Category: Uncategorized

4 min read.

At the end of my last short story dated 14th February 2021, I had averred that I would write up my next post about the PM’s straitened circumstances. As I had some other commitments, instead of posting it sooner, I could not do it on the announced date either. Since then a lot of water has gone under the bridge. In the national newspapers, there have been rumours about the issue. In one paper there was an inner page headline using the words ‘in straitened circumstances.’ Quite ostensibly, my account of the subject matter is rather otiose.

However, I will deal with it from a different perspective. But some facts are to be reiterated. For example, the PM’s salary is about £160.000 per annum. From that roughly £60,000 is deductible as tax. That leaves slightly more than £8000 per month in hand. Until very recently his fiancee was not doing any job. I do not know whether she was entitled to any maternity leave payments. The PM must be getting royalties on his books. But before he became the Prime Minister he was earning about a million pounds a year, that included quarter of a million from the Daily Telegraph for his weekly column. Also, he was getting good money for public speaking.

At that time, he was well-situated financially and had enough cash to splurge even on car parking fines. The world had seen the images of his car wrapped up in parking fines and penalty charge notices outside his fiancee’s flat. Of course, now he gets official transport, and should not be worried about parking fines.

But since the birth of his child Wilfred, there has been a problem. The couple needed a nanny to look after the child. It is more so when the fiancee is a complete novice in the matter, though the PM is a seasoned veteran. This is the sixth or seventh time he has a baby.

But nannies do not come cheap. In case they employ a qualified one for 24/7, I doubt it if they can get one in London for less than £60,000 pa.

He is also paying maintenance to some of his children from his past relationship and previous wife.

Even if he scrimps on non-essential items, it would be difficult for him to have a decent living.

Recently the PM’s would-be-mother-in-law was seen entering the 10 Downing Street. She might have come to tend her grandchild. If it were so, it would be a blessing for the couple. But I am not sure about it. She could be a day visitor.

Our son , his wife and their two school-going children live about six-minute drive from our house. As they have been working full time, they had employed a nanny for a couple of years. She was quite good. She would pick up the children from the school, which is about nine-minute drive from their house, bring them home, and give them food. They would rest for sometime. She even helped them to do the homework. By then one of the parents would be at home. Unfortunately, she had to leave the job due to her family circumstances. Our son and daughter-in-law were in a predicament.

Our daughter-in-law approached us with a view to seek help in the matter. She asked us if we could collect the children from the school three times a week and to stay with them up to 5.30 pm, or sometimes until 6 pm. It was an onerous task. After deep deliberations, this was my polite response:

“We love our grandchildren and their company. But to pick them up from school three times a week is a job beyond our capability. Had we the capacity to look after more children we could have produced more. There was no other impediment. Thus, we limited it to two children. The maximum which we can do is to collect them every Wednesday.”

They agreed.

But hardly a few weeks had passed, Covid-19 pandemic put it on hold.

Coming back to the PM’s would-be-mother-in-law, if she is helping her daughter to look after Wilfred, she must be very brave. I make a salute to her.

It has been reported in the newspapers that readymade food is delivered to the PM’s flat. My advice is that though the dishes might be quite palatable, he should shun deliveries from the takeaways and restaurants, even if it purports to be organic. I would not eat such food every day. It appears he is putting up the weight again. He should consult his dietitian. To be honest he needs a cook to prepare salubrious dishes for him.

Last thing which is the nub of this post is this:

There is no doubt the PM’s financial situation is not healthy one. There is every possibility that as it stands he might be in a hock to his Bank. According to some reports, he is sometimes worried about it. Even if his fiancee restarts her job and her mother does some baby sitting, still he might be on a shoestring.

To refurb his flat, funds might be collected from the Party members by a charity set up by the Conservative Party.

But there is no proposal to find funds to provide salaries for the nanny and the cook.

Instead of humming and hawing, I have a proposal to avoid the PM’s financial woes.

We should do the crowdfunding. Many people, assuredly, would commiserate with him, and contribute generously. The funds collected would be sufficient to pay for two or three nannies and one or two cooks, and to last beyond the duration of this Parliament. He might carry on fathering more children with confidence. I think he loves children.

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Ps: Next post will be published on Sunday, April 4th 2021, at 11 am. It is titled: I had the second Covid-19 vaccine, but the possibility of new variants hangs over us like the sword of Damocles.

4 min read.

I had the vaccine on a Friday morning and there were no side effects at all. By that time, the wife was keener than me to have the jab at the earliest. She had even asked our daughter to pull some strings to expedite it. The daughter advised her to wait for her turn.

At the weekend she got a few phone calls from some South Asian female friends. I was disappointed to note that her confidence in the vaccine had waned.

On the following Tuesday at about 3 pm, she got a phone call from the Practice Manager telling her she could go to the Civic Hall near us for the vaccination. She drawled:

“Okay.”

But as the minutes passed, she seemed more hesitant to have the jab.

To encourage her, I averred:

“You know very well that there’s no risk at all. You’ve seen me, it’s just a piece of cake.”

