Chapter 7 – Love.exe Has Stopped Working
Law, Life & Laughter
The Family Court was buzzing like a courtroom-sized server farm—overheated, overworked, and entirely overpopulated. Into this arrived a pair who could have been exported straight from Silicon Valley: the husband, power-dressed in IT-confidence; the wife, as composed as an Excel sheet before it crashes. Both were there to debug their marriage.
“Why are you not signing the consent divorce?” thundered the husband, like a software patch demanding installation. “You promised after one year. I’ve already paid the amount you demanded—through my lawyer!”
The wife blinked. “Paid? Through your lawyer? Then someone’s downloaded the wrong attachment—I haven’t received a byte!”
At that, two “gentlemen” in black coats began gliding toward the exit with the smoothness of corrupted files being quietly deleted. One onlooker whispered, “Those must be the lawyers—leaving the system before it crashes.” Another murmured, “Paid but not received? Sounds like the usual bandwidth problem between advocates!”
The presiding officer froze mid-note. The air thickened. Families from both sides, who had been pretending neutrality, suddenly surged forward like shareholders in a collapsing startup. “Children,” cried an elderly uncle, “stop fighting over shadows. Reconcile, or you’ll lose your jobs, your savings, and your sanity. Love is cheaper than litigation!”
The husband and wife looked uncertain. A middle-aged onlooker added helpfully, “At least in marriage, updates are free. Court cases need stamp paper.”
As tempers cooled, the court’s regular residents stirred. A pack of stray dogs, claiming eminent domain over the corridor, yawned theatrically, unimpressed by human folly. Overhead, a few doves circled the ceiling fan like seasoned mediators, cooing in pity at another pair of humans crashing their own software.
The presiding officer, equal parts philosopher and traffic cop, finally sighed. “Perhaps you should… take some time. Maybe counselling?” he said, tapping the keyboard of compassion. Both parties nodded gratefully. Even the spectators exhaled—one saying, “A happy ending, for now. Till Version 2.0.”
As they filed out, the missing lawyers were nowhere to be seen—possibly busy “syncing data” elsewhere. The families followed, murmuring advice, the dogs resumed their nap, and the pigeons reclaimed their beams. Order, or something like it, was restored.
The judge closed the file, muttering, “They call it Family Court, but mostly it’s Family Comedy.”
Outside, a clerk watching the departing crowd remarked to no one in particular, “In this place, only the dogs and doves stay married for life.”
And somewhere between laughter and lament, another day in the corridors of law quietly rebooted itself.