In a season of protests against paper leaks and manipulations in examinations, I found myself last week “caught” in a recruitment scam. My crime? Signing a letter in April 2009 conveying the Home Minister’s (HM) permission to prosecute an Inspector General (IG) of the Central Reserve Police Force.The HM was himself “recruited” after his predecessor resigned following the November 26, 2008 terrorist attack in Mumbai. It was conceivable in those days to see ministers suffering for the “failure to perform”.AdvertisementThe HM wanted to fix accountability and revamp the recruitment system of the central paramilitary forces as the CBI unearthed the scam. The permission to prosecute the IG-in-charge was for enforcing accountability. Later, the recruitment process was reformed by converting the written test for constables into an OMR-based test, while the interview was abolished to avoid discretion, and the physical eligibility test was made more stringent. I never thought that signing the letter would haunt me 17 years later and give me the opportunity to see why Charles Dickens wrote, “the law is an ass”.I was summoned to Patna to testify that I had signed the permission letter. I wrote to the Home Ministry, pointing to the absurdity of testifying to something that could be affirmed by government records and wasting public money for my travel and stay. I also requested the Court to take my evidence through a video conference.Unsurprisingly, I received no response but fresh summons.Patna, which I was visiting after five years, seemed to compete with other upcoming cities in exemplifying urban chaos. Everything was like a strange stasis in motion. The automobile was the new autocrat on the road, allowing space for nothing else. Everyone was blowing their horn, yet nothing was moving.AdvertisementAlso Read | Yogendra Yadav writes | I was part of the protest march in Delhi. Democratic politics took a new turnThe courts were open but the entry gate was locked. I went to the other gate where a sentry raised three fingers to suggest that I go to Gate 3. Vehicles entering the premises and those coming out were locked like adversaries in a never-ending legal battle. Regulating this seemed unfair because both needed the right of way. Like many things these days, the commotion had to resolve itself or those bearing the brunt were left to find their own solutions.I jostled through and climbed three floors to reach the designated courtroom. A hearing was on but the judge, seated in his low chair behind a high table, was barely visible. A few court officials sat taking notes, surrounded by piles of files, that concealed the past and the future of litigants. The clock on the wall stood still and below it was a poster prohibiting the use of cell phones in the courtroom. Before the poster stood a lawyer speaking softly into his cell phone.There was an air conditioner near the judge, and a few fans, but the lawyers were sweating, more because of their black coats than their weak cases.The lawyer arguing his case read aloud from his file, standing beside another, amid a row of empty chairs meant for lawyers. On either side, people like me sat on benches, awaiting our turn. There was no hierarchy, no status, no reputation. Everyone in the room looked guilty of being part of a system designed to demean everyone equally.The two accused stood expressionless in the box, indifferent to the arguments, their hands folded, hoping that their posture alone could deliver them from the dungeon. Meanwhile, lawyers went in and out, whispering something to the court officials or opening the trunks containing case files and exhibits.After half an hour, the Public Prosecutor limped into the room. He hardly knew why I was there. No one briefed me about the more than 17-year-old case. After waiting for an hour, I climbed into the witness box, was shown the letter bearing my signature and asked if I had signed it. I said “yes”, which the court clerk typed into a computer. Realising that I ought to have sworn an oath before testifying, he asked me to read from a piece of cardboard hanging in the witness box. I was done in five minutes. As I waited to sign my statement, another witness was examined. I was the 58th of the more than 200 witnesses listed by the prosecution.Meanwhile, the lawyer and the judge vehemently discussed the difference between inquiry and investigation. The lawyer insisted that only material obtained during investigation after registering an FIR was admissible evidence. It reminded me of the Ram Janmabhoomi theft case in which the SIT was constituted before any FIR was registered.you may likeI was then told to await cross-examination as the defence lawyer was absent during my statement. He appeared only after an hour when the judge warned “if he doesn’t come in 10 minutes, the witness will stand discharged”.He showed up, wiping the sweat from his forehead. I was back in the witness box. The defence lawyer sheepishly requested to see my statement for which the court clerk turned the screen of the computer towards him. As he kept reading for three minutes, the judge wondered why he took “so long to read three sentences”. The clerk and the lawyer realised that a wrong statement was being read. Having read the right one, the lawyer spent five minutes gaping at the permission letter and asked me if the name of the person who typed the letter was written on it, “what was the meaning of having considered”, and if I had “considered the matter objectively or subjectively”. Irked by such inanities, the judge ended the cross-examination saying “you will continue till 4 pm, if not stopped”. He directed the transcript be printed. The clerk left the court, returned after 10 minutes wiping his hands, and printed the statement. I signed and wrote “ROAC”.Forty-four years ago, holding court as Subdivisional Magistrate, I had learnt this acronym that meant “read over and affirmed to be correct”.Was Dickens correct in his assertion?The writer is a former election commissioner