She commented:

“But you’re a man and much stronger than me. It’s better if I postpone it for a while. There’re 45% South Asian people who’re not acceding to the vaccination. They must have some reasons.”

I was left in bafflement. Both our son and daughter were not accessible because they were at work.

I tried to have one last throw of the dice, and referred to her the examples of some women of over hundred years of age who had been vaccinated and were doing well. She should take a dim view of the preposterous fears disseminated by some ill-advised women she had spoken to.

Beseeching her, I explained,

“If you hanged back from availing this opportunity, it might be difficult to get the appointment again. There’re countries, in particular the EU, who’re trying to convince the PM to forgo huge quantity of the vaccine already paid for by the taxpayers. One wonders, how long can he hold it?

Thankfully, the penny dropped.

Her sentimental speech soon thereafter is interesting enough to warrant mentioning:

“You’re taking me to go to the Civic Hall to have an awfully strong vaccination against an extremely dangerous virus. There’s possibility, may be remote one, I might not come back. You know I’ve an account with the Building Society. Please divide the money equally among our five grandchildren.”

Before she could say more, albeit with a straight face, I took a facial tissue from the box lying on the centre table and had a simulated wiping off my specious teardrop.

She continued calmly:

“Furthermore, I’m going to mention some family members and family friends.

“Please treat my both the sisters with love and affection. Also, remain in touch with my two cousins, brother and sister. They have always been good to us. Please be kind and obliging to our family friends, the two brothers and their wives, who’re sisters, and their elderly mother-in-law. They’ve been extremely helpful to us since we settled down in this paradisal town. Our part time housekeeper deserves compassion. She’s a single mother of a 16-year-old boy. She has been serving us with dedication for the last ten years.”

She added:

“I know I’ve, though rarely, said or did something which you might’ve disliked, including the idiom used by me which you narrated in your second post last year i.e., Leopards don’t change their stripes. I’m sorry for the bantering tone. I never meant it.

“Finally, I apologise for shoddily cutting your hair a few weeks back. In consequence of the mistakes I had made, there was no option but to shave your head completely. Believe me, I did not do it deliberately. I know it was for the first time in your life you realised that your head was oblong, not round shaped. To boot, I took your photograph, cut the face and the shaved head from it and pasted it on the body of a sumo wrestler, and sent it to friends and relatives in different parts of the world. I regret for the gesture.”

“Never mind that. I assure you, you’ll be back safe and sound”, I replied.

We reached the place at 5.15 pm. The entrance of the Centre was half a minute walk from the car park. I expected her to be back by 5.45 pm at the latest.

It was raining lightly.

By nature, I am not a worrier, but by 5.58 pm I was getting uneasy. I listened to the six o’clock news on the BBC. It was announcing that the days figure of inoculation was nearly half a million.

Further wait was giving me the collywobbles. I got out of the car. It was still drizzling. I went straight to the woman volunteer at the exit door. I told her the wife’s name and that she was of medium height of South Asian ethnicity, and had gone in for the jab at 5.15 pm but was not back yet.

She went in. To avoid rain, I followed her and waited in the porch. I peeped through the glass but did not see the wife, while some vaccine recipients were waiting there for the mandatory fifteen minutes wait

After entering the waiting room, the volunteer announced my wife’s name. There was no response. I felt more restlessness. I could see the woman going to the vaccination hall. She spoke to a couple of persons on duty there and enquired about my wife. One of them accompanied her back to the waiting room to help her to trace her. I was a bit relaxed.

And guess what they saw there?

What a stark contrast! A few hours earlier, the wife was thinking that she was going to meet her Maker, but in the waiting room she was relishing the post-jab moments by listening to Michael Jackson’s music by wireless headphones. That was the reason she could not hear her name announced by the volunteer.

We reached home. My wife had hardly any reaction to the jab.

Next morning, she embarked on canvassing the South Asian friends and others to grab the opportunity to have the jab the moment they are offered. Some of them gave impromptu affirmative answers.

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Ps: Next post will be published on Sunday March 14 2021 at 11 am. It is titled: Our PM Boris Johnson is in a straitened circumstances.

5 min read.

It was last Thursday afternoon I got a phone call from my Health Centre Practice Manager apprising me of my turn to get Covid-19 vaccine. I was given the choice. Either I could get it on the same day at a Civic Centre which was about half an hour drive from our house, or at 9.50 am next day at the Civic Hall quite close to us.

I was eager for the call, which came out of the blue. In a state of admiration, I said that I would go to the Civil Hall next morning. To express my appreciation, I suggested to the Manager, albeit humorously:

” It’s a great news. I think I should go wearing a tie with a suit.”

She laughed and replied:

“It’s entirely your pleasure.”

Next morning my wife accompanied me to the Civic Hall. We were there at 9.25 am and parked the car in the Car Park. There were several volunteers to welcome us and to guide us to the venue where vaccinations were in progress.

While the wife waited in the car, I was led to the hall at 9.35 am. It looked that the NHS staff and the volunteers outnumbered the vaccine recipients. A suave gentleman welcomed me and asked my name. After I told him my name, he enquired:

“How’re you feeling?”

