the judges who knew everything but never bothered to take cognisance, leave alone judicial notice.

When I was a junior I had no trouble with this breed of associates and court masters because my senior was one of the most liberal paymasters. Typically, he would pay double the going rate of dakshina as ‘baksheesh’ to all of them.

This secured safe passage for us juniors through the ‘no objections’ green channel of clerical customs. Clerical customs were more respected than precedents. As I realised later, buying the goodwill of registry clerks and court associates in this edifice of justice was a most worthwhile investment. The returns on such investments for litigation lawyers were immense.

While the penny-pinchers were knocking on various doors and banging their fists on several tables to get their objections removed, their matters numbered and finally to get them listed, the goodwill-creating investors simply had to utter ‘khul jaa simsim’ (open sesame) like Ali Baba and the forty thieves spread through the echelons of various departments in that august institution used to roll out the red carpet for their benefactors.

But what is a story without a spoilsport or villain?

I recall how one really khadoos old penny pincher cruelly got one of the helpful associates trapped. He first went and complained to the milord presiding in that particular court. The milord called the associate and told him about the complaint received from Advocate Khadoos.

The associate promised to do the old penny pincher's work out of turn so that he would have no cause for complaints. Having secured this assurance, Khadoos slunk to the anti-corruption bureau (ACB) and complained that the associate had demanded a bribe of 200 bucks to remove objections and number his matter.

Now picture this scene.

The ACB give him marked notes, lay a trap. The old penny pincher goes into the associates’ room, thanks the friendly associate for numbering his matter, says sorry for complaining to the milord and then says he wishes to give him a “token of appreciation”!

He then removes the chemically treated and marked notes and shakes the associate's hand, thrusting the two hundred rupee notes into his hand. The notes transfer hands. The associate gratefully shoves them into his pocket imagining wiser counsel had prevailed over Advocate Khadoos. The old penny pincher Advocate Khadoos strolls out of the room. And the cops move in and catch the helpful associate ‘red-handed’, so to say.

This drama unfolded on a sultry afternoon during the 45-minute lunch recess we used to have in those days. The weeping associate was led to the waiting police van with dozens of us watching! As he was an ever-smiling, helpful associate, many of us actually felt bad for him.

The Bar in general was terribly annoyed with the old penny pincher Advocate Khadoos because this arrest and the resultant mopping-up operations delayed everything for everyone indefinitely.

‘Speed money’ would not work and the clients would not wait. For some months, everyone in the registry who was used to tips and baksheesh clammed their mouths and slammed their half-open drawers shut.

There were no CCTV cameras in those days, still, everyone adopted principles expounded by the old bald man with round specs whose dusty photographs used to adorn the musty walls of government departments.

The arrested associate was suspended. It did not surprise anyone when he was granted bail almost immediately. Advocate Khadoos, on the other hand, was virtually ostracised by the Bar. His own son, who as a lawyer used to regularly avail of the arrested associate's services, had a big fight with his penny-pinching father over this trap case.

As usual, the trial dragged on and on. So did the departmental enquiry. Years went by. The complainant, Advocate Khadoos, died lonely and abandoned as he had kicked his only son out of the house. His decomposed body was found only when neighbours complained of the stench.

The friendly associate was exonerated in the enquiry and allowed to seek voluntary retirement. He received his terminal benefits too! He joined a private firm and did ‘liasoning work’ for them. They paid him well as he was friendly and efficient.

After crossing seventy, he retired to the house he had built in his native place. I enquired recently and was told he is eighty-plus now. The criminal case gathered dust as a relic of a bygone era. No one pursued it as the complainant was dead and so were all the panchas.

So why did I remember this case now? Because that breed of helpful associates gradually disappeared. The new guys who replaced them brazenly demanded money.

I remember one solicitor lamenting that for placing a matter before a particularly lethargic senior milord saddled with a prime assignment, the rates were:

For placement in the first five cases on the daily list, the charge was ₹75 thousand per date,

In the next five, ₹50 thousand per date.

For serial numbers 11 to 20, it was ₹25 thousand per date.

Milord never crossed serial number 20.

Apparently, these associates holidayed abroad, owned swanky cars, had properties worth crores and no one could do anything about it. Least of all the milords in whose courts they served.

This became apparent when some modern-day version of Penny-pincher Khadoos complained about them.

A discreet ACB enquiry disclosed that more than a dozen of them owned assets grossly disproportionate to their known sources of salaried income.

As soon as they were called for questioning, they went to the most crooked criminal lawyer their tainted money could hire. Their well-wishers, of whom there was no dearth, advised them to avail of leave from their duties and lie low. Then a miracle happened. Meaning… nothing happened!

After the storm blew over and the tainted associates quietly rejoined their duties, some lawyers who were particularly friendly with this dirty dozen asked them how they had managed to escape.

What they disclosed was really very interesting, hence worth recounting.

It seems that on the advice of that crooked criminal lawyer, they candidly admitted before the ACB investigators that they had indeed accumulated the assets found with them.

Then, just as the formal arrests were about to be affected, they sprung a big surprise and volunteered startling information to the ACB. They claimed that what was found on them represented just their paltry 2 percent of the facilitation fees for deals struck by their bosses.

“Where is the rest of the loot?” asked the top cop of the ACB.

“Ask that to our milord bosses. We were only acting as their agents.”

That did it! All hell broke loose when the milords learnt of the stand taken by their accused staff.

Some senior milords pleaded with the investigators: “Please don't pursue the case. Even though what they allege is totally false, in this age of unrestricted media coverage, the fair name of this hallowed institution may be irreparably damaged. And anyone who cares for the rule of law will never allow that to happen.”

The ACB boss understood but said he was helpless. “Bahot oopar se investigation ke orders aaye hai sahab, (The investigation has been ordered by the very top)” he said.

Milords knew they would now need to take their request to the ‘highest level’ and perforce use political influence to save the fair reputation of the hallowed institution from being besmirched by this unprecedented ploy employed by their associates.

We all know that theoretically there exists a doctrine of ‘separation of powers’, yet it is not unusual for members of the executive and the legislature to help out milords in times of such unprecedented crises.

Some may allege that such help is provided with expectations of reciprocity in future. But that cannot be avoided because justice, even if not seen, must actually be done in such sensitive cases.

Thus, it so happened that everything was slowly pushed under the carpet. And the status quo ante was soon restored. Once again, it was the complainants who were blamed for creating ‘unnecessary trouble’ and upsetting a well-set apple cart that had stood the test of time.

All this brought back memories of Advocate Khadoos and the helpful associate from my junior days.

So what is the moral of this story?

There is in fact no moral to this story. Because this story basically centres around immorality.

Or does it?

I believe in justice, but more in ‘poetic justice’. So here is my take on this: The difference between the old and the new tribe is the difference between a baksheesh and a bribe.

Read more Antics from the Adalat here.

If you love the smell of paper along with spicy satire and the ring of laughter, Raju Moray’s new book Tales of Law & Laughter is out now.