How fair and fresh some damsels manage to look even in sultry weather, I wondered, as I arched down to un-tie, and re-tie, the shoelaces, indulgently waiting for her to arrive.

Impatient seconds ticked away into minutes as I dispassionately observed one reed-thin peroxide blonde anxiously whispering to a fagged out lawyer in an obscure corner just outside the Session Judge's courtroom. She was clutching his arm, trying hard to convince him. Must be here for obtaining a divorce. I was tempted to confirm, but resisted the urge.

Two and a half years in courts, I had recognised somany erstwhile ``flames'' of Panjab University. Once, not that long ago, they had set vincible hearts on fire; now wrinkled and spent, they must have come to legalise the parting of the ways.

For them, dating in the sylvan surroundings of the university campus must have ruthlessly changed into squeezing time for legal ``dates'' in the dingy, unlit corridors. Life must have treated these poor, not-so-divine angels unsparingly. Why else would they be in the courts?

I was still pondering over the directly proportional relationship between beauty and splits when I saw her. She was walking towards me with confident elegance, as expected.

"Here for some criminal case?" she asked emphatically, passing fair, Barbie brown nail-polished fingers through silky tresses. Life's tough for a reporter, she must have realised.

"Yeah, attempt to murder. But I come here for civil suits as well," I replied in an arduous tone. Trying hard to gain her sympathy, I blabbered, "Life is tough. All these visits to the districtcourts can be exhausting, sometimes even frustrating."

"I understand. But how come? You look from a decent family?" Her baffling quandary left me bewildered. Can't a reporter be from a decent family?Well, decency, or indecency, had nothing to do with journalism. For me, there were no options. My dual attempt to prove my mettle in wielding guns in the rough terrains, then another effort to get a white collar job in a posh five-star hotel had failed, miserably. I could not tell her that. No, of course not.

"Parents kept on telling me to study hard, study hard. But I wouldn't listen. Now see, here I am, paying the price," I said, honestly.

"This is what I hate the most about the courts," she snapped. Disenchantment was evident in her voice. "You see life in its true nakedness here. Who would have ever thought you were a criminal," she exclaimed, turning away without even a simper.

My feet got stuck, heavy on the ground. So, a reporter bears a resemblance to a criminal -- or can any routine face withoutblack or white on him be innocently mistaken for a criminal's amidst the lengthy legal duels in these hallowed precincts.

I wanted to chase her fast and prove my innocence even if I had to produce my press ID.... But I stood there, laughed out loud to myself. And then, with eyes lowered, slowly walked away.