The Accidental Apprentice (19 page)

‘And allow those poor children to suffer?'

‘Who says those children are suffering? Look, this is not bonded labour. The children come to us voluntarily. And we pay them a good wage.'

‘But employment of children under fourteen is illegal.'

‘Forget the law. Look at reality. If these children don't work for us, they will work somewhere else. If they don't make locks they will make bricks or carpets or bangles. Worse, they will steal or beg. At least we provide them an honourable livelihood, allow them to eat
izzat ki roti.
'

‘I find nothing honourable in making children work twelve hours a day in hazardous conditions. They should be in school instead.'

‘They don't want to go to school. They want to earn, to help their families.'

‘That's because no one has given them the chance.'

‘So will
you
give them a chance, adopt all of them?'

‘My friend Lauren will. She runs a charity called RMT Asha Foundation.'

‘I will say once again, with folded hands, please reconsider your decision. You have picked the wrong person to tangle with. Anees Bhai is not an unreasonable man, but he can be quite vindictive.'

‘Are you threatening me?'

‘No, no. We don't threaten decent citizens like you. Consider this a friendly piece of advice.
Achha,
we shall go now.'

The short man gets up, his thick lips parted in a leery grin. The bald man continues to sit, reluctant to leave. ‘Come on, Joginder,' his partner says. ‘We shouldn't overstay our welcome.'

Joginder eases his bulk off the sofa. He stands up and flexes his biceps, as though giving a bodybuilding demonstration. Then he passes a hand over his bald pate and throws me a vicious glare. My fingers tighten into clenched fists as I watch the duo exit the door. Together they make a perfect team of determined bullies, one guy the talker, the other the enforcer.

I find that my entire body is shaking, from anger or from fear I don't know. Perhaps it is a combination of both. Right now it is difficult to think past the bitter taste of bile in the back of my throat.

Ma and Neha emerge from behind the bead curtain and surround me. It appears they were surreptitiously listening to the entire conversation. Mother is already hysterical. ‘
Beti,
go right now and withdraw that complaint. Otherwise yet another calamity will befall our family,' she frets with a mother's instinctive premonition of the future.

‘Why do you always have to behave like Rani of Jhansi,
didi?
' Neha says, her voice thick with insinuation. ‘You know I have to go to Mumbai to participate in the contest. Nothing is more important for our family's future. Yet you start meddling in other people's business.'

‘How can you be so selfish, Neha?' I let it rip. ‘You have no concern for those thirty children working like bonded labour?'

‘No, I don't,' she insists. ‘It's a job for the police, not respectable girls like us.'

‘Neha is absolutely right,
beti,
' Ma chimes in. ‘Do whatever it takes, but I don't want these
goondas
entering our house again.'

‘It's pointless talking with both of you.' I throw up my hands and storm out of the house.

I have always had a pathological, visceral hatred of bullies, people who use their power, authority or size to pick on those weaker and smaller. Most bullies think they are strong but they are actually sick, gutless wimps who will back down if confronted forcefully enough. I learnt this important lesson early on in my life.

There was a time when I was being bullied by a group of classmates in St Theresa's. They called themselves the Spice Girls, even though their names were Amrita, Brinda and Chavi, and the only music they were capable of was cruelty and abuse. They were my nemesis, my oppressors. They were bigger than me in size but much weaker in intellect. They bullied me all through Grade 5 and the first six months of Grade 6. My only crime was that I invariably topped the class and I was independent, unlike the other girls, who all had their coteries and cliques. They would torment and tease me incessantly, in the corridors, in the playground, during breaks. Being ridiculed became part of my daily life, making me feel as small as humanly possible. My textbooks were stolen, my exercise books defaced. Chairs were pulled out from under me as I was about to sit down, and doors were slammed in my face. I was once locked out in the toilet; on another occasion my hair was almost set on fire.

It made me loathe myself, gave me a victim mentality. I began flirting with the idea of self-harm, planning my suicide every weekend, fantasising about my death. Till one day I decided to end it all. I made up my mind. I would kill myself, but before that I would kill my three tormentors.

