The Madras High Court felt both intimately familiar and terrifyingly alien today. The polished mahogany, the hushed whispers, the weight of expectation in the air – these were the constants of my childhood, the backdrop to my father’s illustrious career. Prakash Raj. The name resonated with respect, with victory. Today, that name echoed with a different kind of resonance for me – one of betrayal and neglect.
My hands, usually steady, trembled as I adjusted my advocate’s gown. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since my mother, Banupriya, breathed her last. Fifteen years of a simmering anger that had finally boiled over, propelling me onto this hallowed ground, not as a proud daughter, but as an adversary.
My gaze drifted towards the defendant’s bench. There he sat, my father, the formidable Justice Prakash Raj. His posture was as impeccable as ever, his silver hair neatly combed, his expression unreadable. Or was it? Did I detect a flicker of something in his eyes, a shadow of the man who once lifted me onto his shoulders and told me I was his little queen?
Beside him sat Uncle Rajender, his younger brother. His usual jovial demeanor was replaced by a grim determination. He believed in his brother, I knew. He saw the accolades, the unwavering dedication to the bench. He didn’t see the gaping holes in our family history, the absence that had carved a permanent scar on my soul.
Across the aisle, my maternal grandfather, Amitabh, sat ramrod straight, his eyes boring into my father with undisguised animosity. His support had been a silent, steady current beneath the surface of my legal studies, a constant reminder of the injustice he felt my mother had suffered. His whispers during my childhood, the tales of my mother’s fading health and my father’s preoccupation with work, had been carefully planted seeds that had finally blossomed into this legal battle.
The courtroom doors creaked open, and Judge Radharavi entered, his presence commanding immediate silence. He was a man known for his impartiality, his keen intellect. Today, his gaze held a particular weight as it swept over the players in this tragic drama.
“Court is in session,” the court officer announced.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The culmination of years of planning, of meticulously gathering evidence, of steeling myself for this confrontation.
My opening statement was delivered with a voice that surprised even myself – clear, strong, and unwavering. I painted a picture of my mother’s slow decline, the early signs dismissed, the doctor’s visits postponed. I spoke of the gap between the initial complaints and the eventual diagnosis, the crucial time lost while my father was engrossed in complex cases in Delhi, Kolkata, Chennai.
I presented the medical reports, stark black and white documents that chronicled the timeline of my mother’s illness. The dates of tests, the dates of consultations, the glaring void between them – these were the irrefutable proof of my father’s neglect. Each date I read aloud felt like a blow against the carefully constructed image of the perfect judge.
Uncle Rajender, in his defense, argued that my father was a man of his time, a man burdened by the responsibility of providing for his family. “In India,” he declared, his voice resonating through the silent courtroom, “the weight of the family rests on the man’s shoulders. He works tirelessly to feed his loved ones, and sometimes, in that relentless pursuit, other needs get unintentionally overlooked.”
His words hung in the air, a justification for a societal norm that had cost me my mother. A wave of anger washed over me. Unintentional? Overlooked? My mother’s life was not something to be casually overlooked.
Then came the moment I had been both dreading and anticipating. I presented the evidence of my childhood injury, a minor fall that had resulted in a week-long hospital stay. My voice trembled slightly as I described my father’s constant presence by my bedside, his worried face, his unwavering attention.
“For seven days,” I stated, my gaze fixed on my father, “my father, the esteemed Justice Prakash Raj, remained by my side, neglecting his crucial cases, his demanding schedule. He held my hand, he told me stories, he made sure I had everything I needed. He told me, Your Honour, that I was the most precious thing in his world.”
A pin could have dropped in the silence that followed. I saw a flicker of pain in my father’s eyes, a ghost of the love I once knew.
“And yet,” I continued, my voice gaining strength, “when his wife, his life partner, the mother of his child, lay sick, those same urgent cases, that same demanding schedule, took precedence. My grandfather, Your Honour,” I turned towards Amitabh, “loved his daughter with the same intensity, the same unwavering devotion that my father showed me during my trivial illness. But that love, that care, was not reciprocated by the man who had pledged to cherish her.”
