Notes From the Court — The First Motion

I saw her today after fifteen months.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t look at each other. We didn’t exchange the polite smiles strangers offer one another in elevators.

We simply existed in the same building.

The court was crowded. That felt appropriate.

A place dedicated to providing justice should never be empty.

There were people everywhere. Families, lawyers, clerks, assistants. Everyone carrying folders thick with grievances. Some were fighting over marriages. Some over land. Some over money.

A lawyer’s assistant handled most of the process. He had done this hundreds of times before. Perhaps thousands. He moved with the efficiency of a man delivering parcels.

Sign here.

Initial here.

Wait here.

This was what we did for twenty minutes.

That was all it took. Twenty minutes.

A relationship that occupied 18 years of my life required approximately twenty minutes of administrative attention.

I cried a little. Not visibly, of course.

I am trained out of visible grief quite early.

A man may lose a marriage, a dream, a future, half his life.

But God forbid he lose composure.

So I performed strength.

About five minutes into the process, it started feeling heavier than I expected.

So I pulled out my earbuds.

There is a playlist on my Spotify called Duggu.

…

Duggu was the nickname I gave her during the happier years, back when we were still collecting memories instead of legal documents.

The playlist contains only sad Hindi songs.

Which, now that I think about it, is a remarkably optimistic thing to create.

I pressed play. The first song began.

After the paperwork was signed, we were directed to the notary window.

They called her first. She stepped forward and placed her thumb on the stamp pad. Then on the documents.

Again. And again. And again.

The law requires certainty. The law likes repetition.

Then they called me.

I walked to the same window.

I looked at the stamp pad.

And I noticed the place where her thumb had pressed moments earlier.

So I placed mine there too. A ridiculous thing to do.

Childish.

Embarrassing.

Entirely irrational.

Obviously, I did it. What else was I supposed to do?

For fifteen months there had been no conversations, no messages, no accidental meetings, no shared moments.

And there, on a government-issued stamp pad, was the last trace of her I was likely to encounter that day.

So I touched it. You may call me cringe. You may judge me for this.

I have already judged myself far more harshly.

The court, meanwhile, continued its business.

A Sardar ji nearby was arguing with relatives over a piece of land.

Lawyers wandered the corridors searching for potential clients with the alertness of street vendors.

Someone was laughing. Someone was crying. Someone was waiting.

Most people in courts are waiting. Waiting for justice.

Waiting for money. Waiting for freedom.

Waiting for someone else to suffer.

Outside, near the canteen, there was a cat.

The canteen owner poured milk into a small bowl.

The cat approached cautiously, then drank with complete happiness.

I envied her.

Imagine being capable of such uncomplicated joy.

A bowl of milk. A patch of shade. No lawyers. No paperwork.

No first motions. No second motions. No memories. Just milk.

And there I was, listening to a playlist named after the woman standing ten feet away from me while signing papers that would officially separate our lives.

The process ended. I was told I would need to return for the second motion.

We walked in different directions.

I deliberately waited.

Partly because I wanted to cry.

Partly because I didn’t want to watch her get into a cab and leave.

Outside, the cat was still drinking milk.

I thought I would drink. That seemed like the apt response.

People have been attempting to dissolve heartbreak in alcohol for centuries.

The fact that the method continues despite its spectacular lack of success is oddly admirable.

I bought a bottle. Poured a drink. Took two sips.

And discovered something unfortunate.

I no longer possess the ability to drink my way out of reality.