THE HOMECOMING
Monday, at the Ghaziabad District Court, I did my best to keep up with Kapil, an assistant to Manish Sisodia, one of the lawyers who defended Dr Rajesh and Nupur Talwar in the special CBI court there. He was carrying two copies of the same judgment, about 550 pages all told. A passerby said: ‘Bada bhari file le jaa rahey ho bhai.’ Another said: ‘Badi jaldi mein ho, hai kya?’
Kapil had been doing this run—from chamber to court to chamber—for about an hour. Each second he saved would be a second less in Dasna jail for the Talwars. But this was Ghaziabad and it set its own rules, its own pace. The ‘certified copy’ of the judgment had to reach the appropriate CBI court, where a clerk would certify that it was indeed certified. It would then be taken to the computer section (where the judgment was available online anyway) for re-verification. Once this was done, it would come back to the court, for a clerk to flag and mark the relevant portions for the judge. Once the judge had verified that all verifications were in order, he would sign a release order.
But judge Tiwari, whom this matter was meant to go before, was on leave on Monday. There was an added problem, which the court clerks hemmed and hawed about— there was a lawyers’ strike. Ghaziabad was at work. I shook my head. This was déjà vu.
On the first day of the Talwars’ trial five years ago, my notebook ready, I heard a brief announcement that ended any hopes of filing a court copy: ‘Condolence ho gaya.’ A member of the Ghaziabad bar had died an untimely death. The court was closed for the day.
This time, it was a case of police assaulting lawyers in Meerut. Fortunately for the Talwars, judge Choudhary was available, and after some pleading, the clerks sent the matter to him. He signed the release around 3 pm. Exactly four days after the Allahabad High Court had set the Talwars free.
The first time I visited the Ghaziabad District Court was on 4 June 2012. The route was familiar, its disorder almost comforting after so many trips. The hoardings change, but are always worth a chuckle. Five years ago, it might have been an educational institution advertising the fact that it was recognised by the government under the ‘B’ category. Now, it was an unsuspecting Pierce Brosnan peddling paan masala.
During the Talwars’ trial, these sights en route offered some dark relief to the grim injustice that would play itself out in court every day. They would make me smile. On Monday, my smile wouldn’t leave me: after nine and a half years in hell, more than four of them in jail, Rajesh and Nupur Talwar would be released. On 12 October, the Allahabad High Court had ruled that they hadn’t committed the murders of their 13-year-old daughter Aarushi and manservant Hemraj. The order suggests they had been framed.
I was expecting change as I reached the court complex. Some things had, some hadn’t. A large gate had inexplicably been constructed within the premises—with much room on its sides to allow free access without using it, including a metal detector constantly beeping red. The water tank in which a monkey may have committed suicide had probably been cleaned, but the photocopy machines still whirred, the typists tapped, and the multitude of eateries were doing brisk business as before.
The Talwars were tried in a courtroom in an annexe, which was one accessed through a narrow gate between a public toilet and a waste dump. Both had gone, but the court had shifted too. It was now in a brand new building opposite the post office along the main approach road. And what a court it was. Fresh white paint, comfortable reed chairs for litigants, air-conditioning (O General units, no less!), mikes, speakers and computers. Not to forget the dock.
In the earlier court, the dock perpetually