Justice Anand Venkatesh
There comes a point in every judge's journey when one pauses to reflect on what it means to sit in “the chair.” This is no ordinary piece of furniture, no ordinary position. For those who have walked into courtrooms day after day, it can often feel as though the chair itself alters the very dimensions of one's being. As individuals, we may be beset by ordinary weakness, by self-doubt, by the hesitations that every human being carries. Yet, when we ascend that seat of justice, something within us gathers itself with unexpected strength. Thoughts crystallize with greater clarity, words come with greater conviction, and decisions emerge with a weight and courage that perhaps, outside that chair, we would never have imagined ourselves capable of reaching.
It was this feeling that once led me to explain to the wife of a former Chief Justice that discharging the function of a judge almost feels divine. Anand Venkatesh as a man, I confessed, would not have dreamt of the thoughts or actions that Anand Venkatesh the judge was enabled to undertake. The sense that something larger than me was at play was overpowering. I sometimes wondered if it was not divinity at work.
But her reply struck me with the force of wisdom wrapped in simplicity. She offered me another lens through which to see this transformation — not as a divine gift, but as one of those rare human experiences where passion fuses with duty, and where the self loses itself in the enactment of a role.
She illustrated it with striking contrasts. She pointed to Michael Jackson whose personality from his earliest years was remembered as shy, withdrawn, almost painfully reclusive off the stage. Yet when he stepped into performance, he erupted into artistry and brilliance, commanding audiences with an energy, charisma, and flamboyance that seemed utterly beyond the personality glimpsed in private life.
She spoke also of surgeons who in everyday life appear as ordinary men and women but who, once in the operating theatre, summon the unwavering focus and stamina to operate on the human brain for ten hours straight, as though discipline and concentration alone had transformed them.
What links them, she said, is the phenomenon that psychologists call “flow” — that elusive state when time disappears, the ego dissolves, and the task becomes the master of the self. It is at once human and transcendent: an
athlete lost in rhythm, a musician transported by sound, a surgeon engulfed in the intricacies of anatomy. It is not divinity in the mystical sense; it is devotion in the fullest sense, the act of surrender that enables individuals to touch a peak lying hidden within them.
Then came the sobering reminder. The chair itself is not magical. It does not guarantee flow. It does not automatically lift every judge to greater heights. Many occupy it, she observed, without drawing upon its potential. The chair offers not divinity on a platter, but an invitation. It is the intensity of conscience, the depth of preparation, and the genuineness of passion that allow the role to elevate the person. Without these, the chair remains only a symbol of authority, not a channel for transformation.
Her words left me humbled. They reminded me that the moments of strength and clarity I might sometimes feel as a judge are not proofs of divine ordination. They are, rather, evidence of what can happen when human duty and human passion join with sincerity. I must not carry the illusion that I have been chosen in some mystical sense. If anything, I have only been entrusted with a sacred responsibility, one that demands humility. For occasional
moments when service swallows self, and passion eclipses fatigue, I should be grateful, not proud.
The insight extends beyond the judiciary to every profession driven by immersion — the teacher who transforms before a classroom, the doctor who bends over a patient with tireless care, the artist who loses herself in the act of creation. Each has access to that same mysterious state when ordinary limits recede, and something extraordinary is unlocked. It is neither mystical magic nor mere coincidence: it is the alchemy of focus, purpose, and surrender to work.
For judges particularly, this lesson is vital. Too often it is tempting to see the chair as a throne of authority, a pedestal that lifts its occupant above criticism or doubt. But the true dignity of the judicial office lies not in power or privilege. It lies in serving from a place of ordinariness, with the awareness that one is human, fallible, and replaceable and that the chair does not sanctify the person but simply entrusts him to a task. The true magic lies in those fleeting instants when the task takes over and we transcend ourselves.
Thus, if the chair has any divinity at all, it is not in its wood or its symbolism, but in how it reminds us of our smallness and our responsibility. It humbles us to know that the line between the ordinary and the extraordinary is thin and fragile. And it exhorts us to remember that those moments of extraordinary clarity are not crowns of personal greatness, but borrowings granted temporarily, to be returned with gratitude.
The chair, then, must never intoxicate; it must instead keep us awake. It should remind us not that we are gods in robes, but that we are servants entrusted with the people's trust. And perhaps, in keeping that humility alive, we do justice not only to the law, but to the silent grace that occasionally allows us to rise above ourselves.
Author is a Judge, High Court Madras. Views Are Personal.