A case from my Torts casebook….just….read it. I highlight some of the more interesting parts. With all the Shakespeare references and alliterative phrases, you’d think I was getting a degree in English rather than Law. I wish all cases were like this one; it would make them easier to read.

(Written by Justice Carlin)

This case presents the ordinary man — that problem child of the law — in a most bizarre setting. As a lowly chauffeur in defendant’s employ he became in a trice the protagonist in a breach-bating drama with a denouement almost tragic. It appears that a man, whose identity it would be indelicate to divulge was feloniously relieved of his portable goods by two nondescript highwaymen in an alley near 26th Street and Third Avenue, Manhattan; they induced him to relinquish his possessions by a strong argument ad hominem couched in the convincing cant of the criminal and pressed at the point of a most persuasive pistol. Laden with their loot, but not thereby impeded, they took an abrupt departure and he, shuffling off the coil of that discretion which enmeshed him in the alley, quickly gave chase through 26th Street toward 2d Avenue, whether they were resorting ‘with expedition swift as thought’ for most obvious reasons. Somewhere on that thoroughfare of escape they indulged the stratagem of separation ostensibly to disconcert their pursuer and allay the ardor of his pursuit. He then centered on for capture the man with the pistol whom he saw board defendant’s taxicab, which quickly veered south toward 25th Street on 2d Avenue where he saw the chauffeur jump out while the cab, still in motion, continued toward 24th Street; after the chauffeur relieved himself of the cumbersome burden of his fare the latter also is said to have similarly departed from the cab before it reached 24th Street.

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As soon as I arrive in Islamabad, Pakistan to visit my darling grandmother, I grab my youngest uncle and demand he take me across the street to Melody Market. Other women head to buy cloth or visit the tailor, but my uncle always takes me in the opposite direction.

Through the main market, down a little alley is a wonderful little dessert shop, my favorite place to get my favorite Pakistani dessert – jalaibi. As I enter the alley, the smell of sweetness perfumes the air. We’re close. We’re headed to a shop called Bengali Rasgulla and Jalaibi.

The owner of the shop and artist of countless sweet delicacies is a Bengali man whose family stayed in Pakistan after its separation with Bangladesh in 1971. As we arrive, the Jalaibi Vaala (The Jalaibi Maker) is piping the thin, creamy jalaibi batter into a vat of hot oil in long whirling strips. He fries it until crisp and immediately submerges it into a pot of sugar syrup. The final result is a light, ooey-gooey, severely sweet spiral of bright orange.

He gives me a pound of jalaibi wrapped in several bags made out of newspaper. The sunny, bright sweetmeat is calling me….I can’t resist! I grab one, hot and crisp, and bite into it, not noticing the sugar syrup rapidly drenching my chin and fingers. I have to capture this moment; I wipe enough syrup from my fingers to snap this shot. A master at his craft, the Jalaibi Vaala stares into my lens as the next batch of fresh jalaibi waits to delight another addict.

In Islamabad, in the heart of the Punjab province, two artists from Karachi have opened up shop in a busy market. Their art is paan – a dark green betel leaf filled with a spicy-sweet concoction of herbs and spices. To understand how unusually situated this shop is, one must understand that Karachi and Islamabad are on two different ends of the country and speak two different languages. The shopkeepers are obvious black sheep, but are hailed and welcomed in Islamabad because of the rich history and culture of Pakistan’s Urdu-speaking world that they represent. And of course, because they make the best (and slightly addictive) paan for hundreds of miles.

The shop itself is piece of art, never mind the skill it takes to create the perfect blend of spices to fold neatly into the paan leaf. Its presence is inescapably inviting. Smells of saffron and rose water emanate from the glowing shop, which is filled with with Mughal-style pitchers and paintings, flowers, and vibrant, rich colors. One almost expects King Shah Jehan to walk around the corner with his entourage and order a piece of paan.

The man pictured here is the apprentice paan maker. His job is to hand the customers packets of sweet or savory paan wrapped in cones of white and then wish them good day with showers of rose petals as they walk away. He’s dressed in a particular version of traditional men’s clothing that now is usually limited to the regions around Karachi but is reminiscent of the traditional court dress of Mughal kings and princes.

It’s almost a requirement of a trip to any South Asian country that one visit the cloth markets. Until very recently, there were no shops where a shopper could simply choose a style and size and pick an outfit, ready to wear. The traditional and, in my opinion, most fun way to do it, is to start from scratch and visit one of these havens of vibrant color and texture, the cloth shop.

My mother and I enter China Market in Rawalpindi, Pakistan early in the morning, as soon as the shopkeepers are opening their gates. The shopkeepers are rather superstitious and believe it is bad luck to let the first customer of the day walk away empty-handed; thus, they are willing to give us better deals as we haggle on the price of cloth.

As we walk by his shop, this young man calls to us. “Bari baaji! Choti baaji! Ayai na!” “Little sister! Big sister! Won’t you please come in?” As we enter and he invites us to sit, I can tell by his lyrical accent that he’s actually Afghani, perhaps a refugee that came to Pakistan a long time ago. As he points out his varied wares, I can’t help but feel transported back to a time of Mughal princes and princesses dressed in their luxurious, colorful costumes.

Though he can probably understand the kind of cloth we are looking for, he is determined to show us everything he can, hoping something else will catch our eyes as well. He unrolls bolt after bolt of beautiful fabric, inviting us to feel the texture, look closely at the hand-embroidered flowers and sequins in a pattern that he had specially created, just for his shop. I capture him just as he unrolls a bolt of purple “glass georgette,” so named because of its interspersed patterns of smooth satin on thinner fabric. Through the opaque fabric is visible the shopkeeper’s assistant, who wanted to bring good fortune to the business by starting his day with a reading of the Holy Qur’aan.

The shopkeeper’s tactic worked; my mother and I bought more than we had planned. As he folds and packs the cuts of fabric, he orders us cold sodas and asks that we remember him in our prayers. We are welcome at his shop anytime, he says, as a sister would be for her brother.