The Accidental Apprentice (20 page)

‘Drop the knife,' the baddy on my right snarls.

There's something very deflating about being confronted with a loaded gun. I comply. The knife clatters to the ground with the clinking sound of coins rattling in a pocket. The youth on my right picks it up gingerly from its tip, like a forensic investigator handling a murder weapon at a crime scene. ‘It's really sharp,' he observes, before dropping it into my handbag.

‘Let's go inside the park, baby,' the ruffian leader smirks. I refuse to budge. I know the moment I step inside the dark park, something very bad will happen to me.

I squint at the faces of my tormentors, trying to discern features, scars, tattoos, any identifying characteristics that I would be able to pass along to the police when they ask, before it dawns on me that I may never be able to go to the police. They will kill me after they rape me. As this sickening realisation sinks in, I am overcome with an almost unbearable sense of sadness. What will happen to Neha and Ma after I am gone? How will they manage all alone?

The thug leans over and shoves the gun in my face, imprinting a
bindi
on my forehead. ‘Didn't you hear what I said? Are you deaf?'

‘Please, please let me go.' I make a noise that sounds like a whimper, my heart almost stopping.

‘How can we let you go? You are so beautiful,' he says, the harsh tone fading away. He looks at his two cohorts. ‘What do you say? It's time to enjoy.' They all laugh. It is their gloating that makes me nauseous, fills me with pure, undiluted hatred. A policeman has slapped me, another has pushed my head inside a toilet bowl, and now these three ruffians are planning to gang-rape me. What am I? An animal to be kicked around? A plaything to be abused? Just because I happen to be a woman? Something snaps inside me at that very instant, like a rubber band that has been stretched too far. I don't care if I get shot and diced but I will not take this lying down. Pulsing with that same primal rage with which I confronted the Spice Girls, I lash out with my right leg, kicking the leader as hard as I can in his groin. He drops to the ground like a felled tree, doubling up in pain. The memory of that afternoon in the deserted classroom floods my brain and I begin raining blows on the other two, hitting, kicking, clawing, scratching. There is a white-hot fire burning inside me, consuming me. I hate these bastards, I hate them more than anything in the world. Heat is rising in my cheeks and my heart is pounding like a drum. Red fills my vision, blinding me completely. Everything in me wants to strangle, to gouge, to just kill, kill, kill.

My unexpected counterattack works for a while, but the force of numbers is against me. Before I can land a knockout blow, the ruffian leader is already returning to action. Through the corner of my eye I can see him lifting his head. He raises the butt of his gun and swings it at me. Pain ripples across my stomach and I stumble and fall down. Another thug kicks me in the back.

Within minutes they have dragged me into the underbrush of the Japanese Park. Pinning me to the ground, the leader proceeds to take out a shiny metallic switchblade from his worn-out trousers. It flicks open to reveal a thin, ugly-looking knife with a ten-inch blade. ‘If you want to scare someone then don't use a kitchen knife. Use a Rampuri
chaku,
like mine.' He grins and slides the knife over my body; eventually, it comes to rest against my neck. His fetid breath is hot against my skin.

I struggle against my captor, trying to free myself, when he puts a finger against his lips. ‘Be quiet.' His voice slithers and climbs into my ear. ‘Or I'll have to kill you.'

With no emotion in his dead eyes, he rakes my cheek with the tip of the knife, the steel blade digging into my flesh. One little push and it will break the skin, disfiguring me permanently. I feel my entire body heating up, as though I were on fire. It rages through my bloodstream, making me tremble with the insane anticipation of death. I just want it to end, and I pray to God to let me die quickly, preferably with the revolver. Just one little bullet through the brain. I don't want him to cut me up piece by piece, to slash, slash and slash with his knife till I am a whimpering mass of blood and bones, a pathetic heap of twitching muscles and jerking limbs. I don't think I will be able to bear so much pain.

‘Leave her!' A voice suddenly rings out in the darkness. It is a booming baritone that resonates like thunder across the park. The ruffians look around and then at each other, completely nonplussed. The leader removes the knife and crouches like a dog, trying to suss out the intruder.

‘This is the police,' the voice booms again, reminiscent of the instructions relayed through loudspeakers during a police raid. It instantly galvanises my captors into flight. They scatter and run like headless chickens into the Japanese Park, disappearing into the darkness.

