“Mea culpa,” I shouted in fear, with head bowed in shame, as I was drawn into what looked like a courtroom by four stalwart policemen who walked with a swagger and held me like a baby sulking in a cage formed by their formidable arms.

Still confused if I was awake or sleeping, or in the middle of one of my frequent sleepwalking misadventures, I tried rubbing my eyes and pinching my forearm to tell reality from dream, but my jaw dropped, my hair stood on end as my eyes narrowed on the man in the judge’s chair. Justice Markandey Katju squirmed restlessly in his chair, smiled scornfully at me and clasped his hand vindictively.

“I object milord to the man in the chair. After my brothers in the media have been blasting you for your gavel-ish antics in your press council office (my hands are relatively clear, I have written only a dozen of those); I expect no justice from you, sir. And the blind lady, I believe, does not support revenge.”

“Objection overruled. Let the proceedings begin.”

A man comes with a folded newspaper and my hand is placed on it: “I’ll speak the truth and nothing else.”

Justice Katju walks down the dais with theatrical élan and stands in for the prosecution, resting his arm on the witness box and arching his body backwards. 

“We are trying to fix a minimum qualification for journalists. And after looking for days for a misfit who makes the perfect case for the scourge, we have zeroed in on you. Are you ready to take a few questions from the prosecution?”

The questions begin before I reply.

“What do you do in the media house you work for? And do you think you are worthy of your job”

“My seniors are trying to figure out exactly this: what do I do? To your second question, sir, while I am cent per cent sure of my worthiness, my organisation begs to differ.”

“Did you study to become a journo?”

“No, sir. In fact, I became a journo because I did not study.”

“Are you a graduate? If yes, what subject/s did you study in your graduation course?"

“Well, almost a graduate. And I studied English Literature.”

“Almost? What kind of answer is that?”

“Sir, a bad hangover did not allow me to write my last examination. But I cleared the supplementary test, though I failed again to collect my degree.”
“Do you have your degree with you now?”

“Yes, sir. I got it by post when the university chose to shut down its archives.”

“Irresponsible. Just like journalists. Anyway, did you pass your previous exams with distinction?”

“Sir, while I had several distinctions, I don’t know which distinction you are referring to. But to tell you the truth, I never stood second in my entire academic life. Third was my preferred slot.”

“Shame on you. The prosecution rests its case.”

Justice Katju takes firm and big strides to reach the dais again and takes the judge’s chair.

“Do you have anything to say in your defence, Mr Journo?”

“Sir, the same as earlier. The man in the chair is vindictive. I don’t expect a fair trial. Second, if you have watched the trailers of the upcoming movie Jolly LLB, where a lawyer spells ‘prosecution’ as ‘prostitution’ and ‘appeal’ as ‘apple’; doesn’t that throw light on your own profession? We have desk persons to check spelling mistakes in the newspapers.”

“Shut up. Does the defence rest its case? I had the judgment ready a day earlier.”

“No, sir. When I became a journo, nobody asked for my educational qualification. Sir, just two plain questions: fire in the belly and nose for news? I was trained bit by bit in the craft of news gathering in the subsequent years.”

“Mr Journo, we don’t have the full night. I now pronounce the verdict. You cease to be a journo because of your inadequate educational qualifications.”
“My lord, I know of editors who are even less qualified than I am.”

“I shall come to those cases later. Moreover, they haven’t been following the guidelines I had laid down for the selection of news items for page one. By the way, what were you humming all this while?”

“This is a song from the same movie Jolly LLB which I mentioned earlier. ‘Mere toh law lag gaye.’ Sir, I mean it. A man who thinks the world is his courtroom and wants his word to become the law should not be sitting over our heads, I regret to say..."

“You can regret for a long time, Mr Journo, because I'm where I am and going to be around long,” he interrupted me.

My goose was cooked, except for another welcome interruption: A phone call from my editor that wakes me up.  “Oh, it feels so good, I am still a journalist.”