The courtroom of the International Court of Justice was unusually quiet that morning. Even the translators had stopped whispering into their microphones. The judge adjusted his glasses and looked down at the file, then up at the two Indian lawyers standing confidently before him.
“You have filed a case of discrimination against the United States,” he said slowly.
“Yes, My Lord,” said the first lawyer, clearing his throat with patriotic firmness. “We feel deeply offended.”
“Offended?” asked the judge.
“Very much so,” said the second lawyer. “Why is the United States interested only in Greenland, Canada and Venezuela? Why not India?”
A murmur ran through the courtroom. Pens paused mid- sentence. A journalist dropped his croissant.
The judge leaned forward. “And why, may I ask, should the United States want India?”
The first lawyer smiled. This was his moment. “Because we are the fourth largest economy in the world.”
“Because we have religious freedom,” added the second.
“Because we have absolute freedom of speech,” continued the first.
“And because,” the second lawyer said proudly, “we have no poverty at all.”
There was silence. The kind of silence that usually appears just before someone realises they have said something unforgettable.
The judge blinked once. Then twice. He flipped through the case papers again, as if hoping the words might rearrange themselves.
“You are saying,” he asked carefully, “that all of this is true?”
“Absolutely,” said both lawyers together.
The judge removed his glasses and placed them on the desk. He looked tired now. Tired in a way only judges get when reality has been stretched beyond permissible limits.
Then he banged his gavel.
“Case dismissed.”
The lawyers were shocked. “Dismissed?” they cried. “On what grounds?”
The judge sighed. “On the grounds that this case is based entirely on fiction.”
“Fiction?” said the first lawyer indignantly. “These are national achievements.”
The judge shook his head. “No. These are short stories. Imaginative writing. In fact I keep reading excerpts from this fictitious book in your newspapers every day.”
The courtroom chuckled.
“You cannot,” the judge continued, “build a legal case on novels and works of fiction.”
“But My Lord,” pleaded the second lawyer, “our leaders say this every day.”
“Exactly,” said the judge. “That is why I recognised it immediately as fiction.”
He leaned back. “It is time you realised that what sells at home may not sell outside!.”
Laughter broke out. Even the stenographer smiled.
The judge picked up his gavel again. “Until poverty disappears, free speech stops trembling, poverty is eradicated and unfair laws against minorities scrapped, this court cannot proceed.”
As the lawyers packed their bags, one turned to the other and whispered, “At least we tried.”
“Yes,” the other replied. “But next time, let us bring facts. Or at least a better novelist.”
But in India, the same novelist smiled, he knew it didn’t matter, because the people in the country, believed all the fiction he wrote..!