 |
| Google images |
It is an exhilarating feeling to be formally called to Bar,
I have walked that road.
Few things in life can compare to the climactic upsurge when
you are clothed in the robes and receive the venerated wig unto your head. When you are inducted into that enclave of the most prestigious
vocation, barricading the oaken door to non-initiates as you settle down to
establish a bond with the masters
over dinner. Nothing beats the air of mystery as you reappear from the
dinner, wearing an inscrutable expression that befits your new status, smiling
inwardly at the muted questions of awe-struck family and friends, altogether transported
to the pinnacle of their regard, a revered figure. You are positioned to tread the highly acclaimed road of being
a custodian of the law.
It is indeed a once-in a lifetime feeling.
Your first day in
court.
You walk into the room puffed up, well maybe a bit by the
elaborate raiment of your new office but more from an exaggerated feeling of
importance, and stride majestically towards the bench for the day’s cause list. You expect the world to stand still and acknowledge a special one; you constrict your
countenance to the right level of dignity…. ‘Smiles cheapeneth the face’, didn’t somebody say somewhere in
history. You strain your ears for the murmur of awe that should
accompany your impeccably shimmering appearance.
None of this happens, rather you are shocked at the snicker -from
no more a person than the half initiate court clerk, you turn to descend on him
until you discover the source of his merriment, you almost drop the cause list
(which by the way you are holding wrong side up) he is literally looking over
your head, so you adjust your headgear…then the bombshell drops, ‘You’re a new
wig are you not? It’s so obvious. Relax, you’ll get used to it’ You dutifully ignore him; the day is so momentous to be
dampened by irreverent rantings of a flippant clerk.
But your travails are not yet over.
As you take your seat in the bar, drinking in the dizzying fact
that you are now part of the esteemed circle, the other lawyers are all
reaching out to pump your hands, and the room is filled with a hum of ‘New wig!
New wig!’ ‘Congratulations boy! You are thankful when the door is pounded to announce M’
lord’s appearance.
He sits and surveys the hall with stern features, and all of
a sudden, his eyes light up with a twinkle… ‘Oh I see we have a new wig today,
please stand up’ you look back praying it is not you, but the tell-tale wig
draws you to your feet and you answer a few personal questions revealing more
humbling details of your neonate status. For the older lawyers, the session has started on a comic
note. You catch the court clerk’s glance again and there are tears
in his eyes, he is helpless with laughter. The rest of the day crystallizes your lowliness, your case
is high up on the cause list, but you are called last. You shakily stutter out
your motion and flee the premises.
Again and again the cycle is repeated…the glossy wig , with
all the threads firmly in place coupled with the shiny blackness of your gown
spot you out for miles as the profession’s latest green horn. And friend, it is indeed a long wait before that wig of
yours begins to grow old.
The road is long that leads to an old wig…it is paved with
incredible tales of bloody conquests, bruising defeats, close shaves and a
quagmire of soul-selling compromises. The wig gets blackened by smokes of
sustained crossfire, stained by the muddy pitfalls dug by foes, gnarled and
twisted by the rough weather of the profession. But what an enviable place awaits him on whose head the old
wig is perched.
He shuffles slowly into the courtroom (none of that sprightly
overzealousness of the young) and is ushered into a reserved seat at the bar. When his case is called up, he demonstrates that there is an
uncanny dignity in the tremulousness of voice and limb, he squints at documents
and the court stands still until his presentation is made. His deep throated submissions ring with the finality of an
adage. The opposing side does not object with vehemence ….he merely
begs to disagree. And if sustained, the judge turns away his face in
apologetic embarrassment.
Can an old wig lose a case? When his writings contribute to
numerous persuasive precedents…When other lawyers quote him…he may have even
taught a judge or two…Be it in silk or of the ordinary
stuff, the old wig stands as the symbol of experienced knowledge. Like Dorian
Gray’s portrait, it is the outward reflection of the time worn innards… Naturally, the old wig continually wears thin; revealing a
deep portion of the grey beneath…grey meets grey…wisdom embraces wisdom…an
earth shaking communion!
The aged wig reflects the law in its perfection. He is a jurisconsult; the lawyer’s lawyer. He oozes self confidence, his knowledge is a fortress; there
is no trick in the bag he has not practiced. Do not be deceived by his occasional absent mindedness, he
is not senile…at such times he merely releases his spirit to the secret
dwelling place of the law…he is the medium that transcribes its darker mysteries. It is whispered that many a judge sits at his feet in the twilight
seeking direction for a decision of the morrow.
He smiles at the excesses of the young, he watches them rush
to their ruin in their mad play to the gallery…the race is not for the swift
footed nor the nimble…it is for the seasoned warrior sure of where to place his
feet and defeat the raging quicksand. The real world opens
up new chapters uncovered by the theories and ideals of law school…The young is befuddled by the discrepancy…The old wig has
seen it all.
When the wig grows old…it also grows prosperous. Youth believes so much in its strength, thus it gambles and
explores, nibbling only at the edges, never becoming a true master,
For the old wig, there is only one profession…the law…he
grows old in it and it pays him. He is celebrated…his hallways are lined with plaques and
medals. He is grand patron to a horde of eager disciples.
The wig does not grow old at the bottom of the dresser…it is
a regular helmet on the battlefield of law practice. Again and again, it marches to gory swordfights and comes
back stained. Every crease, a notch of glory. Every tear, the scalp of a foe.…Rugged statements of invincibility.
When the wig grows old, it captures the sentiment of D.H.
Lawrence when he penned the lines:
It ought to be lovely
to be old
To be full of the
peace that comes of experience and wrinkled ripe fulfillment
The wrinkled smile of
completeness that follows life…
My new wig is very smart, in fact it is a fashion statement,
but I dream of the glorious days when it shall grow old…
END.
First published in Thisday Newspapers: May 5, 2009
First published in Thisday Newspapers: May 5, 2009
