Why We Trouble the Students: A Saturday at GLC Ernakulam
Saturday, January 17, 2026.
Saturday mornings usually have a distinct rhythm for a lawyer. If the court diary doesn't demand my presence, the family assumes a certain pace will follow. But as I was getting ready this past Saturday, my wife noticed I wasn't in my usual "court mode."
"No court today?" she asked, pausing her own routine.
"No," I said, adjusting my collar. "I’m heading to the Government Law College, Ernakulam."
She looked puzzled. "What for?"
"I have a session there," I replied, perhaps with a hint of self-importance.
Her response was immediate and cut right through my professional vanity: "Why do you want to trouble those poor students on their weekend?"
I froze. Just moments before, I had been buoyed by a wave of noble enthusiasm. In my head, I wasn't just "going to a session." I was heading to the 'Navigating the High Court of Kerala' program, organized by the PCL Foundation and the Legal Aid Clinic. I was going there to shape minds, perhaps to spark a fire in the next Chief Justice of India, or mold a legal luminary who would one day stand as a guardian of our Constitution.
But in one sentence, my wife brought me crashing back to Earth. To her, my "noble mission" was simply a logistical disruption. It meant I was likely annoying a classroom of students who would rather be sleeping in, and worse, it meant my client meetings would now spill over into the late afternoon, disturbing the sanctity of our family weekend.
I realized then that enthusiasm is often a solitary fuel. It burns brightly for the one holding the torch, but for everyone else, it just looks like bad scheduling.
The Echo of an Empty Hall
My goal for the day was precise: strict adherence to time. I intended to start at 10:00 AM sharp and conclude at 1:00 PM, correcting the error of the previous session where we had dragged on until 1:30 PM.
I stepped into the main hall of GLC Ernakulam at 9:57 AM, ready to begin.
But the scene that greeted me was not an assembly of eager legal minds. In that cavernous hall, I counted exactly five students. And, perhaps more telling than the headcount, was the furniture. There were no chairs arranged.
Dr. Mini Sugathan, the faculty coordinator, naturally lost her cool. To her, this was a breakdown of responsibility. But strangely, as I stood there watching the chaos, I felt completely calm. My wife’s question echoed back: "Why trouble them?"
Looking at the five students and the empty floor, I thought, Maybe she was right. Who was I to disturb the destiny of a college weekend? Who was I to underestimate the power of a Saturday morning sleep-in?
The Shift: Guests and Hosts
I decided not to wait. "Five is a good number," I told myself. And I meant it.
We had made a conscious decision for this program: no "celebrity lawyers." We weren't here for grand speeches; we were here for a workshop. If you are building a machine, you don't need an audience of thousands; you need a few dedicated engineers.
As we began arranging the space, the dynamic shifted. Within minutes, the trickle began. One student arrived, then two more, and soon the headcount swelled to about twenty.
When I finally stood up to open the session, my earlier high-mindedness about "molding the future" had vanished, replaced by gratitude. We were experimenting on a "Training Protocol," and these students were the stress-testers.
"You are actually the guests," I thought, "and we are the hosts." Their engagement—or lack thereof—would determine the final structure of the protocol we were building.
The Teachers Who Were Learning
I had delegated the heavy lifting of the session to my younger colleagues: Advocate Arun Johny and Advocate Niya.
Arun has been with our "Project Complete Lawyer" for about three years; he knows the rhythm. Niya is just a few weeks old in the profession. On the eve of the session, we held a final coordination meeting, and I realized the disparity in our preparation. Adv. Niya had even purchased a brand new commentary on the CPC, clutching it like a shield. Seeing that fresh binding, I realized that I was easily the most unprepared person in the room.
We wanted the session to be "clinical." We had selected specific judgments from the District Judiciary and shared them in advance via a WhatsApp group. The plan was simple: Read the lower court judgment, and then let's figure out how to get it to the High Court.
The Verdict: "No Break"
We began the session with a ritual inspired by the legendary Prof. N.R. Madhava Menon, whose spirit is always present in these workshops: the practice of reflection. It is not enough to move forward; one must first anchor themselves in what came before. Anuja S.B., a bright participant of the workshop, took the floor. Her summary was not just a recap; it was a transportive narrative that literally took us back to the previous Saturday, ensuring that we started this session exactly where we had left off.
