Silence. Palkhivala is in the courtroom

He is a legend, I venture to suggest, for all of the above, and, most importantly, because he was so uniquely himself: a man of genius who never lost the virtue of humility; a man of singular simplicity graced with unbounded warmth and kindness; a man of letters as much as of the law.

Nani’s contribution to the law is as no other lawyer can expect to equal.

Apart from his abiding testament, Kanga and Palkhivala’s Treatise on Income Tax, Nani’s contribution to the development of constitutional law is truly incredible. Bank nationalisation, privy purses, Golak Nath, Kesavanand Bharathi, Minerva Mills were all virtuoso performances and each one of them conjures but one name, Nani Palkhivala. It is no exaggeration to say that if today we have a Constitution whose basic structure is intact and unamendable and our fundamental rights inviolate, it is entirely due to this great man.

The law can be very dry and very boring: arguments of advocates can be even drier and infinitely more boring. Nani’s greatness as an advocate can be attributed to an incredibly analytical mind, a prodigious memory and a lucidity that made the most complex argument simple to the meanest intelligence.

Add to this a felicity of expression that elevated that argument to something that resembled an essay in classical prose and you have Nani Palkhivala. It was as if he waved a magic wand that momentarily robbed you of reason and made you believe there could be no other point of view; every opponent and every judge had occasion to face this dilemma!

In 1975, when Chief Justice Ray assembled a Bench of 13 judges in an attempt to overturn Kesavanda and the unamendability of the basic structure, Nani was his impassioned best. Justice Khanna—the great and courageous Justice Khanna—who was on that bench has written that ‘‘the height of eloquence to which Palkhivala rose on that day has seldom been equalled and never surpassed in the Supreme Court’’.

That eloquence was not wasted: by the second day the Chief Justice was in a minority of one and was forced, unceremoniously, to dissolve the bench.

Nani was unquestionably the greatest advocate that I have had the privilege of having heard, of having appeared with and, on occasion, having had the chastening experience of having appeared against. Just a few years after I had joined the bar, I was briefed as Nani’s junior.

It was for me a lesson, not only in the law and in advocacy, but in the courtesy and manners which an older senior man could extend towards a much younger, junior man.

The case involved nice questions of law, not covered by any decision in India or, for that matter, in England or America. Enthusiastically, I had identified some ten authorities I believed might be relevant. Nani fixed a conference, but not without first anxiously enquiring whether the time was convenient to me.

The conference lasted barely half an hour when he speed-read through all the authorities, discussed a point or two, and noted down the names and citations of some six of the authorities on a small piece of paper—but only after heaping mounds of praise on me for my industry! He asked that the cases should be in court.

Some ten days went by before the case came on: I enquired once or twice whether I could have the cases sent to his residence—his only response was to request that they be in court.

I was required to inform Nani just before our turn came: I duly sent word and even as the counsel preceding us was sitting down, Nani, who had raced across from Bombay House, entered the Court and puffed: ‘‘May it please your Lordships’’ and there began the finest exposition of trust law based entirely on first principles that I have ever heard.

When it came to citing the law, Nani pulled out the same piece of paper, now crumpled and the worse for wear for having resided in some inner pocket for ten days. He began, entirely from memory, by stating the facts of each case and the proposition of law it laid down, and only then asked me for the book. It was an incredible and an unforgettable performance.

Nani’s birthday was always an occasion. He would invite his large circle of friends (in which my wife and I were happily included) for dinner. Nergesh, his beloved wife, and Nani were the perfect hosts—caring and attentive and leaving nothing to servants or bearers. Nani would serve the drinks (often too generously!) to every guest himself, Nergesh would ensure that every guest visited the sumptuous table more than once.

The last birthday we celebrated was almost three years ago: Nergesh was then alive and Nani in decent health. And this is how I should always like to remember him: with Nergesh by his side and Nani himself in the fullness of health: the erect figure, the shining eye, the warm embrace—in other words, the legend that will always remain Nani Palkhivala.

(The writer is a senior advocate and a former president of the Bombay Bar Association)