Borrowing the words used by PM Boris Johnson a few months back, I confirmed:

“I’m as fit as a butcher’s dog.”

“That’s very good. There’s no need to ask further questions”, he concluded.

He gave me a copy of the instructions to read after the inoculation with a card bearing my name.

After a couple of more minutes, I was ushered to one of the desks near by. Everybody, including the volunteers and vaccine recipients were strictly observing the social distancing rules. The floor was clearly marked to avoid any confusion.

At the desk, as instructed, I handed over the card to the girl sitting opposite to me. She asked my name, I replied jokingly:

“It’s there on my card”.

She added:

“I’ll appreciate if you tell me again”.

After that she asked me a few more questions.

Before she could end I sought clarification about the vaccine which I was getting. She told me that it was Pfizer.

I continued:

“When’s the next jab due?”

She told me twelve weeks.

I suggested merrily.

“You’re an officer of the NHS, is it not your discretion to give me three weeks appointment?”

She seemed unfazed and coyly responded that she had not been granted that much power.

I was then guided to the next hall where there were four inoculation cubicles. After a minute or two, I was welcomed by the nurse. She was very polite. I removed my coat and the sweatshirt. I rolled up my shirtsleeve. The jab was given.

Thanking the nurse, I said:

“I didn’t feel a thing.”

She replied with simper:

“Thank you”.

Clarifying the words which I had just used, I said:

” I haven’t borrowed the words ‘I didn’t feel a thing” from Vice-President Mike Pence, who used them on the 12th December after his inoculation, The fact is that I had applied them before while treating by the nurses.”

She thanked me again.

(Bearing in mind her precious time, I did not think it advisable to tell her that I had mentioned the fact of using the words ‘I didn’t feel a thing’ in my blog dated 4th September. The phrase has been used by many people in other contexts, but it appears that while being inoculated by a nurse it was used by me first.)

After the vaccination, I was led to the waiting area where I was directed to sit for fifteen minutes. I could see there oldsters and some youngsters.

I reached my car at 10 am. Everything happened so smoothly at a breakneck pace. As it stands, it looks that this time the government under-promised but is overperforming. But the jury is still out.

The wife offered to drive the car, but as I was perfectly well I drove home myself.

After about half an hour, telephone calls started pouring in from the family and the friends. Both the children and their spouses, being part of the front line NHS staff, had already been inoculated. The daughter had both the jabs. I assured them that I could not be better.

Before I conclude my this short post, I must add that unfortunately, there are some people of South Asian ethnicity who are shilly-shallying about having the jabs. Their doubts are misconceived and not tenable. They should snap up the invitations. This is the only way to eliminate the deadly and invisible virus for good. It would be very remiss of them to reject it.

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6 min read.

This occurrence took place when I was the mayor of our paradisal town, and my wife, ipso fact, was the mayoress. The job had access to a few perks which included help of a personal assistant, who dealt with the correspondence and organized official meetings and events. He would sit in his office just adjacent to the mayor’s stupendous parlour. The mayor was also entitled to a four-wheel drive car with special number plate and two chauffeurs. One was a Welshman in his early thirties, named Martin. The other was born in Malaysia but of Indian ethnicity. He came to the UK when he was a child. He was in late forties, married to a Scottish woman, who worked in a local Bank. They had two teenage daughters.

This story is about him.

Albeit he was 6′ tall and as fit as a flea but appearance-wise he was as thin as a rake. Funnily enough, his seeming fragility had earned him the sobriquet of Stouty. Unsurprisingly, instead of being offended, he was pleased with the nickname. So much so that in the overseas twin towns, he was known by this name. In fact, in the beginning I was under the impression that it was his real first name.

He was far more popular than the mayor. The mayors came and went, but Stouty did not intend to go anywhere for years to come. He was blessed with the sterling qualities to be admired in anyone. The truth is that due to his humour and bonhomie the people loved him.

With the exception of a couple of work-related complaints, Stouty enjoyed his work.

The two aspects of his job about which he would whinge every so often are succinctly stated here.

In the latest salary review of the Townhall’s employees, he felt that they gave him the cold shoulder. Quite often his job involved prolonged and unsocial hours.

Lately, Stouty was becoming quite blase about the prospect of any success in redressing his grievance about his pay scale.

Second complaint was more serious. He was in-charge of the gold chains worn by the mayor and the mayoress when performing civic duties. He was to look after the mayor’s car as well. At the end of the day, he would drop the mayor and the mayoress at their residence and leave the car in the townhall’s car park. Then from the side door he would enter the building and walk down the basement to lock the gold chains in a locker in the safe room. Sometimes, it was the middle of the night, and at that time there would not be a soul in the huge building.

In the Town Hall’s community, there was a tittle-tattle which suggested that long time ago there was a Council’s employee who had a grievance about his pay. He had submitted petitions to the bosses but of no avail.

