The Accidental Apprentice (15 page)

When she re-enters the holding room, she has the satisfied smirk of a woman who has got what she wanted.

‘So what are you doing for New Year's Eve?' she asks me, perhaps her way of making up for the sharp words she had said to me earlier.

‘Nothing,' I reply. ‘For me, December the thirty-first is like any other day.'

‘Well, it's not,' she argues. ‘It is the end of one year and the beginning of another. A new year buries the old and ushers in new dreams, new hopes and new aspirations.' She says this with such glib, cheery sincerity, it sounds like a dialogue from one of her films.

I feel like telling her that a new year does not bury the detritus of the past. There will be the same slow iteration of our lingering sorrows and old regrets in the new year as well. Instead, I ask her, ‘So what will
you
be doing tonight?'

‘Oh, Rocky is throwing a big bash at the Regency and I'll be partying all night long. In fact, you are welcome to join us. Come around eleven thirty or so. You'll get to see how the other half parties.'

It looks like one of those spur-of-the-moment offers she might already be regretting. Rosie Mascarenhas is sufficiently alarmed by it to go into a spasm of coughing. In any event, I have no intention of suffering through another round of the other half's patronising condescension.

‘Thanks for the invite.' I smile at Priya. ‘But I just remembered I'd promised an American friend of mine to come to her New Year party in Mehrauli.'

By now Rosie and her team have finished gathering the odds and ends they had left behind. The PR manager looks around the holding room for a final time before announcing, ‘I think we are ready to go.'

Priya continues to gaze at me, as if I were a new plaything she is reluctant to part with. ‘Don't you want an autograph before I leave?'

The question is so unexpected, that I am taken aback. ‘Of course,' I mumble.

‘Where's your autograph book?'

I don't have an autograph book. I don't even have anything I can
use
as an autograph book. My eyes dart around the holding room in panic, my mind a flustered flurry. I can see only thick ledger books lining the shelves, arranged year-wise. And then I notice a slim volume lying on a top shelf. I pull it out and dust off its leather cover. It is a blank photo album, its thick pages coil-bound with frosted plastic covers. It is perfect!

I remove the plastic cover from a middle page and place it before Priya, who is already poised with a pen. ‘To Sapna with love, Priya Capoorr,' she scribbles on the page in an expansive scrawl. Just then, there is a commotion at the door. I turn around to find a fan trying to barge into the holding room. There is a bit of a scuffle with the bodyguards, but nothing serious.

Priya shuts the album and offers it to me. ‘Here, better keep this someplace safe.'

I see Raja Gulati entering the room and hastily deposit it back on the top shelf. ‘Thank you, Priya-ji, you were amazing,' he says, preening like a greasy showman. This time Priya does not smile at him. She barely acknowledges our presence as she gets into her limousine. With a polite but dismissive wave, she pulls up her tinted windows and the car drives off.

‘I thought tinted windows were banned in Delhi.' I turn to Raja Gulati.

‘For you and me,' he replies, still gazing at the corner the vehicle disappeared around. ‘Not for superstars like the one we just saw.'

I return to the shop floor, only to be mobbed like a rock star by the other salesgirls. ‘Tell us, what did you talk to Priya about?' asks a breathless Prachi.

‘Was there a call from Rocky M?' Neelam tugs at my arm.

‘Did she give you any makeup tips?' Jyoti wants to know.

The entire store basks in the reflected glow of the celebrity visit, but the euphoria lasts only for an hour – because, at 3 p.m., the actress is back at Gulati & Sons, angry and distraught.

It turns out she cannot find her five-carat engagement ring. It slipped from her finger and she is convinced it must have dropped somewhere in the store. She instructs us to turn out all the customers and down the shutters. Then, over the next hour, she makes us scour every inch of the store. We look below the floorboards, under desks and chairs, behind TVs and washing machines, in toilet bowls and wastepaper baskets, but do not find the missing ring.

The police are summoned, led by the same Inspector Goswami who had dealt with our former accountant Choubey. ‘It is obvious to me that one of you has the ring,' he declares ominously, going around the store, scrutinising our faces as if we were in an identification parade in a police station. ‘It's still not too late to fess up,' he continues, his voice taking on the patient tone of an admonishing father sharing some critical piece of wisdom. ‘Miss Capoorr will not press charges if you return the ring.'

