Diary of a Judge
We're all trapped here. In this beautiful, broken system. The seniors who won't retire. The juniors who can’t rise. The litigants who can't wait. The judges who can't keep up.
Abiha Zaidi
Published on: 14 December 2025, 03:05 pm
Entry 1: The View from Up Here
I see it all. I see you all. I hear the sniggers. The sweet smell of Rajnigandhas — and the bitter one of your disdains. I am not God, but you did place me on this pedestal. And the vantage point it gives me—oh, I see it all.
Your tribulations in these trials. The nervous energies. I sense those too.
The aggressive tenor. The trembling hands. The celebrity lawyer, strong social presence––weak argument. The chain of screaming that runs down the hierarchy. The undercurrent of influence and the overcurrent of flattery. I see it all, Sir.
Sometimes I wish I could unsee. So, I learn to ignore. To let it pass.
I am not superior, but I am here. Put in this place by you––and some well-meaning collegium people. To serve. And at your pleasure, I shall.
Sometimes I wish I could unsee. So, I learn to ignore. To let it pass.
Entry 2: The Seniors
The doyen has finished his arguments. He will sit down now and go through his phone. Because once his arguments are done, it is beneath him to listen to the other side. At least that should be the perception. Slightly indifferent. A loose smirk here, a patronising guffaw there. That’s all!
The senior counsel opposite him doesn’t bat an eyelid at this theatre. He continues with well practiced vehemence. Oxford education peeping through his lilt. In force is pronounced “IN F-A-U-R-C-E”— with distinct syllables. And why not.
He will now read this long judgment. Slowly. Specifically, deliberately, and painfully slow. Each word enunciated like he’s teaching kindergarten. To a bench that’s heard this judgment cited too many times before.
Entry 3: The Young Ones
Next case. Young lawyers appearing, struggling for their page numbers and copies. I will cooperate. If I don't encourage, who else will? The senior at the back is rolling his eyes. He's forgotten his first appearance—the trembling, the fumbling, the absolute terror of addressing the bench.
She enunciates and over-enunciates. “Your Lordship” becomes “Your LORD-SHIP.” It’s alright. She will be saying “FAURCE” in a few years. The cycle continues.
"We list it for Friday,” I say, knowing full well Friday is already packed with 73 matters. Better than Thursday – with all the Section 34s – headache inducing day that one! PUBLIC POLICY. Ugh.