One night in the basement the employee committed suicide. Since then, as the rumours made the rounds, the ghost of the deceased was seen roaming in the basement during the late hours. At that time, the feeling that the place was haunted scared Stouty out of his wits. Like the deceased employee, he had the ongoing complaint against the Council about his pay too.

Now I come to the titled story.

Stouty was not a vegetarian, but he fancied vegetable curry. As his wife could not cook curry properly, he would sometimes buy from the Indian takeaways. He himself was not a good cook either, and at times he would cook insipid dishes.

Infrequently, my wife would make Indian piquant vegetable curry, she would save some for Stouty to take away. He always appreciated our gesture.

One evening he dropped me home. As it was only the mayor’s function, the mayoress had not accompanied me. She had cooked cauliflower curry and saved some for Stouty. While leaving, he confirmed that next morning he was on duty as well and would pick me up at 10 am. The scheduled function, again to be attended by me alone, was at 10.30 am in the neighbouring town.

At 10 am next day the doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw Martin instead. I just queried him whether he had swapped his duty. Briefing me, he said that Stouty felt unwell in the middle of the night and was taken to the the local hospital by an ambulance.

I was saddened to know that. While I was still in the porch, I enquired from Martin:

” Do you know what was wrong with him?”

“Mr Mayor, there’s some problem with his stomach”, he replied.

On hearing the words, I stood stock-still with my heart in my mouth. The situation was worrying by the fact that during the night I had some stomach upset as well, which I thought could be caused by the cauliflower curry. The wife had not eaten it.

My wife, who was standing a few feet away from me, overheard the conversation. She was contrite for her action.

I attended two functions that day but felt uncomfortable, and could not stop thinking of Stouty all the time.

We feared that we had afflicted food poisoning to Stouty. He must have eaten all the curry, and there might be something wrong with that.

That night we did not get a wink of sleep.

The next day it was the evening function and Martin came to pick us up. Hesitatingly, I asked him about the health of Stouty. He gushed:

“Mr Mayor, I visited him in the Hospital. He is bouncing back from the food poisoning.”

With barely a prompt on my behalf, Martin talked on:

“Mr Mayor, he had eaten a curry dish which he had cooked himself a day before. According to him, had he eaten the cauliflower curry which the mayoress had given to him, he would not have to get the pain and go to the Hospital”.

We heaved a sigh of relief. We were determined that henceforth to be careful and avoid doling out cooked food to others.

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6 min read.

The incident about my fear of suffering from face blindness, recounted hereinbelow, is very recent one, and so are the other two anecdotes. All three occurrences took place during the country wide second lockdown.

Rain or shine, I have been walking and jogging throughout my life, including in West Africa and South Asia.

It was on a Sunday afternoon we had lunch, and while the wife was in the kitchen, I put on my coat and trainers, and left for a walk. Unlike many couples, we do not go for a walk together. Some people in the vicinity insinuated that we might not be seeing eye to eye with each other. That is not the case. We have lived together for donkey years. The reasons for not walking together are a few.  The foremost one is that she takes a walk at a slow pace, while I do the speed walking. The timings are different. Furthermore, I leave the house sloppily dressed, she would, notwithstanding the gloomy clouds of Covid-19, step out of the door spick and span exuding cheerfulness. 

I was walking and pondering over the prospect of having covid-19 vaccine. Observing the social distance, I exchanged greetings with the passers- by.

I crossed the two side streets on the left and continued my walk until I reached the mini roundabout. That is the point where I perform about-turn. 

While returning, when I reached the first side street a South Asian woman hove into my view from the other corner of the lane. I wondered who she could be.

Beside us, there is not any other Asian family in and around our street. It was possible that a new family might have moved into the area very recently.

Absorbed in my thoughts, I crossed the street. I did not look on the right side again. Hardly had I walked a few metres when I heard my wife shouting at the top of her lungs:

“I’ve made tea for you. It’s in the tea cosy.”

I felt rattled suspecting that I might be suffering from face blindness. It might be the after-effects of the lockdowns and self-isolation.

In the evening I told my wife that I could not recognise her in the street, and that I might be suffering from moderate prosopagnosia. She elucidated:

“No. No. It’s not true. Even I did not recognise you straightaway. We were apart from each other at more than the distance of what the DVLA expects a learner driver to demonstrate that his/her eyesight is good enough to be able to drive safely. It is done by reading a standard number plate from a minimum distance of 20.5 metres or 5 car lengths.  I could only recognise you later from your typical gait style.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked her for dispelling my fear.

The second incident also reflects that the Covid-19 is taking a toll on everyday lives of people who are continuously self- isolating for months.

We have family friends, the husband called Bash, and Nishi is his wife. Both are retired teachers and live about fifteen-minute drive from our house. Out of the abundance of caution, they are shielding since March. Their married son, who lives not far from them, does the shopping for them.

My wife rang up Nishi on the land line. Bash, the husband, picked up the phone. He recognised my wife’s voice and said:

“How’re you and how’s the doctor doing?”

Wife answered:

“Not bad.  Like other millions we’re the lock downers too. We hope that vaccine would soon relieve our misery.”