Finding himself up against a wall of silence, he turns to the actress. ‘Priya-ji, do you suspect anyone in particular?'

Priya also scans the circus of employees, her eyes cold and hard. When she comes to me, she pauses, trying to read my face. My heart is beating so fast, I'm sure everyone can hear it out loud. Then she lifts a manicured finger at me. ‘This is the girl who spent maximum time with me. I am sure she knows where's my ring. Check her bag!'

I gape at her, slack-jawed in disbelief. A police constable moves to take my Nine West bag from my hands. I am too stunned to protest. Besides, to protest would be a tacit admission of guilt. So I allow the policeman to open my bag and upturn it on the table, spilling its contents. I watch in agonised suspense as he sifts through my personal belongings, like a customs officer inspecting a smuggler's luggage. Needless to say, the ring is not found among the keys, cards, clips, tissues, used tickets, receipts, lip balm, pepper spray and cell phone that tumble out.

Priya is still not finished with me. ‘Search her,' she orders, as though she were the inspector. She is exercising the most obvious prerogative of celebrity: power. Even before I can squeak out a word, I am herded into the ladies' toilet by a woman constable with tattooed arms, who asks me to strip.

‘What?'

‘You heard me, take off your clothes,' she growls, pushing me roughly against the wall, her hot breath on my face. She is exercising the most obvious prerogative of power: licence to misbehave.

‘Take your hands off me. There's no way I'm stripping. You can't force me to.'

‘I can even force you to eat shit, understood?' She suddenly grabs me by the hair and pushes my head down into the toilet bowl, inches away from the water. A wave of pure terror washes over me, convincing me of her brute might, cowing me into submission.

The next few moments are the most humiliating of my life as the policewoman rips off my shirt and skirt and prods and pokes inside my bra and knickers. I close my eyes and wish the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

Two minutes later, when I emerge from the toilet, my pride is in tatters, but my probity is still intact. ‘She doesn't have the ring,' the constable sighs.

The actress is inconsolable. ‘That ring is worth two crores – twenty
million
rupees! If it is not found, my fiancé will kill me. Just keep on looking till you find it.'

‘We will, madam, we will.' Raja Gulati's comforting assurance is as solemn as it is fake.

The moment Priya Capoorr leaves, the showroom shutters are opened and normal operation resumes, but everything has changed for me. The sideways glances from the store employees, varying between pitying and gloating, are simply unbearable. In the space of a few hours, I have gone from rock star to robbery suspect.

Just before closing time, Prachi and Neelam get into a huddle with me. ‘Whatever happened to you,
yaar,
wasn't good,' says Prachi, trying to soothe my hurt feelings. ‘These spoilt film stars think they can accuse whoever they want.'

‘I am never going to see another film of hers,' Neelam declares. ‘And, if I ever get the opportunity, I'll gouge out that bitch's eyes.'

‘Let's not be hypocritical, Neelam,' Prachi interjects. ‘You are saying this today, but I bet you if you were to find yourself in a room with Priya tomorrow, you are not going to gouge out her eyes: you'll ask her for her autograph.'

That is when I remember the autograph Priya has given me. In the tumultuous aftermath of the ring's disappearance, I'd clean forgotten about it.

When no one is looking, I slip into the back office and take down the album from the top shelf where I had deposited it. ‘To Sapna with love'. The inscription sears my consciousness with the scorch of a branding iron. It is a badge of my humiliation. With the bitter gall rising in my throat, I rip off the page, tear it into small pieces and throw the lot in a nearby wastepaper basket.

As I am about to close the album, I hear a metallic jangling from it. Intrigued, I examine the volume again, and recoil in horror. Because lodged in the narrow space in between the metal coils is Priya's five-carat diamond ring. How it slipped from her finger and got deposited into the album's spine I have no idea. There was probably a one-in-a-billion chance of such a thing happening, but happen it did.

