By Robert Clements
Why Only Greenland?
The courtroom of the International Court of Justice was unusually quiet that morning. Even the translators, who normally whispered into their microphones with the enthusiasm of gossiping aunts, had paused. The judge adjusted his glasses, looked down at the thick file before him, then looked up at the two Indian lawyers standing confidently in crisp black coats.
“You have filed a case of discrimination against the United States,” he said slowly, as if reading a line he never expected to read in his judicial career.
“Yes, My Lord,” said the first lawyer, clearing his throat with patriotic firmness. “We feel deeply offended.”
“Offended?” asked the judge, raising an eyebrow that had seen wars, sanctions, coups and several dozen international embarrassments.
“Very much so,” said the second lawyer. “Why is the United States interested only in Greenland, Canada and Venezuela? Why not India?”
A murmur ran through the courtroom. Pens paused mid sentence. A journalist dropped his croissant. A diplomat from a small island nation stopped pretending to understand international law and leaned forward.
The judge leaned back. “And why, may I ask, should the United States want India?”
The first lawyer smiled. This was his moment. He had rehearsed this answer in front of the mirror that morning. “Because we are the fourth largest economy in the world.”
The judge nodded politely.
“Because we have religious freedom,” added the second lawyer, with a confident nod to the gallery.
“Because we have absolute freedom of speech,” continued the first, warming up nicely now.
“And because,” the second lawyer said proudly, chest expanding, “we have no poverty at all.”
There was silence. The kind of silence that usually appears just before someone realises they have said something unforgettable. Somewhere, a ceiling fan hummed awkwardly.
The judge blinked once. Then twice. He flipped through the case papers again, as if hoping the words might rearrange themselves into something more legally acceptable.
“You are saying,” he asked carefully, “that all of this is true?”
“Absolutely,” said both lawyers together, in the tone usually reserved for schoolboys denying responsibility for a broken window.
The judge removed his glasses and placed them on the desk. He looked tired now. Not physically tired, but morally exhausted. The kind of tiredness that comes when reality has been bent, stretched, polished and finally presented as a press release.
Then he banged his gavel.
“Case dismissed.”
The lawyers froze. “Dismissed?” they cried. “On what grounds?”
The judge sighed, a long sigh that travelled across continents. “On the grounds that this case is based entirely on fiction.”
“Fiction?” said the first lawyer indignantly. “These are national achievements.”
The judge shook his head. “No. These are short stories. Imaginative writing. In fact, I keep reading excerpts from this fictitious book in your newspapers every day.”
The courtroom chuckled. Even a few seasoned diplomats smiled, grateful for comic relief.
“You cannot,” the judge continued, “build a legal case on novels and works of fiction. Courts deal in facts. Not slogans. Not speeches. Not election posters.”
“But My Lord,” pleaded the second lawyer, “our leaders say this every day.”
“Exactly,” said the judge. “That is why I recognised it immediately as fiction.”
He leaned back in his chair. “It is time you realised that what sells at home may not sell outside.”
Laughter broke out. Even the stenographer smiled, though she quickly returned to typing in case the smile was recorded as contempt of court.
The judge tapped the file. “Let me explain this slowly. When journalists are questioned for asking questions, freedom of speech develops a nervous stutter. When poverty is hidden behind statistics, it does not disappear. It simply changes addresses. When minorities need protection from the law instead of protection by the law, religious freedom becomes conditional.”
The lawyers shifted uneasily.
“And when you announce these things loudly enough,” the judge continued, “you begin to believe them. That is the true power of fiction.”
A reporter raised his hand, forgetting he was not in school.
The judge ignored him. “This court cannot proceed until poverty disappears, free speech stops trembling, poverty is genuinely eradicated and unfair laws against minorities are scrapped. Until then, this case remains firmly in the fiction section.”
He picked up his gavel again. “Court adjourned.”
As the lawyers packed their bags, one turned to the other and whispered, “At least we tried.”
“Yes,” the other replied. “But next time, let us bring facts. Or at least a better novelist.”
Outside the courtroom, reporters rushed forward. Microphones were shoved into faces. Headlines were already forming.
India Loses Case at World Court
Judge Calls Claims ‘Creative Writing’
Back home, the evening news presented the story differently. The case, viewers were told, had been dismissed due to “international bias.” Panels shouted. Anchors nodded gravely. Graphics flashed.
The same novelist smiled. He knew it didn’t matter. His stories were not meant for courts. They were meant for living rooms. For television studios. For WhatsApp forwards. For people who preferred comforting fiction to uncomfortable truth.
In the end, Greenland remained just Greenland. Canada stayed where it was. Venezuela continued being Venezuela. And India remains a nation where fiction sells far better than facts. That the world can tell us to stop believing what we are fed but like cinema goers at a theatre we close our eyes and tell ourselves to believe everything that is fed to us.
The only difference is that as we continue believing in the fiction that is being spoon-fed to us, we will walk out of the theatre or bookshop or library one day, and realise that what my fictitious judge at the international court said was not fiction but the truth..!
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