In Shimla, there are two things as certain as the hills themselves: the old town hooter that sounds at ten, and Justice Tarlok Chauhan taking his seat at exactly the same hour. Sharp ten. No dithering, no delay, time, like law, had to be honored. For the bar, this daily certainty meant one thing: if you had a matter before Justice Chauhan, you’d better have your file and your wits in order well before the fog lifted from the Mall Road. Once seated, His Lordship moved through the cause list with a rhythm that was nothing short of orchestral. The courtroom would come alive with movement, petitions called, orders passed, arguments sliced clean with surgical clarity. It wasn’t just speed; it was discipline refined into tempo. Lawyers who fancied a leisurely morning found themselves sprinting through their submissions, their watches forever set to “Justice Chauhan Standard Time.” He didn’t simply hear cases; he breezed through them, but never at the cost of fairness or depth. To witness him in court was to witness the law in motion, not sluggish, not ceremonial, but alive, exacting, and infused with purpose.
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