Even as I struggle to come to terms with this new situation, my mind is rapidly analysing the options available to me. One, I could let the ring lie in the album and pretend I never found it. Two, I could take the ring to Raja Gulati, tell him how I found it, and ask him to return it to Priya. The trouble with both these options is that they don't absolve me completely from perceived guilt. There will always be the lingering doubt in people's minds that I probably hid the ring in the album and chickened out at the last minute.

That is when a third option strikes me. I could myself take the ring to Priya, tell her how I discovered it and bring closure to this sorry chapter.

Even before I can think this through, I hear approaching footsteps. Almost instinctively I pocket the ring, just as Madan barges into the room. ‘What are you doing here?' he barks.

‘Nothing. I just came to see if I had left my pen here.'

‘I don't see any pen lying around.'

‘I must have forgotten it somewhere else then,' I say and quickly leave the room, my heart thudding.

*   *   *

As I sit in the metro going home, my cheeks are still burning with shame. My mind keeps playing the scene in the toilet over and over, till I distract myself by taking out the ring. I twirl it in my fingers, captivated by its sparkling facets. It is a round solitaire that seems to pulse with a hidden energy, glowing with iridescent fire. Priya had estimated its value at two crores. The sheer value of the piece makes my mouth dry. I'd have to work for almost a hundred years to earn an equivalent amount in salary. I slyly look left and right. The compartment is mostly deserted, the New Year party crowd yet to show up. With trembling hands, I slip the ring onto my middle finger. It fits me perfectly. I admire it for a moment, then, feeling like a thief caught cold in the night, hastily remove it and put it back inside my bag.

I am restless in the flat, consumed by a nervous energy. Neha is already out celebrating with her college friends, and Ma is reclining in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. She has retreated so far into the quagmire of her grief, the end of the year doesn't even register with her. I feel a stab of guilt leaving her all alone as I change and hurry out of the flat at 10 p.m.

I catch the metro to Dhaula Kuan. It's a complicated route, requiring me to change three lines. From Dhaula Kuan I take an auto to Bhikaji Cama Place, where the Grand Regency is located.

The doorman flicks a wary eye at my denim jeans and defiantly unfashionable grey sweater as I step into the hotel. I take a moment to admire the polished splendour of the lobby before striding towards the front desk. The receptionist is noticeably cold to me. I see in her eyes the same condescending look that my fellow salesgirls reserve for window shoppers. She has perhaps gauged from my clothes and general air of awkward unfamiliarity that I am not someone who has weekly lunches at the hotel's Polo Lounge. ‘I am here to see Ms Priya Capoorr,' I announce, hoping this will impress her.

‘I'm sorry, ma'am,' she replies instantly. ‘We have no guest by that name staying here.'

‘I meant the film actress.'

‘Same answer.'

‘Perhaps you don't understand. Ms Capoorr has personally invited me to the party her boyfriend is throwing tonight.'

‘I told you she is not staying here. But, if you want, you can try the Regency Ballroom downstairs, ma'am.'

On reaching the ballroom foyer, I am stopped by an even more officious registration clerk. She moves her finger down a typed guest list on her desk and shakes her head. ‘I'm sorry, your name is not on this list.'

‘Look, you can ask Rosie Mascarenhas. Priya invited me personally. If you just allow me to go in for a second, I'll clarify everything.'

She eyes me with her fist pressing against her chin, as though she can see right through me. ‘I'm sorry, this is a private, invitation-only event. Without an invite I cannot let you in.'

‘Okay, can you at least send word to her that Sapna Sinha is waiting outside?'

‘I can't do that, and I can't allow you to wait here. I suggest you leave now or I will have to call security.'

It is impossible to reason with her. And I have no way of reaching Priya. The wall of inaccessibility erected around the actress just cannot be breached. After fifteen minutes of fruitless effort, I storm out of the hotel, frustrated and irritated. I catch the first auto I can find and tell the driver to take me straight to Lauren's place in Mehrauli. Ideally, I should have gone back to Dhaula Kuan and taken the metro, but I am still smarting from the registration clerk's slight. And, when you have a two-crore rock in your pocket, you don't think twice before indulging in a hundred-rupee auto ride.