Then, we moved to the "Hard Facts." Adv. Arun took the lead. As he began untangling the knots of the Civil Jurisdiction, he abandoned the podium and moved to the floor, closing the physical gap between expert and student. He was trying to make the CPC simple.
It was a heavy lift, so I jumped in with live examples from my practice. This "dual game plan" seemed to click.
At 11:30 AM, I looked at the clock. "Do you need a break?" I asked, expecting a rush for the door.
To my genuine surprise, the Government Law College responded unanimously: "No."
They didn't want a pause; they wanted to finish the thought. That was the moment I knew the script was working.
The Hard Call at Noon
However, enthusiasm plays havoc with schedules. By 12:00 PM, Arun was still deep in his presentation.
I looked at the clock and the remaining agenda. We had planned a session for Adv. Niya, followed by the group discussions. But the math didn't work. There was no time for both.
We had to make a command decision. We decided to break the session right there. We had to exclude Niya’s presentation entirely—despite her preparation and that new CPC book—to save the practical workshop. It was a tough call, but the priority was the students' engagement.
We shifted gears instantly. We moved the twenty lawyers into four groups of five to diagnose their clients' problems using the scheme they had just learned.
The Three-Hour Epiphany
When the groups returned to the present, the transformation was complete. They diagnosed the problem with a surgical logic:
Is it a Decree? They checked if the court’s verdict amounted to a decree or a deemed decree. If yes, they identified the appellate remedy under Section 96 or Section 100 CPC.
Is it an Appealable Order? If not, they checked the lists in Section 104 and Order 43 Rule 1.
Is it Revisable? If it wasn't on the list, they applied the test under Section 115: Did the order terminate the suit or proceeding? If yes, file a Revision.
The Constitution: If all statutory doors closed, they proposed a remedy under Article 227.
As I watched them, I felt a pang of envy mixed with pride. This clarity didn't come to me in a classroom. It came to me through scars.
I remembered the early days of my practice, standing before a judge who asked, "Is this maintainable?" and feeling the floor drop. I remembered filing a Revision when it should have been an Appeal, and the humiliating walk back to the filing section to take it back. I spent years confusing Section 115 with Article 227, learning the difference only when a senior lawyer or a curt judge pointed it out. I learned this matrix not by logic, but by losing.
These students had bypassed all that pain. They had cracked the code in three hours.
Conclusion: The Student's Testimony
Based on the facts, each team presented their submissions challenging the orders. We concluded the session at 1:06 PM.
Walking out of the college, I found happy faces, but the day wasn't done. One participant approached me to challenge a detail in the answer key uploaded in the moodle platform regarding court fees ("Is it ₹1,000 or ₹2,000?"). Another confessed that her fear of the CPC had finally lifted.
But perhaps the truest answer to my wife’s morning question—"Why trouble them?"—came later, when I shared a draft of this very experience with the participants. Ancy Philip, one of the students, sent a reply that summarized the "trouble" we had caused:
"Last Saturday, we were fortunate to spend a truly worthwhile three hours. For many of us who often struggle to understand how the CPC works in practice, the session brought much-needed clarity... Although all these topics form part of our syllabus and we have heard about them before, these three hours completely shifted our way of thinking... I’m not sure whether words are enough, but the entire experience was truly insightful—and we genuinely enjoyed every bit of it."
We hadn't disturbed the rhythm of their weekend. We had given them a new way to think. And that is worth every second of the trouble.
I decided not to wait. "Five is a good number," I told myself. And I meant it.
We had made a conscious decision for this program: no "celebrity lawyers." We weren't here for grand speeches; we were here for a workshop. If you are building a machine, you don't need an audience of thousands; you need a few dedicated engineers.
As we began arranging the space, the dynamic shifted. Within minutes, the trickle began. One student arrived, then two more, and soon the headcount swelled to about twenty.
When I finally stood up to open the session, my earlier high-mindedness about "molding the future" had vanished, replaced by gratitude. We were experimenting on a "Training Protocol," and these students were the stress-testers.
"You are actually the guests," I thought, "and we are the hosts." Their engagement—or lack thereof—would determine the final structure of the protocol we were building.
The Teachers Who Were Learning
I had delegated the heavy lifting of the session to my younger colleagues: Advocate Arun Johny and Advocate Niya.