That day I went to school with a kitchen knife in my satchel. During the lunch break I made my way to a deserted classroom on the third floor, where the Spice Girls were bound to ambush me. Sure enough, they followed me into the room and began calling me ugly names. I listened quietly to their verbal tirade for a minute, and then whipped out the kitchen knife from my skirt pocket. ‘Enough, bitches,' I growled, baring my teeth, rolling my eyes and making my voice as raspy and inhuman as that of Linda Blair in
The Exorcist.
‘One more word and I will cut out your tongues.'

Then, like a panther springing upon its prey, I caught Amrita, the leader of the gang, by the throat, my fingers digging hard into her voice box, almost choking her. The other two girls held their breaths as, slowly and deliberately, I began sawing off a lock of her hair with the knife in my free hand, impelled by some atavistic force buried deep inside me. Not a squeak emerged from any of them. The only sound I could hear was of the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the blood singing through my muscles, sounding like the stirring hum of battle. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

Just then the school bell rang, announcing the end of the lunch break. It was as if a spell had been broken. The three girls screamed in unison and bolted out of the classroom as if it were on fire, leaving me stranded with a knife in one hand and a clump of hair in the other. I knew they would rush straight to Sister Agnes. I expected the tyrannical principal to march in any minute to announce that she was rusticating me from school. I would give her a mocking smile, and then plunge the knife into my abdomen,
hara-kiri
style, a violent suicide in tranquil Nainital.

I waited for a long time, but no one came, neither the principal nor any teacher. Slowly, I returned the knife to my skirt pocket and walked back to class, where the history period was about to begin. The Spice Girls shrank into their seats the moment I entered the classroom, and pretended to look elsewhere. I learnt later that they did not make any complaint against me. They nicknamed me ‘Psycho', but I was never bullied after that.

The encounter with Anees Mirza's goons has brought that long-lost memory rushing back to me, generating those same emotions. I am still heaving with fury when I bump into Karan on the ground floor.

‘I saw two rather unsavoury types asking directions to your flat,' he says. ‘Is everything okay?'

‘It's not,' I reply and tell him about the illegal workshop.

‘How dare they threaten you! How dare they!' Karan snaps, his face contorting with rage. ‘If they even so much as set foot inside the colony again, you let me know. I'll fix those bastards.'

‘I am not so worried about myself. But what if they start harassing Neha?'

‘Look, I'll get you a panic button tomorrow.'

‘What's that?'

‘It's a small electronic device that, when pressed, sends a soundless signal to alert someone else about an emergency situation. In this case, the signal will come to me and I'll come instantly to the rescue, like Superman.'

The more I listen to him, the more I thank Durga Ma for giving me such a wonderful neighbour. There is nothing more reassuring than a friend who just simply refuses to be rattled, who can always be relied upon, who is always there when you need him.

‘Is there something special in your diet that makes you so brave?' I rib him.

‘Yeah, right,' he grins. ‘The trick is to consume plenty of liquid courage.'

‘And what drink is that?'

‘Just another name for alcohol!'

*   *   *

A week passes, and there are no further visits from the goon squad. Gradually the incident begins to fade from my mind, taking with it all my restless nights. In any event, with Karan's panic button inside my purse, I feel much safer.

Thursday, 3 February, is stocktaking day and, as usual, it extends well beyond closing time. I am able to leave the store only at 10.15 p.m. The moment I disembark at Rithala metro station, a young street hawker gets after me. ‘I have the perfect thing that you need,' he says, displaying a kitchen knife with a wooden handle bearing the logo of a company called KK Thermoware. I take a good look at him. Dressed in torn trousers and a filthy, tattered sweater several sizes too big for him, he doesn't look a tad over ten. He has the sickly, anaemic look of a fever patient. On top of that he has a runny nose, repeatedly wiping snot on his sleeve. But this does not prevent him from breaking into a ditty in Hindi extolling the virtues of his knife:

It can cut and carve and slice and dice,

The stainless steel blade is really nice.