He added:

“Yes, it is terrible. I’ve heard that many people are suffering from mental health problems. Not only that, due to lack of fresh air and isolation, other problems are creeping in too.”

My wife could not agree more.

 She asked:

“Can I to speak to Bushra?”

Funnily enough, instead of asking for Nishi, she indicated Bushra, another friend who lives with her husband and two children in the next street.

Bash did not clarify to her that she must be asking to speak to his wife Nishi and not Bushra. Instead, he replied:

“She’s upstairs. I tell her.”

 He yelled:

“Bushra, your friend Mrs Chaudhry is on the land line.”

After that there was lull. Probably, there was some altercation between them. It is just a speculation. But one thing is certain that the pandemic is taking its toll.

I was returning from my routine walk. When I was at the cusp of crossing the second street, then completely out of the blue, I saw a medium-sized dog, collared but unleashed, barking and running towards me from the other end of the street.

 I was scared stiff.

At some distance from me, he suddenly stopped but continued barking incessantly and ferociously. Meanwhile, a man who seemed to be the dog’s owner bobbed up grinning. This was what he said:

“Don’t you worry, sir. He’s trained to keep the two- metre social distance. I’m trying to train him to put on a mask instead of a muzzle.”

I resumed my walk showing my scant regard to his dog training.

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9 min read.

This interesting happening occurred when I was at my last leg of the stint as a practising advocate of the superior courts in Lahore before coming back to the UK for good.

I returned to my chamber from the High Court, and my clerk told me that someone named Mr Miah rang up from a five-star hotel in the city. He earnestly wanted to engage me in his case and would like to discuss the matter at the hotel. He had tried to convince the potential client that it would be advisable for him to come to the chamber, and if it was urgent, he could give him an appointment the same day. The client insisted that he would appreciate if the advocate would see him in the hotel, and he would pay the fee for that too.

As the hotel was on my way home, I decided to see him the same day. I asked my junior lawyer to follow me in his car.

The hotel was just a few miles from my office. I mentioned his name at the reception, and we were given his suite number which was on the fifth floor.

We observed that outside his door there was a security man who was sitting on a chair. He was uniformed, but unarmed. On seeing us, he stood up and saluted us. I thought that the hotel management might have provided him full security- he must be somebody.

I knocked on the door, he opened it and welcomed us with a broad smile.

He was a tall and slightly obese person in his early thirties with slick back hair and pencil moustache. He seemed an affable and agreeable man.

He offered us coffee which we refused politely.

In velvety voice he stated baldly his legal problem:

“Doctor, I was given your number by a friend of mine. I’m grateful you could manage to come to see me at such a short notice. I’m in trouble and I’m sure you’ll be able to help me.

“I’m staying in this hotel for the last three weeks. They delivered me highly inflated bill for my stay here, which I strongly disputed. I made a reasonable offer to which they turned a deaf ear. I’ve now decided to renege upon my words. For the last three days, they’ve unlawfully detained me in this suite. They’re providing qualitative room service, but I can’t leave the suite, let alone the hotel. You must’ve have observed, they have stationed a 24-hour security guard. You know this is illegal.”

He concluded:

“I’m just at breaking point.”

Agreeing with him, I explained:

“This was a civil matter, and your cooping- up in this suite is illegal. The right of habeas corpus protects you.”

He agreed the fee which I mentioned to him. He said that someone would come to my office next morning to make the payment.

I suggested that I could file a petition before the High Court next morning, which could be fixed for the same day hearing. But it would be better if we applied for the hearing on the day- after- next. It would give the hotel management time to discuss the matter with their lawyer, who might advise them to concede the issue.

He agreed.

We left the room, the guard stood up and saluted us again.

I was not sure whether he would be able to pay my fee. But, as I had agreed to get his release from his detention in the hotel, I decided to proceed with the case even if it turned out to be the pro bono work.

Later in the evening I prepared the petition.

In the morning before I reached the office, someone had already paid the agreed fee.

The petition was filed before 10 am. It was fixed for the hearing at 8 am the following day. I arranged to send the copy by hand to the hotel manager.

Next morning before I set off for the office, I just rifled through the newspapers. In the most read paper, there was a scoop that the five-star hotel had imprisoned the guest illegally.

 Before the hearing, he was already a free man. I just sent my junior lawyer to appear before the Judge to withdraw the petition, because the respondents had already conceded the issue, and the petition had become infructuous.

Hardly two weeks had passed, he came to see me by appointment. He informed me that he had a hearing in another matter before the High Court in the capital’s twin city which was 35- minute travel by air. He would pay me air fare and if I wanted to leave one day earlier, he would do the hotel booking. I told him that I would prefer to go in the morning. I avoided staying in the hotel because it would be embarrassing if he did not pay the bill.

The question of the fee arose. Apologising, he said that he did not have cash with him. He had a Bank account in the twin-city. After the hearing, he would take me to the Bank to pay the full fee and the air travel costs.