Arun has been with our "Project Complete Lawyer" for about three years; he knows the rhythm. Niya is just a few weeks old in the profession. On the eve of the session, we held a final coordination meeting, and I realized the disparity in our preparation. Adv. Niya had even purchased a brand new commentary on the CPC, clutching it like a shield. Seeing that fresh binding, I realized that I was easily the most unprepared person in the room.
We wanted the session to be "clinical." We had selected specific judgments from the District Judiciary and shared them in advance via a WhatsApp group. The plan was simple: Read the lower court judgment, and then let's figure out how to get it to the High Court.
The Verdict: "No Break"
We began the session with a ritual inspired by the legendary Prof. N.R. Madhava Menon, whose spirit is always present in these workshops: the practice of reflection. It is not enough to move forward; one must first anchor themselves in what came before. Anuja S.B., a bright participant of the workshop, took the floor. Her summary was not just a recap; it was a transportive narrative that literally took us back to the previous Saturday, ensuring that we started this session exactly where we had left off.
Then, we moved to the "Hard Facts." Adv. Arun took the lead. As he began untangling the knots of the Civil Jurisdiction, he abandoned the podium and moved to the floor, closing the physical gap between expert and student. He was trying to make the CPC simple.
It was a heavy lift, so I jumped in with live examples from my practice. This "dual game plan" seemed to click.
At 11:30 AM, I looked at the clock. "Do you need a break?" I asked, expecting a rush for the door.
To my genuine surprise, the Government Law College responded unanimously: "No."
They didn't want a pause; they wanted to finish the thought. That was the moment I knew the script was working.
The Hard Call at Noon
However, enthusiasm plays havoc with schedules. By 12:00 PM, Arun was still deep in his presentation.
I looked at the clock and the remaining agenda. We had planned a session for Adv. Niya, followed by the group discussions. But the math didn't work. There was no time for both.
We had to make a command decision. We decided to break the session right there. We had to exclude Niya’s presentation entirely—despite her preparation and that new CPC book—to save the practical workshop. It was a tough call, but the priority was the students' engagement.
We shifted gears instantly. We moved the twenty lawyers into four groups of five to diagnose their clients' problems using the scheme they had just learned.
The Three-Hour Epiphany
When the groups returned to the present, the transformation was complete. They diagnosed the problem with a surgical logic:
Is it a Decree? They checked if the court’s verdict amounted to a decree or a deemed decree. If yes, they identified the appellate remedy under Section 96 or Section 100 CPC.
Is it an Appealable Order? If not, they checked the lists in Section 104 and Order 43 Rule 1.
Is it Revisable? If it wasn't on the list, they applied the test under Section 115: Did the order terminate the suit or proceeding? If yes, file a Revision.
The Constitution: If all statutory doors closed, they proposed a remedy under Article 227.
As I watched them, I felt a pang of envy mixed with pride. This clarity didn't come to me in a classroom. It came to me through scars.
I remembered the early days of my practice, standing before a judge who asked, "Is this maintainable?" and feeling the floor drop. I remembered filing a Revision when it should have been an Appeal, and the humiliating walk back to the filing section to take it back. I spent years confusing Section 115 with Article 227, learning the difference only when a senior lawyer or a curt judge pointed it out. I learned this matrix not by logic, but by losing.
These students had bypassed all that pain. They had cracked the code in three hours.
Conclusion: The Student's Testimony
Based on the facts, each team presented their submissions challenging the orders. We concluded the session at 1:06 PM.
Walking out of the college, I found happy faces, but the day wasn't done. One participant approached me to challenge a detail in the answer key uploaded in the moodle platform regarding court fees ("Is it ₹1,000 or ₹2,000?"). Another confessed that her fear of the CPC had finally lifted.
But perhaps the truest answer to my wife’s morning question—"Why trouble them?"—came later, when I shared a draft of this very experience with the participants. Ancy Philip, one of the students, sent a reply that summarized the "trouble" we had caused:
"Last Saturday, we were fortunate to spend a truly worthwhile three hours. For many of us who often struggle to understand how the CPC works in practice, the session brought much-needed clarity... Although all these topics form part of our syllabus and we have heard about them before, these three hours completely shifted our way of thinking... I’m not sure whether words are enough, but the entire experience was truly insightful—and we genuinely enjoyed every bit of it."
We hadn't disturbed the rhythm of their weekend. We had given them a new way to think. And that is worth every second of the trouble.
I had delegated the heavy lifting of the session to my younger colleagues: Advocate Arun Johny and Advocate Niya.