My father’s defense was subdued. He spoke of the pressures of his profession, the demands on his time, the belief that my mother was receiving the best possible care. But his words lacked conviction, overshadowed by the stark contrast of his actions during my childhood illness.
Then came the memory of the conversation I had overheard, a conversation that had solidified my resolve. It was between my parents, a few months before my mother’s passing. Her voice, weak but firm, had reached my ears through the slightly ajar door.
“There is a woman behind every man’s victory, Prakash,” she had said, her voice raspy. “And I will be behind yours, even… even when I’m not physically here. Be the best judge in this country, my love. Don’t let anything hold you back. I’ll be alright. I’ll never be a hurdle in your path to victory.”
Her words, meant to be an act of selfless love, now echoed in the courtroom as a stark indictment of his priorities. Her desire for his success had inadvertently become a shield against her own needs.
Uncle Rajender, in his closing arguments, reiterated the societal pressures, the unintentional nature of the neglect. He emphasized my father’s dedication as a judge, his contribution to the legal system. He painted him as a victim of circumstances, a man trapped by the demands of his profession.
But I had planted the seeds of doubt, the undeniable comparison of his actions. The love he had so readily shown his daughter, the care he had so diligently provided during a minor ailment, stood in stark contrast to the absence during his wife’s more serious illness.
Judge Radharavi listened intently, his expression impassive. The weight of his decision hung heavy in the air. The courtroom was still, every breath held captive.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he began to speak. He acknowledged the arguments from both sides, the complexities of the situation, the societal norms that often placed the burden of breadwinning over other responsibilities.
My heart pounded in my chest. I braced myself for the inevitable, for the justification of a system that often overlooked the needs of women in the face of male ambitions.
But then, he said, “While the court acknowledges the societal pressures and the demands of the legal profession, the evidence presented highlights a stark disparity in the attention and care provided in two similar, yet vastly different, circumstances.”
My breath caught in my throat. Hope, a fragile butterfly, fluttered in my chest.
“The court finds that while no malicious intent is evident, a demonstrable lack of timely medical attention contributed to the unfortunate outcome in the case of the deceased, Banupriya. However, the legal framework does not provide for the specific redress sought by the petitioner in this instance.”
A wave of disappointment washed over me. Not guilty? But he had just acknowledged the neglect.
Judge Radharavi continued, his voice somber, “Therefore, while the court finds merit in the petitioner’s claims regarding the disparity in care, it is constrained by the existing legal framework. The verdict is in favor of the defendant, Justice Prakash Raj.”
A collective sigh swept through the courtroom. Uncle Rajender placed a hand on my father’s shoulder, relief evident on his face. My grandfather’s face was a mask of fury. My own emotions were a tangled mess of disappointment, a strange sense of vindication mixed with defeat.
The judge adjourned the court. People began to stir, the hushed whispers resuming, the tension slowly dissipating. But there was no movement from my father. He sat still, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.
Uncle Rajender gently shook his shoulder. “Anna? It’s over. We won.”
My father remained unresponsive. Uncle Rajender shook him again, a little harder this time. And then, with a slow, almost elegant slump, Justice Prakash Raj fell sideways, his head resting against the polished wood of the defendant’s bench.
A collective gasp filled the courtroom. Chaos erupted. Someone shouted for a doctor. But I knew, with a chilling certainty, that it was too late.
As the paramedics rushed forward, their movements frantic, my gaze remained fixed on my father’s still form. The victory he had sought, the career he had prioritized, had come at a cost far greater than he had ever imagined. And in the end, my mother, in her silent absence, had won after all. Her last words, her unwavering support, had unknowingly woven a web of guilt that had finally claimed its due. The weight of his victory, the undeniable truth of his neglect, had finally broken him.
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