satire: My Advocate Wife

 

      (A humorous look at the perils of having lawyer wife)

 

When your wife happens to be an advocate, it’s like adding bitter gourd to a dish already full of neem leaves. Let’s be honest — wives are born advocates anyway; the law degree is just a formality. They don’t need to study cross-examination — they come factory-fitted with it. In fact, when we got married, my wife insisted on arriving at the mandap in her black gown. “It’s my uniform,” she declared, “and everyone has the right to be proud of their profession.” Later I learned she had an actual case scheduled that same day — and had to rush straight from the mandapam to the courtroom. Luckily, the court clerk was also at the wedding function, so technically, the hearing never got adjourned.

 

Barely a week had passed before my wife began pouring her law knowledge all over me, not Bonafide in good faith but more in intimidating tone. She’d narrate court stories at every chance, making me feel like a prime suspect under trial. I’d lie silently on the bed, afraid to say a word, because who knows which statement might be used against me later. She remembered every date like a human case diary — the date I said “I love you,” the date I didn’t, the date I came home late. I sometimes felt she was gathering evidence for some mysterious future proceedings.

 

Whenever she lost a case in court, my domestic life turned into a punishment hearing. The arguments she couldn’t fire in court, she unleashed on me with full force at home. And when she won a case, she’d smile and say, “I’m in a great mood today — don’t ruin it.” Either way, I always lost. She would drop terrifying legal terms into casual conversation — “I’ve filed a habeas corpus,” “I’ve slapped a 391,” “I’ve got you under 166,” or “I’ll make sure you don’t get bail under 240!” I began to suspect that I hadn’t married a criminal lawyer at all, but a well-dressed criminal mastermind.

 

At home, the atmosphere was that of pure courtroom. The living room felt like an extended session of the sessions court. She’d argue over the smallest domestic issue with citations and precedents. I’d stand there like a guilty defendant, wondering when the judge would bang the gavel. By the end of our first year, I had a stack of legal notices to my name — habeas corpus, prohibitions, show-cause notices, all personally drafted and lovingly delivered. No sticky notes for me — just official-looking, double space green papers with water mark starting with “Notwithstanding” and ending with “I reserve my rights.”

 

One day, I complained to my in-laws about her legal terrorism. My father-in-law sighed in relief and said, “So she’s finally found a new victim. She’s already served notices to all of us — her brother, sister, neighbors, even me!” He looked like a man freshly absolved.

My friends stopped visiting me. My relatives avoided eye contact. Even the neighbors crossed the street when they saw me. “That’s the guy married to the lawyer,” they whispered. “One wrong word and you’ll be in contempt of court.” I was socially quarantined — a prisoner in solitary confinement, trapped in my own home, living what can only be described as a lifetime sentence without parole.

 

Now I realize I wasn’t born to live freely — I was born to serve time. My trial is held daily in a fast-track domestic court, and the list of my offenses has no end. The honorable judge, Her Ladyship! presides with unmatched authority. And as for the final verdict?

Guilty on all counts. Always guilty.

The sentence: life imprisonment — to be served jointly with love, laughter, and occasional legal notice or two.