I was not happy with the arrangement. By that time, he appeared to be a hardened cheat.  But, as he had fulfilled the promise to pay the fee on the previous occasion, I agreed, albeit hesitatingly.

He told me that I would be picked up at the airport, and after the court hearing he would take me to the Bank. Later, he said that he would be pleased if I accompanied him to a restaurant for lunch. After that he would drop me at the airport. I thanked him for the invitation but expressed my inability to stay for lunch.

At the airport there was a taxi-man displaying my name on a cardboard. At the court he welcomed me.

I appeared before the Judge and argued the matter. The case was decided in his favour. The same taxi-driver was still there outside the court. As planned, he took us to the Bank.

Guess what happened there. I will unfold it after a recount of the second limb of the titled story.

One Saturday afternoon, our house gate bell rang. I went out and a stout middle-aged man told me that ten days ago there was a man who had rented a car of the latest model from them. He did not pay the rent in advance. Instead, he showed them our house as his place of residence. The previous night when the business was closed, he left the car outside the showroom with the keys on the driver’s seat. He disappeared without paying a penny. The car was given with full fuel tank, which was nearly empty. The description he gave me of the man was convincingly that of my client.

The enquirer was all at sea when I told him that the man he was talking about must have made a spurious claim about residing in our house.

 I wondered how he got my address.

Before leaving, he fumed:

“I swear, If I see him again, I wouldn’t bother to take him to the police station. Instead, I would give him such a sound beating that he would never dare to cheat anyone in his lifetime.”

Coming back to the Bank visit, on seeing Mr Miah there was some commotion among the staff beyond the cashier’s counter. One or two staff members said little louder, but excitedly:

“Miah sahib is here”.

A few of them rose from their seats and came forward to shake hands with him. Someone rushed to the manager to inform him about the presence of Mr Miah. He came out to greet him. He ushered us in and asked a staff member to bring tea for us.

Immediately, the manager got cash for me. I issued the receipt. My client reiterated his lunch invitation, which I refused again with thanks. The same taxi-driver took me to the airport. I tried to pay him the fare, which he refused saying that he had already been paid by Miah sahib. He described him as a very generous man.

Thereafter, there were a few telephone calls from him.

He told me that he belonged to a good family, who were settled in the UK, but still had reasonable property and affiliations with the country of origin. He wanted to be a chartered accountant, but adopted the hobby of being an imposter, impersonator, and a hoodwinker. He enjoyed it.

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6 min read.

Quite a few years ago I had a court hearing in the city centre. When I reached there my client was already waiting for me. We had brief consultation in the conference room. Our case was listed at number one. At 9.50 am the court clerk informed me that we could go in. During the preliminary hearing, the Judge flicked through the papers in front of him. He pointed out that he would like to peruse a document which he could not find in his case file. Neither was it with me or with the opposite lawyer. He opined that to reach a just decision, he would like to have a copy of the document. I submitted that the hearing might be stood down to retrieve it from the instructing solicitors electronically. He agreed and advised me to let the clerk know when I would be ready.

We left the court and returned to the same conference room.

I had been appearing in courts on behalf of the instructing solicitors for many years. It was a family firm. Excepting the receptionist and a few more, the rest of the staff had the same surname i.e. Malik. I knew all of them including the one who was in-charge of the appeal I was then conducting. He was a competent and complaisant person. He would gauge the importance of the phone call and do his best to comply with the Judge’s directions.

I rang up, and the receptionist, recognising my voice, answered:

“How’re you doctor?”

“I’m fine. How are you, your children, and the husband?”, I said.

“We’re all fine. What can I do for you this morning?”, she asked.

I added:

“Please connect me to……”

I could not complete the sentence, because I had forgotten the name of the relevant case worker.

The receptionist waited and enquired:

“Which case worker do you like to speak to?”

In return I could only utter:

“Mr Malik”.

She tutted:

“Doctor you know there’re so many Maliks here. I’ll be obliged if you let me know which one you like to talk to.”

I was somewhat nonplussed. How could I convey to her the name when I did not remember it?

A few more moments passed, and I was at the verge of throwing in the towel.

I pause here to state briefly the context of my reply to the receptionist.

In the sub-continent, the word shair means lion. In some regions it is spoken as sair or saroo, which was the name of the little boy from a poor family in India who was separated from his older brother. The true story has been told in Lion, a Hollywood film starring Dev Patel, Sunny Pawar and Nicole Kidman.

Coming back to the instant story, finally the penny dropped, and I blurted out the name of the case worker:

“Lion Malik.”

She said:

“You mean Shair Malik.”

“Yes, yes. Heaving a sigh of relief, I confirmed.

I got the document in a few minutes, which I duly submitted to the Judge.

I was very worried. I feared my memory was fading.

In the evening I told my wife the incident and the fear of memory loss.

She said:

“That might be true. Other day when you went to the town centre, I asked you to bring a McDonald’s burger for me. On return you informed me that you had forgotten it.”

I replied:

“But that is an example of a flimsy forgetfulness. What happened today was a serious matter. Unfortunately, it reflects my memory is diminishing.”