Arun has been with our "Project Complete Lawyer" for about three years; he knows the rhythm. Niya is just a few weeks old in the profession. On the eve of the session, we held a final coordination meeting, and I realized the disparity in our preparation. Adv. Niya had even purchased a brand new commentary on the CPC, clutching it like a shield. Seeing that fresh binding, I realized that I was easily the most unprepared person in the room.
We wanted the session to be "clinical." We had selected specific judgments from the District Judiciary and shared them in advance via a WhatsApp group. The plan was simple: Read the lower court judgment, and then let's figure out how to get it to the High Court.
The Verdict: "No Break"
We began the session with a ritual inspired by the legendary Prof. N.R. Madhava Menon, whose spirit is always present in these workshops: the practice of reflection. It is not enough to move forward; one must first anchor themselves in what came before. Anuja S.B., a bright participant of the workshop, took the floor. Her summary was not just a recap; it was a transportive narrative that literally took us back to the previous Saturday, ensuring that we started this session exactly where we had left off.
Then, we moved to the "Hard Facts." Adv. Arun took the lead. As he began untangling the knots of the Civil Jurisdiction, he abandoned the podium and moved to the floor, closing the physical gap between expert and student. He was trying to make the CPC simple.
It was a heavy lift, so I jumped in with live examples from my practice. This "dual game plan" seemed to click.
At 11:30 AM, I looked at the clock. "Do you need a break?" I asked, expecting a rush for the door.
To my genuine surprise, the Government Law College responded unanimously: "No."
They didn't want a pause; they wanted to finish the thought. That was the moment I knew the script was working.
The Hard Call at Noon
However, enthusiasm plays havoc with schedules. By 12:00 PM, Arun was still deep in his presentation.
I looked at the clock and the remaining agenda. We had planned a session for Adv. Niya, followed by the group discussions. But the math didn't work. There was no time for both.
We had to make a command decision. We decided to break the session right there. We had to exclude Niya’s presentation entirely—despite her preparation and that new CPC book—to save the practical workshop. It was a tough call, but the priority was the students' engagement.
We shifted gears instantly. We moved the twenty lawyers into four groups of five to diagnose their clients' problems using the scheme they had just learned.
The Three-Hour Epiphany
When the groups returned to the present, the transformation was complete. They diagnosed the problem with a surgical logic:
Is it a Decree? They checked if the court’s verdict amounted to a decree or a deemed decree. If yes, they identified the appellate remedy under Section 96 or Section 100 CPC.
Is it an Appealable Order? If not, they checked the lists in Section 104 and Order 43 Rule 1.
Is it Revisable? If it wasn't on the list, they applied the test under Section 115: Did the order terminate the suit or proceeding? If yes, file a Revision.
The Constitution: If all statutory doors closed, they proposed a remedy under Article 227.
As I watched them, I felt a pang of envy mixed with pride. This clarity didn't come to me in a classroom. It came to me through scars.
I remembered the early days of my practice, standing before a judge who asked, "Is this maintainable?" and feeling the floor drop. I remembered filing a Revision when it should have been an Appeal, and the humiliating walk back to the filing section to take it back. I spent years confusing Section 115 with Article 227, learning the difference only when a senior lawyer or a curt judge pointed it out. I learned this matrix not by logic, but by losing.
These students had bypassed all that pain. They had cracked the code in three hours.
Conclusion: The Student's Testimony
Based on the facts, each team presented their submissions challenging the orders. We concluded the session at 1:06 PM.
Walking out of the college, I found happy faces, but the day wasn't done. One participant approached me to challenge a detail in the answer key uploaded in the moodle platform regarding court fees ("Is it ₹1,000 or ₹2,000?"). Another confessed that her fear of the CPC had finally lifted.
But perhaps the truest answer to my wife’s morning question—"Why trouble them?"—came later, when I shared a draft of this very experience with the participants. Ancy Philip, one of the students, sent a reply that summarized the "trouble" we had caused:
"Last Saturday, we were fortunate to spend a truly worthwhile three hours. For many of us who often struggle to understand how the CPC works in practice, the session brought much-needed clarity... Although all these topics form part of our syllabus and we have heard about them before, these three hours completely shifted our way of thinking... I’m not sure whether words are enough, but the entire experience was truly insightful—and we genuinely enjoyed every bit of it."
