It must have been quite a fire. Not the kind that crackles merrily in a fireplace while you sip hot cocoa, or the one that children dance around on a crisp winter night. No, this was the kind of fire that doesn’t just burn wood or paper—it burns illusions. The kind that peels away carefully constructed facades and exposes, in broad daylight, the rot festering beneath.

And what did it reveal?

Not some secret treasure chest in a pirate’s lair, not a dusty old manuscript worth millions, but something far more astonishing—bundles and bundles of cash stacked neatly in a judge’s storeroom in Delhi. Imagine that! A High Court Judge, the custodian of justice, the very symbol of integrity and fairness, found in possession of enough cash to make an oil baron blush.

One would think that such a revelation would send shockwaves through the country. That there would be a high-decibel media uproar, a nationwide movement demanding accountability, a swift and ruthless investigation followed by iron-clad consequences. But what happened instead? A transfer. Yes, you heard that right.

Instead of handcuffs, he was handed a comfortable homecoming.

“Your Honor, you must be exhausted from the strenuous work of, uh, accumulating such wealth! Please, take a little break, go home, sip some chai, rest those weary hands that had to count all those bundles of cash!”

Shame on us. Shame on the system that allows this.

Once upon a time, corruption at least had the decency to feel embarrassed. The bribe-taker would shift uncomfortably, his collar soaked in sweat, his hands clammy as he denied all allegations. He would at least try to brush it under the carpet, hoping no one would notice. But today? There is no shame. There is no denial. There is only brazenness—a smug, lazy wave of the hand, as if to say, “So what?”

The fire did what investigative agencies, anti-corruption bodies, and internal watchdogs failed to do—it exposed a vault of corruption. And yet, the scandal barely made a ripple. Meanwhile, the common man—who gets a tax notice for a minor error, who is harassed for missing a document, who is threatened for questioning the powerful—watches in stupefied silence. Ordinary citizens are thrown behind bars for an inconvenient tweet, a sarcastic remark, a misplaced financial slip. But a judge found with an underground treasury? A mere transfer.

“We will investigate!” they say.

Ah yes, the grand Indian investigation—where the accused often outlives the case, where paperwork moves slower than an overfed elephant, and where public memory is the most dependable ally of the corrupt. The world watches, amused. The last time they pointed out fraud, injustice, vanishing free speech, or India’s place on the hunger index, they were told they were biased, prejudiced, or worse—anti-national.

This time, they wait for the next great explanation. Perhaps they will say the bundles of cash were actually Monopoly money. Or that the fireman who saw the money was severely myopic and mistook court papers for currency. Maybe the judge will say he was safeguarding the cash as ‘evidence’—you know, just in case some future lawyer needed practical examples for a case study.

Oh, India! Ye land of democracy, of justice, of ancient wisdom! What have we become? Once a proud republic where laws were feared and justice was revered, we now resemble a banana republic where the powerful live above the law and the law-abiding citizens toil under its weight.

The judiciary—our last bastion of hope—now stands exposed, not in robes of honor, but in bundles of currency notes. What happened to the fearless judges of yesteryears, the ones who set fire to injustice instead of hoarding cash? The ones who inspired awe and commanded respect, rather than transferring themselves to more comfortable pastures when things got too hot?

And yet, where is our rage? Where is our collective indignation?

Perhaps we have grown so accustomed to filth that it no longer stinks. Perhaps we have watched so many scandals unfold with no consequence that we simply sigh and turn the page. Maybe we have been anesthetized into apathy, shrugging our shoulders as if to say, “It’s always been like this, what can we do?”

If this is our new normal, then why pretend anymore? Let’s remove the blindfold from Lady Justice’s eyes—she doesn’t need it. Instead, let’s hand her a calculator so she can keep track of all the unaccounted wealth floating around. Let’s train her in fire safety, so she can prevent the accidental burning of ‘inconvenient’ files and paperwork. And while we’re at it, let’s replace those scales of justice with a money-counting machine—it’ll be far more useful in today’s times!

What will it take for us to wake up? Another scandal? Another judge with a bigger storeroom? Another politician who laughs in the face of accountability?

Or will we, at long last, decide that enough is enough?

Because, my dear fellow citizens, this isn’t just about a judge. This is about a nation at a crossroads. A nation that must choose whether it wants to be a thriving democracy where justice means something, or a decaying playground for the corrupt, where the only crime is getting caught.

The fire has revealed the truth. The question is—what will we do about it?

————————————————–

Would love to hear from you in the COMMENTS section below…and IF YOU WANT TO RECEIVE BOB’S BANTER EVERYDAY, PLEASE SEND YOUR NAME AND WHATSAPP PHONE NO TO [email protected]
————————————————–

The author conducts many activities connected with writing and speaking, to find out more, Just Click Here 

————————————————–