Before concluding the story, I narrate the second limb of it.

 When I was a Bar student in London, I had a friend. After finishing the studies, he left for his home country, got married and started law practice in his district town. Later, he relocated to the provincial capital and eventually was elevated as a High Court Judge. The couple had no child of their own and adopted a baby girl. She grew up in their loving household. After graduating, she got married and had two girls.

She lived a few miles from his place. But her children used to go to a private primary school, which was just a hop, skip, and a jump from my friend’s official residence.

One evening I rang my friend up and during conversation asked him about his daughter and the grandchildren. He responded:

“In the morning, the daughter drops the children at the school. They are picked up by our maid after the school hours. They rest, do homework, play, have a dinner, and later their mother or father takes them home.”

He continued:

“I’m over the moon. I love the grandchildren. Even right now they are playing in front of me. The younger child looks more positively chirpy. When they talk to me all my tiredness from the court work evaporates. The fact is that I love them a lot.”

I knew the name of the older grandchild but not that of the little one. I asked him:

“What is the name of the younger girl, who appears to be your favourite?”

There was no response. I thought the line was cut off. I repeatedly enquired whether he could hear me. He murmured that he was on- line.

The fact of the matter was that he got himself in a real tizzy because he could not remember the name of his favourite grandchild who was playing right in front of him.

 As the phone was on speaker, my wife had clearly heard the conversation. Ending my friend’s feeling of suspense, she said:

“Her name is Elesha, the same as that of our granddaughter, who is a few months older than her.”

My friend heard it and apologetically confirmed it. He beseeched me not to tell her daughter about the incident. If she came to know that he did not remember the name of her little girl, he would be in hot water.

Before I rang off, I reminded him:

“You know very well I can’t keep the secret.”

But I was pleased to realise that my suspicion of memory loss was unfounded.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

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5 min read.

It is not long since this interesting occurrence took place, however it was before the outbreak of the pandemic Covid-19. I received a letter on behalf of my doctor (GP) to see the phlebotomist (a specialist in taking blood samples) for the annual blood tests and other checks. Accordingly, I made an appointment for 11 am on a Wednesday two weeks later. I reached the Health Centre five minutes early. The room was the first one on the left near the waiting area. I could see the name of the nurse on the door. I have known her for many years, a very compassionate and competent senior nurse, but she had not done my annual blood testing before. I waited quite close to the room, and after a few minutes she called me in.

She sat on the comfortable black desk chair in front of her computer. I took a seat by the corner of the desk. Without being asked, I removed my jacket and light pullover and put them on the table along with my mobile and bunch of keys. I rolled over my sleeves, baring my arm.  She asked me how was I feeling. I replied I could not be better. I enquired whether she had any holidays planned in the near future. She informed me that she with her husband had booked the one-week holiday break in Wales.

She took my blood pressure and entered the reading into the computer. Before she inserted the needle into the vessel, she customarily cooed:

“You may feel a slight scratching sensation”.

She filled up a few tiny bottles with my blood.

 In consonance with my usual habit of trying to please others, I murmured:

“I did not feel a thing”. (The fact was quite the contrary. How is it possible that a sharp needle is thrust into your blood vessel and you don’t feel a thing? It was sheer hypocrisy on my part.)

She said:

“Thank you”.

Final task was to check my weight.

She advised me to remove my shoes, which I did compliantly.

Then she pointed out to me the weighing scale lying next to the wall.

I stood on the scale, and she watched while standing a bit away on my left. After looking at the needle, she returned to her seat, and before entering the figure into the computer announced:

“70 kg.” 

It left me scratching my head because I had just seen the needle landing at 72 kg precisely.

I could not resist to convey my disagreement with her. I clarified with due deference:

“It was 72 kg”.

She responded brusquely:

“No, it was 70.”

Before she could proceed further, I got up, moved to the scale without my shoes and stood on it again.

She joined me, looked at the scale, ostensibly carefully and returned to her chair. She confirmed without equivocation that it was 70 kg.

I was struck dumb. The figures were seen twice by her, and each time she asserted in a blink of an eye that it read 70.

 At this stage different ideas sent my mind reeling, which I narrate hereinunder:

“She was pellucid when she mentioned 70. She could be right, and I might be wrong. I think I’m going blind. Thus far, I always thought that of all the organs which I’ve in my body, my eyes were the best. I don’t wear glasses for driving. I use reading glasses, but I can for the most part read the newspapers and books without  their need. Probably, I developed the habit of using them in courts to look more impressive. In the NHS Organ Donor Register I’ve stated my eyes at the top of the list. Borrowing the favourite word often used by the Prime Minister, I could never envision that my fantastic eyesight would come to an end all of a sudden.    

“Right now, it must be very bad- I could not distinguish between 70 and 72. I had heard about the cases where eyesight can be adversely affected asymptomatically. I should not have driven the car to the Health Centre. I could have called 999 and would’ve been in the eye hospital by now.

“Should I ask her to call the emergency services? If I drove home in this situation, I might cause an accident.”