For a husband who wants to please his wife,

There's nothing more perfect than a KK Knife!

‘Look, you don't seem too well,' I tell him. ‘Why don't you go home now?'

‘I can't go home till I sell all my knives. I've just one left now. Buy it. It's only a hundred rupees.'

‘I don't need a knife. I've got plenty at home,' I say as I head into Rammurti Passi Marg.

He continues to pester me. ‘Okay, just for you, I'll reduce the price. Only fifty rupees.'

‘No.'

‘How about twenty?'

‘Still not interested.'

‘Okay, last price. Ten rupees.'

‘I told you I don't want a knife.'

‘
Didi,
I haven't eaten since afternoon. I'll sell it to you for just five rupees. You won't find a better bargain in all of Delhi. Please buy it now at least.'

His pleading face is impossible to resist. I take the knife from him and offer him a ten-rupee note. ‘Keep the change. And now go and get some rest.'

He almost snatches the note from my hand, and scampers away into the gloom.

I insert the knife inside my purse and quicken my steps as I approach the Swarn Jayanti Park, better known as the Japanese Park, a huge green lung with manicured gardens, boating lakes, floating fountains and jogging trails. While it is a haven for fitness enthusiasts and families during the day, it is a rather unsafe area at night. Last year a woman was murdered near Gate Number 1, and a noted criminal was shot dead inside the park in a police encounter earlier this year.

I have just crossed the park's Gate Number 2 when all of a sudden three young men jump down from the boundary wall. With their half-open shirts and long hair, they look like those unruly, unemployed youths who can be found all over the country, loitering at chai shops, hassling girls, whistling raucously from the front stalls of cinema halls. In Nainital we used to have a term for them – ‘
chavanni chhap
', worth a quarter of a rupee only. But the damage they are capable of inflicting on people and property is considerably more. What makes me even more apprehensive is the fact that the stretch I am walking through is dimly lit and deserted. There are no other pedestrians in sight. My hand immediately dips into the handbag in a conditioned reflex, fingers curling around the panic button. I am pretty sure Karan is out of its range, but I press it nevertheless.

My apprehension turns out to be justified, as the three youths begin dogging my footsteps. I increase my pace and they do the same. In just a few long, determined strides they are abreast of me, flanking me on all sides. ‘
Jaaneman,
why are you in such a hurry? Have a look at us as well,' the ruffian directly behind me says, tapping my shoulder. He seems to be the leader of the pack, with sharp malignant eyes and a thin, wispy moustache.

I respond by whipping out the can of pepper spray and whirling around on my heels. ‘You take one more step and I'll make all of you blind,' I hiss, pepper spray poised at eye level.

The startled ruffian recoils a step, but his partner to my immediate right lashes out with his fists in a lightning-quick move. I feel a whiplash on my forearm and the can pops out of my hands like a wet bar of soap.

‘Ha!' The ruffian leader roars with laughter. ‘If you are carrying any other weapons, we would like to see them. Come on, hand over your purse.'

The wolfish expressions on their faces tell me they want more than just my purse. It is the first time in my life I feel physically, mortally threatened. My breathing becomes shallow. A cold knot of fear coils nauseatingly in the pit of my stomach. That is when I remember the knife I have just purchased.

The handbag held in my left hand is already open. I can see the knife, its steel blade glinting dully under the yellow street light. In a flash I pull it out with my right hand, while simultaneously discarding the purse on the footpath.

‘Stay back!' I shriek, whirling around in a full circle, shredding the air with my knife. ‘I'll cut the bastard who tries to come near me.'

Worryingly, the thugs show no sign of being intimidated. They do step back a few feet, but continue to regard me with an amused contempt.

‘I said leave me alone, or I will cut down each one of you,' I threaten again, tightening my grip on the knife's handle.

‘You think you can scare us with your little knife?' the leader taunts me. ‘Then you should see this.' He takes out a silver gun from the back of his trousers and aims it in my face.