Life, in its purest form, is poetry. But lately, it feels more like a user manual—mechanical, perfunctory, and devoid of soul. We rush from one task to the next, our days dictated by notifications and deadlines. The old Hindi song from the movie Mausam often plays in my mind, where Sanjeev Kumar's character yearns for “Dil dhoondta hai, phir wohi fursat ke raat din” (The heart searches, once again, for those leisurely days and nights). It's a universal ache for a time of reflection, for lazy winter afternoons and quiet moments.
One often wonders, do judges feel this too? In their world of statutes, sections, and precedents—a world built on cold, hard logic—do they also miss the poetry of life?
It turns out, they do. And in a profoundly moving way, they are bringing that poetry back into our lives, weaving it into the very fabric of our nation's law. This isn't just a recent trend; it's a rich tradition. In fact, the Jashn-e-Rekhta foundation, which celebrates Urdu culture, once dedicated an entire session to "Urdu ka Adaalati Lehja" (The Judicial Style of Urdu), exploring how the language has been used to bring clarity and humanity to the courtroom. As former Chief Justice T.S. Thakur once noted, “Urdu is a beautiful language. It warms the hearts of even those who have no relation to this language.”[1] He used this to explain how a well-placed verse can cut through pages of verbal clutter and get straight to the heart of the matter.
And our judges have been getting to the heart of the matter with breathtaking elegance.
Consider the verses used by the Delhi High Court in the case of Shahnawaz Zaheer vs. Government of NCT of Delhi (2015).[2] At a time when society often gets caught up in the rituals of religion, the court chose to remind us of a higher duty. It quoted, “Ghar se masjid hai bahut duur, chalo yun kar lein, kisi rotey hue bachche ko hansaya jaye.” (The mosque is far from home, let's do this instead, let's make a crying child laugh.) With this one couplet, the court elevated an act of simple human kindness above all else. In the same judgment, it defined the essence of being human: “Jo mazhab ho jo zaat ho... Insaan wohi hai jisko mohabbat karna aaye.” (Whatever be the religion or creed, only the one who can love is human.) This isn't just a legal pronouncement; it's a moral compass for our times.
The judiciary uses poetry not just to inspire, but to admonish and question. In Ashok Kumar Aggarwal vs. CBI (2016)[3], when faced with a situation shrouded in ambiguity, the court turned to a classic verse: Khoob parda hai ki chilman se lage baithe hain, saaf chhupte bhi nahin, saamne aate bhi nahi.” (What a veil it is that you sit so close to the screen; you neither hide properly, nor do you come out in the open.) It's a sophisticated, almost poetic accusation of evasiveness. In the same case, the court asserted its impartiality with another powerful verse, reminding everyone that in the city of justice, favouritism holds no sway: Janab-e-'Kaif' yeh Dilli hai 'Mir' o 'Ghalib' ki, yahan kisi ki taraf-dariyan nahin chaltin.”
Sometimes, the poetry reflects a deep, philosophical sigh at the state of society. In Kanak Singh vs. State of U.P. (2012)[4], the Allahabad High Court lamented a world obsessed with glory but devoid of substance: “Jise dekha wahi betaab dikha burj banne ko, sheher mein neenv ke patthar kahin paaye nahi jaate.” (Everyone I see is desperate to become the pinnacle, but the foundation stones are nowhere to be found in the city.) It's a profound critique of a culture that desires the rewards without wanting to do the hard, unseen work.
This judicial poetry also serves as a mirror to our collective conscience. When confronted with a case involving a desensitized public, the Delhi High Court in Babu Lal vs. State (2012)[5] used a verse that is both a cynical observation and a sad truth: “Lagta hai sheher me naye aaye ho, ruk gaye ho raah, haadsa dekhkar.” (It seems you are new to the city, for you have stopped on the road to look at an accident.) It's a chilling reminder of how apathy can become the norm.
These poetic interventions are not mere stylistic flourishes. They are the judiciary's way of ensuring that the law does not lose its soul. They are a bridge between the rigid text of the law and the complex, messy, emotional reality of human life. From Ghalib's eternal question, “Dil-e-nadan tujhe hua kya hai, akhir is dard ki dava kya hai?” (Oh naive heart, what has happened to you? After all, what is the cure for this pain?), quoted in Shanti Bhushan vs. Commissioner of Income Tax (2011)[6], to Meer's bold declaration of syncretism in Munavvar-ul-Islam vs. Rishu Arora (2014)[7], our courts are reminding us that justice is not blind; it is deeply seeing, feeling, and reflective.
In a world that feels increasingly mechanical, these judgments are our "fursat ke pal." They are a sign that even in the hallowed, serious halls of justice, the heart of humanity still beats with the rhythm of poetry. And for that, we should all be grateful.
The author is an Assistant Professor (Law) UILS, Panjab University. Views Are Personal.