THE ALARM GOES OFF at 5:30 AM. She’s already awake though - mid-life crises get you there. Husband grabs his pillow and storms out to the living room. Clearly annoyed by the morning ruckus. She feels guilty now. Could have been quieter. But then how would she proclaim self-righteousness? Finally gets why morning people are insufferably snooty. Superiority complex comes bundled with the early alarm.
The Supreme Court bathroom assault begins with phenyl. Someone's gone berserk with the cleaning supplies – SCBA really cares about this one. So much phenyl it feels like someone’s trying to decompose a body. An angry litigant perhaps - taking it out on the system - maybe because shoe hurling isn’t enough anymore.
Outside, warm-up stretches into eternity. Everyone's waiting for the judges, who are almost there – any moment now. She had to report at 6:20 AM sharp. They will show up soon. Something about George Orwell and Animal Farm. Less said the better. The instructor launches into Zumba. Same guy from Pinkathon. A battery of lawyers launching into pelvic thrusts in coordinated gear. Fun!
The breakfast spread in the manicured lawn looks enticing. Almost like an upper-middle-class wedding reception. She’s doing the mental math: how many kilometres earn a guilt-free plate of chhole bhatoore?
“Race is declared open!” Someone cheers too enthusiastically. Possibly her – always the loud one. Better loud than silence! Defensive, as always.
Media corners a judge about the pollution. Judge maintains the practiced indifference. What can he really do? Pass another order that’ll be ignored? The irony of running in AQI 400 isn't lost on anyone. Some N95s around. She got a fancy one herself.
A young advocate live-posts the event, hashtagging #RunForJustice. Justice wasn't running today. Justice was probably sleeping, like all sensible abstract concepts should be on a Sunday morning.
Kilometre 1
She's excited. Genuinely. Her running coach (yes, she has one now - another middle-class aspiration acquired) warned against starting too fast. “Don't get carried away just because others are running past you.” He knows lawyers well - the compulsive need to compete, even in recreational suffering.
She deliberately joins the walkathon crowd. Senior advocates in their sixties treating this like their morning constitutional. Let the eager juniors sprint ahead. This is strategy, not defeat.
Someone ahead on call with possibly their colleague, “You didn’t come for the marathon?”. She cringes. Any self-respecting runner knows this is not a marathon. It's an 8K. A marathon is 42.195 kilometres - precise, defined, sacred to the running community. Yet here’s the legal fraternity, usually sticklers for terminology, suddenly using terms loosely. She thinks of her “may” versus “shall” research. The profession's relationship with facts has always been flexible.
Kilometre 2
India Gate loops around. A bunch stops to pose for pictures. She is judging them profusely. What is this drama! Either run – or don’t. Why disrespect the track! They will still overtake her later. They run when they can. She on the other hand jogs slower than the walkers. Fitness hasn’t been her forte the last few years. That’s okay! She is building practice after-all!
She crosses another water station. Third one already. SCBA is conscious of the bar’s state of health. Abundant security personnel. Of course. It’s an Apex Court event. She wonders if any of them were under threat – Lincoln lawyer style. That only happens in lower courts. No violence in these power corridors – at least not the obvious types.
The group of friendly senior advocates overtakes her, barely sweating in their t-shirts. Nudge her to go faster. Always encouraging - these ones. She better write them well. They read this column.
Their friendship reminds her she came for the run alone – no friends at this Bar. No real ones to be fair. New Bar for her. It happens. She will catch up.
Kilometre 3
She picks up pace, ignoring the coach’s warning. Breathing becomes a conscious effort. The mask isn't helping. She pulls it down briefly – Delhi air attacks the overworked lungs. Smokey, metallic, practically chewable.
A High Court judge glides past with his entourage - maintaining respectful jogging distance. Even here, the pecking order holds. He is probably going to win this one. Some people do have it all.
She runs this entire kilometre – counting from 1 to 100 under her breath. Or the lack thereof. A few times over. Motivation time – also time for mediocre metaphors – life and law. She couldn’t care less about her own judgments now. She needs to finish this one running – to prove to herself and her father – who was always proud of her. Almost – always!
Kilometre 4
A colleague blazes past – possibly on kilometre 8 of the longer route. Doesn't even look winded. No mask either. Serious runners don't bother with trivialities like clean air or lung health. She disappears ahead, leaving behind familiar feelings of professional inadequacy. Some people are just built different. Or wake up at 4 AM. Or have better genes. Or all three.
Finish line appears. Thank God, she only signed up for the 4K!
She crosses with whatever dignity remains intact. The chirping resumes. Lawyers discussing matters between gasps for air. Someone’s appreciating the judge’s speech at the water station. The profession never rests, not even for amateur athletics.
People are clicking pictures with their friends. She is again remembering she came alone. She always does. She needs to keep showing her face. At all these events. This is easier than parties anyway. Can walk in without eye makeup.
She takes a selfie for record keeping. And showing off on the family group. Selfies come out nice. Red-faced, sweating, glowing. The hustler’s face – always about the effort.
She checks her phone.
Text from Husband: “Done? Sorry was being a diva this morning!”
“It’s okay,” she replies. “Just get some good breakfast made. I am done. Coming back”
Next year, she thinks, she won't do this.
But she will. They all will. Because somewhere between the phenyl fumes and the finish line, this circus made perfect sense. The law was never about logic anyway. It’s about showing up, suffering collectively, and calling it tradition.