 I like to pause here to mention that I always believed that I was not a health worrier. Some people feel anxious or troubled about their health all the time. One TV presenter’s husband has written a book about him being a hypochondriac. I believe that now and then most of us do embrace worries about health, real or imaginary.

But the issue in the nurse’s room was different. From less than 6 feet, I could not see the difference between 70 and 72.

Albeit, different misgivings were emerging in my mind, I decided to give it a last throw of the dice by going to the scale for the third and final time.

I explained to the nurse:

“I think you were standing at a different angle and therefore could not see accurately. The figure was 72 and not 70. Let me try again if you don’t mind.”

She agreed speaking barely more than a whisper and stood abreast of me. I could see clearly and announced spontaneously:

“Can’t you see 72 kg?”

She seemed unfazed, and clarified:

“No. It’s 70 after lopping off 2 kg to account for your clothing.”

I heaved a sigh of relief and with a mild reproof said:

“My goodness, why you did not tell me before? I feared I was going blind.”

6 min read

I had a court hearing in the city centre to appear on behalf of an appellant. I read the case documents thoroughly, including the witness statement of the appellant. In the statement it was averred that he was the manager of a garment factory. The outcome of the case depended entirely on the testimony to be adduced by him in the court, and the weight the Judge would attach to his witness statement already served.

As usual, in the morning I went by car which I parked in the multi-story car park, five-minute walk from the court.

I was there at about 9 am. Our case was at number 2 in the morning list. I sat in one of the conference rooms situated on the street side of the waiting area. I informed the receptionist that as I had never met the client before, it would be appreciated if he could guide him to my conference room.

At about 9.20 am, I saw through the glass window a group of people of South Asian ethnicity being directed by the receptionist towards me. We had to fetch more chairs from the next room.

One of them, who looked like a headman, introduced them one by one, including Mr Chughtai, who was the appellant.

I stared at my client numbly. He had decidedly down-at-heel appearance. I knew his age, which was 51, but he looked older for his age.

I was disappointed. He was purporting to be the manager of a factory. I could clearly foretell that, as it stood, I would proceed with the appeal hearing on a wing and a prayer.

I enquired from the headman:

“Could you not find better clothes for him to wear?”

I added:

“I don’t say assuredly it would have an adverse impact on the outcome of the case. But the point is that while appearing in a court of law you’re expected to act with proper decorum. More importantly, it is stated in his witness statement that he is a factory manager. He does not even look a factory worker, let alone a manager. That would taint his credibility. If it turns out that he is not a credible witness, the appeal is bound to fail. As far I am concerned, my job is to assist the court in reaching a decision in his favour.”

The headman genteelly sought my advice.

I opined:

“I’ll apply to the Judge to stand down the case to be listed in the afternoon. If the application is granted, which I’m sure it will be, he would’ve enough time to dress up properly, There’s no guarantee we’ll win the case”.

The senior man agreed to abide by the advice.

I contacted the court clerk to convey to the Judge the application for standing down the case.

The application was granted.

I suggested to the headman:

“You exit the court building and turn right. Walk straight for about five minutes, and you’ll reach an alleyway. Enter that and after a minute you’ll see a barber shop on the right. After his haircut you return, and you’ll see the Debenham Store in the corner. You buy new clothes for him.”

I reiterated my earlier warning that it would cost money, and I should not be blamed if we still lost the appeal. His appearance and the testimony would help us to win.

They agreed and left pronto.

At about 12 noon, I went out to have lunch.

I was back at 12.45 pm. At about 1 pm, I noticed that a man, smartly dressed, gentlemanly strolled straight bypassing the conference room. His face looked familiar. A few minutes after the group retuned but the client was missing. I asked about him. The headman told me that he was ahead of them. For a minute or so I was worried, lest he was lost in the crowd. He entered the room smiling. He was the one whom I had seen a few minutes earlier. He had gone to the toilets.

He was very much a changed man. The unkempt beard had disappeared.

I was told by the clerk that the Judge would hear the appeal at 2 pm.

We entered the court room. The Judge looked at the appellant carefully. Though my client’s name was not easy to pronounce, but the Judge did it meticulously. He said:

“Mr Chughtai, I’m sorry your case was supposed to be heard in the morning, but your representative had submitted the application to postpone the hearing to the afternoon”.

He continued:

“I’ve read your appeal papers, including your statement, and I know fully well your case. Your legal representative will require you to confirm the contents of your witness statement. As it is quite comprehensive, I don’t think he would ask you to add anything more to it. Then the opposite side’s legal representative will cross-examine you. I might ask some clarificatory questions. Thereafter, I’ll hear submissions by both the representatives.”

The opposing representative did not ask many meaningful questions. But, my client murmured the answers quite correctly. He seemed quite au fait with his job. His hurriedly changed personality in tandem with his answers in the cross-examination struck home.

Normally, the determination is sent to the instructing solicitors later by post/email, but our appeal was allowed there and then. I could clearly see that my client was so enraptured that he was trying to choke back tears of joy.

The appearance accentuated his personality and it did make a difference.

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