We hadn't disturbed the rhythm of their weekend. We had given them a new way to think. And that is worth every second of the trouble.
We began the session with a ritual inspired by the legendary Prof. N.R. Madhava Menon, whose spirit is always present in these workshops: the practice of reflection. It is not enough to move forward; one must first anchor themselves in what came before. Anuja S.B., a bright participant of the workshop, took the floor. Her summary was not just a recap; it was a transportive narrative that literally took us back to the previous Saturday, ensuring that we started this session exactly where we had left off.
Then, we moved to the "Hard Facts." Adv. Arun took the lead. As he began untangling the knots of the Civil Jurisdiction, he abandoned the podium and moved to the floor, closing the physical gap between expert and student. He was trying to make the CPC simple.
It was a heavy lift, so I jumped in with live examples from my practice. This "dual game plan" seemed to click.
At 11:30 AM, I looked at the clock. "Do you need a break?" I asked, expecting a rush for the door.
To my genuine surprise, the Government Law College responded unanimously: "No."
They didn't want a pause; they wanted to finish the thought. That was the moment I knew the script was working.
The Hard Call at Noon
However, enthusiasm plays havoc with schedules. By 12:00 PM, Arun was still deep in his presentation.
I looked at the clock and the remaining agenda. We had planned a session for Adv. Niya, followed by the group discussions. But the math didn't work. There was no time for both.
We had to make a command decision. We decided to break the session right there. We had to exclude Niya’s presentation entirely—despite her preparation and that new CPC book—to save the practical workshop. It was a tough call, but the priority was the students' engagement.
We shifted gears instantly. We moved the twenty lawyers into four groups of five to diagnose their clients' problems using the scheme they had just learned.
The Three-Hour Epiphany
When the groups returned to the present, the transformation was complete. They diagnosed the problem with a surgical logic:
Is it a Decree? They checked if the court’s verdict amounted to a decree or a deemed decree. If yes, they identified the appellate remedy under Section 96 or Section 100 CPC.
Is it an Appealable Order? If not, they checked the lists in Section 104 and Order 43 Rule 1.
Is it Revisable? If it wasn't on the list, they applied the test under Section 115: Did the order terminate the suit or proceeding? If yes, file a Revision.
The Constitution: If all statutory doors closed, they proposed a remedy under Article 227.
As I watched them, I felt a pang of envy mixed with pride. This clarity didn't come to me in a classroom. It came to me through scars.
I remembered the early days of my practice, standing before a judge who asked, "Is this maintainable?" and feeling the floor drop. I remembered filing a Revision when it should have been an Appeal, and the humiliating walk back to the filing section to take it back. I spent years confusing Section 115 with Article 227, learning the difference only when a senior lawyer or a curt judge pointed it out. I learned this matrix not by logic, but by losing.
Is it a Decree? They checked if the court’s verdict amounted to a decree or a deemed decree. If yes, they identified the appellate remedy under Section 96 or Section 100 CPC.
Is it an Appealable Order? If not, they checked the lists in Section 104 and Order 43 Rule 1.
Is it Revisable? If it wasn't on the list, they applied the test under Section 115: Did the order terminate the suit or proceeding? If yes, file a Revision.
The Constitution: If all statutory doors closed, they proposed a remedy under Article 227.
These students had bypassed all that pain. They had cracked the code in three hours.
Conclusion: The Student's Testimony
Based on the facts, each team presented their submissions challenging the orders. We concluded the session at 1:06 PM.
Walking out of the college, I found happy faces, but the day wasn't done. One participant approached me to challenge a detail in the answer key uploaded in the moodle platform regarding court fees ("Is it ₹1,000 or ₹2,000?"). Another confessed that her fear of the CPC had finally lifted.
But perhaps the truest answer to my wife’s morning question—"Why trouble them?"—came later, when I shared a draft of this very experience with the participants. Ancy Philip, one of the students, sent a reply that summarized the "trouble" we had caused:
"Last Saturday, we were fortunate to spend a truly worthwhile three hours. For many of us who often struggle to understand how the CPC works in practice, the session brought much-needed clarity... Although all these topics form part of our syllabus and we have heard about them before, these three hours completely shifted our way of thinking... I’m not sure whether words are enough, but the entire experience was truly insightful—and we genuinely enjoyed every bit of it."
We hadn't disturbed the rhythm of their weekend. We had given them a new way to think. And that is worth every second of the trouble.
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