Makhi’s mantras
IT was the first day after our court vacation.
As I met with lawyer friends at the railway platform at Bandra to board the local train to Churchgate, many of us were not just wearing spotless white newly laundered shirts and trousers but also our black jackets, which had been brought home for 'vacation laundering'.
Some had their folded black jackets wrapped around their forearms.
As we waited for our usual 'local' near the boarding area for first-class passengers, a strange thing happened.
Passengers disembarking from the first-class compartments of trains arriving at that platform every three minutes, upon seeing this bunch of black coats and white trousers, voluntarily started showing us their tickets and passes.
It was obvious that they had mistaken us for railway ticket checkers (TCs). Some of us, not wanting to disappoint the law-abiding, even checked their offerings, flashed a smile and nodded.
In a couple of cases where their season tickets had expired, we even pointed it out to them and let them go. Some of them may remember the day some benevolent TCs let them go!
Then our local train arrived. When we boarded the train, as expected it was very crowded. A passenger who had no room in that crush of sweating bodies to even scratch his backside inadvertently stepped upon the just-polished shoe of my black-jacketed colleague who was standing next to me squeezed and immobilised by the weight of train-travelling humanity.
My colleague winced but somehow managed to wriggle out an arm and tap the offender on his shoulder. The offender turned his head, saw us and immediately said, "Saab mere pass ticket hai lekin mai hil nahin sakta." (Sir, I have a ticket but I cannot move.)
My colleague snapped, "Ticket ko goli maro … Tum mere payr pe khade ho!" (Forget the ticket, you have stepped on my foot.)
The guy then took his foot off my friend's shoe and apologised profusely.
As the crowd eased with every passing station, we were able to regain our fundamental freedom of movement. The foot-stepper thereupon reached for his pocket, pulled out his railway pass and held it under our noses.
We both realised at that moment how similar a lawyer's standard costume is to a railway TCs uniform.
Speaking of TCs, I must share with you the story of a TC who became a very successful advocate-on-record in Bombay (as Aamchi Mumbai was then known).
We can call him Mr T.C. Makhichoosani, fondly known by his nickname 'Makhi'. Long ago, Makhi had been posted at Churchgate Railway Station as a TC.
The Government Law College (GLC) was right next to his place of posting. Observing lawyers passing by every day, he noticed the similarity between his uniform and theirs. He felt inspired to study law part-time.
He enrolled for the early morning 7 a.m. to 10 a.m. batch in GLC and during this three-year stint at Churchgate managed to get his LLB degree. After office hours during those three years, he used to visit several advocates he had befriended as a TC at the Churchgate Station.
He used to catch many lawyers travelling ticketless but always let them off after taking their visiting cards. Then he used to visit them after duty hours and tell them that he was studying law and would like to just hang around in their chambers and help in any way they directed.
He did not demand or expect any stipend from them except for sharing of practical tips and experiences as he had a well-paying government job with perks.
The lawyers too loved this arrangement and liberally enlightened Makhi about various 'tricks of the trade'.
In those three years, Makhi visited every legal forum in Bombay and developed enough confidence to face the judges by accompanying his lawyer friends on important days to witness the court and tribunal proceedings.
For this, he utilised every leave possible or available. Immediately upon getting his LLB degree, this balding, pot-bellied, bespectacled middle-aged TC sought voluntary retirement, collected all his dues and joined the legal profession.
Makhichoosani used his terminal benefits to get memberships in two good clubs, rent an impressive office and print attractive visiting cards. The only thing he did not need to buy anew was the lawyer's uniform.
"Mera TC wala uniform perfect thaa," (My TC uniform was perfect) he had confided in me much later.
Makhi never worked under any senior but set up his own sole proprietorship 'Makhichoosani & Company'.
He went to the clubs every evening, hobnobbed and networked with affluent members (who took him to be a senior experienced advocate by his looks), never said no to any legal work, howsoever small or big it may be, and always filed his own vakalatnamas in every matter.
As work started flowing and his filings in various legal fora increased, Makhi began engaging counsel and delegating everything (from drafting and settling to arguing) to his choice of counsel while he (and a battery of competent clerks and juniors he could now afford to engage) managed everything in the registries as well as mentioning matters for circulation and scheduling dates.
In ten years, one could see the name 'Makhichoosani & Company' on the causelist of every court and tribunal in Bombay. His rental residence in mid-brow Sion metamorphosed into an ownership apartment in a high-brow highrise located at Pali Hill, Bandra West.
The small rental office room in a rickety old building in Fort now became a swanky self-acquired business premise in Nariman Point.
Makhi's mantras remained the same:
- Never say no to any work.
- Always engage the best counsel to do the jobs for your clients.
- Keep a handsome cut and commission in everything."
Makhi soon had one of the largest volumes of filings across all courts and tribunals in Bombay as an advocate-on-record. Counsel considered themselves blessed or lucky to receive a brief from 'Makhichoosani Chambers'.
Makhi never haggled, paid his counsel promptly and was never short of work. Though he was much older than me, we became good friends when I rented a small office space in the same building where Makhi had his swanky corporate-style chambers.
He used to get many matters drafted by me before sending them to the bigwig counsel for settling, passing them off as his own creations. He paid well and promptly and the arrangement worked nicely. I did not mind at all.
He used to say that the best practice to have is to be a busy advocate-on-record in India's commercial capital or the Supreme Court of India. Makhi was very fond of mouthing well-worn platitudes such as: "Duniya jhukti hai… jhukanewala chahiye" (The world is always ready to bow, it just needs a person who can make it bow) or "Mehnat aur sabar ka phal meetha hota hai" (The fruits of labour and patience are always sweet).
His philosophy of life seemed to revolve around them. He called them his "mantras for success"! However, I liked his original quips better.
Here is a very small sampling:
"Jo bhi khaata hai usey bhooka samajhkar khilaana chahiye." (Whoever is willing to 'eat', feed them thinking of them as the famished). This was used to justify what was called 'envelope practice'.
And the following 'doha' which though ascribed to good old Sant Kabir looks like some irreverent lawyer's inspired creation:
"Kabira khada kaaridaar mein, sabse haath milaaye
Kaun jaane koi ghatiya bhi kabhi judge ban jaaye?"
(Kabir stands in the corridor, shaking hands with one and all
Who knows someone inferior may rise to become a judge tall.)
Makhi didn't really say 'ghatiya' but I cannot use the word he used as there is always a presumption of respectability when it comes to our noble profession.
Such unmentionables aside, are you surprised that Makhi's 'mantras' still remain indelibly etched in my memory?
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.
