Her Run-in with the Law: SCBA - Not a Marathon
Somewhere between the phenyl fumes and the finish line, this circus made perfect sense. The law was never about logic anyway.
Published on: 17 November 2025, 02:39 pm
THE ALARM GOES OFF at 5:30 AM. She’s already awake though - mid-life crises get you there. Husband grabs his pillow and storms out to the living room. Clearly annoyed by the morning ruckus. She feels guilty now. Could have been quieter. But then how would she proclaim self-righteousness? Finally gets why morning people are insufferably snooty. Superiority complex comes bundled with the early alarm.
The Supreme Court bathroom assault begins with phenyl. Someone's gone berserk with the cleaning supplies – SCBA really cares about this one. So much phenyl it feels like someone’s trying to decompose a body. An angry litigant perhaps - taking it out on the system - maybe because shoe hurling isn’t enough anymore.
Outside, warm-up stretches into eternity. Everyone's waiting for the judges, who are almost there – any moment now. She had to report at 6:20 AM sharp. They will show up soon. Something about George Orwell and Animal Farm. Less said the better. The instructor launches into Zumba. Same guy from Pinkathon. A battery of lawyers launching into pelvic thrusts in coordinated gear. Fun!
The breakfast spread in the manicured lawn looks enticing. Almost like an upper-middle-class wedding reception. She’s doing the mental math: how many kilometres earn a guilt-free plate of chhole bhatoore?
Everyone's waiting for the judges, who are almost there – any moment now.
“Race is declared open!” Someone cheers too enthusiastically. Possibly her – always the loud one. Better loud than silent! Defensive, as always.
Media corners a judge about the pollution. Judge maintains the practiced indifference. What can he really do? Pass another order that’ll be ignored? The irony of running in AQI 400 isn't lost on anyone. Some N95s around. She got a fancy one herself.
A young advocate live-posts the event, hashtagging #RunForJustice. Justice wasn't running today. Justice was probably sleeping, like all sensible abstract concepts should be on a Sunday morning.
Kilometre 1
She's excited. Genuinely. Her running coach (yes, she has one now - another middle-class aspiration acquired) warned against starting too fast. “Don't get carried away just because others are running past you.” He knows lawyers well - the compulsive need to compete, even in recreational suffering.
She deliberately joins the walkathon crowd. Senior advocates in their sixties treating this like their morning constitutional. Let the eager juniors sprint ahead. This is strategy, not defeat.
Someone ahead on call with possibly their colleague, “You didn’t come for the marathon?”. She cringes. Any self-respecting runner knows this is not a marathon. It's an 8K. A marathon is 42.195 kilometres - precise, defined, sacred to the running community. Yet here’s the legal fraternity, usually sticklers for terminology, suddenly using terms loosely. She thinks of her “may” versus “shall” research. The profession's relationship with facts has always been flexible.
Kilometre 2
India Gate loops around. A bunch stops to pose for pictures. She is judging them profusely. What is this drama! Either run – or don’t. Why disrespect the track! They will still overtake her later. They run when they can. She on the other hand jogs slower than the walkers. Fitness hasn’t been her forte the last few years. That’s okay! She is building practice after-all!