Jut then, a figure emerges from the gloom of the park. I was expecting a police inspector, but it turns out to be Karan. I've never felt more relief in my life than at that climactic moment.

He runs to me and helps me get on my feet. I cling tightly to him, my body still shuddering with fear. He whispers my name and I whisper back to him. I hug him closer, feeling his warmth, my breasts grinding into his chest. Locked in that position, I feel a strange new flower blooming in my heart, filling me with a sensual rush. Almost involuntarily, I start kissing him. It starts with his chin, moves to his cheek and eventually to his lips. I am desperate, and grateful, and muddled, only dimly aware of what I am doing, yet greedily filling the emptiness of my life with his smell, his taste, his life breath.

Karan stiffens, and I can sense an almost imperceptible flinch – one that makes my heart run cold. He gently untangles himself from me and shines a penlight in my face, checking to see there are no bruises. ‘Do you need to see a doctor?' he asks, his practical concern restoring some sanity to the situation.

‘No … no,' I reply, my breathing still ragged. ‘I'm fine. Just check if my handbag is around.'

He scours the nearby area, only to confirm what I already feared. The ruffians have made off with my Nine West. ‘Was there a lot of money in it?'

‘Not really. The most expensive item was my cell phone.'

‘Don't worry. I'll get you a brand new one from Indus.'

‘How … how did you find me?'

‘It was the signal from the panic button. You were not in the house so I knew you must be returning from work. I raced as fast as I could towards the station. But then I heard voices near the Japanese Park and decided to investigate.'

‘You arrived just in time. What might have happened if—'

‘Don't even think about it any more. Let's go straight to the police. Those bastards must be caught.'

‘No.' I shake my head vehemently. ‘I don't have the strength to face an interrogation. And I know the police will never find those thugs. Just take me home, okay?'

‘If that is what you want.' He shrugs.

‘Do me another favour,' I say. ‘Don't mention a word about this to Ma and Neha.'

*   *   *

‘They are bound to be Anees Mirza's men,' says Lauren, when I tell her about the incident the next day.

‘But we have no proof.'

‘It's too much of a coincidence. I find it despicable, the way Mirza has been allowed to roam free all this while.'

‘Any progress on our complaint?'

‘Nope,' she says. ‘I think Keemti Lal took us for a royal ride. He's done precious little to investigate that workshop. Those poor children are still suffering. I've tried to meet the SDM several times but I keep getting fobbed off. I tried going to the police but they tell me to go to the SDM's office. I just don't know what to do.' There is a depth of despondency in her voice.

‘I know what to do. We'll go again to the SDM's office. One last time.'

*   *   *

The next morning I accompany Lauren to the SDM's office on my way to the showroom. The place is extremely crowded and we are told the SDM won't be able to see us. ‘
Sahib
is very busy. No chance today,' the office peon informs us.

I am equally unbending. ‘You tell your boss that we are not leaving till he sees us. Even if it means we have to camp here for a week.'

The bluster works. An hour later we are summoned into the SDM's presence. He appears to be a vague man, an impression reinforced by his bland, almost featureless face, and peculiar habit of leaving his sentences dangling, as though he expects the listener to finish them for him.

‘Yes, that complaint of yours…' he begins before lapsing into silence.

‘Well, did you check out that factory?' Lauren demands. ‘I even gave documentary evidence.'

‘These things take a lot of time, a lot of time. It is not possible to…'

‘How long are we expected to wait?'

‘It is a process, you have to understand. We cannot just…'

‘But those children are suffering every day.'

‘They are not suffering. They are earning a living. Just as you are. Just as I am. Should we stop them from…?'

‘Employment of children in hazardous industries is prohibited, isn't it?'

‘What is hazardous? The air we are breathing in this city is also hazardous. Does this mean…?'

‘So should we just leave those children at the mercy of Anees Mirza?'

‘Anees Mirza is not a bad man
per se.
He is…'

It is like having a one-way conversation with a brick wall. Lauren is seething as we step out of the bureaucrat's office. ‘I've done my math. Keemti Lal took a small bribe from me. This man has taken a much bigger bribe from Anees Mirza.'

It is hard not to agree with her. The stench of corruption hangs over the place like a pall. There are deals being cut on every table. I glimpse Keemti Lal sitting on his corner desk, engrossed in conversation with an elderly gentleman, doubtless extracting yet another bribe. I studiously avoid eye contact with him. That is when my gaze falls on a poster stuck to the bulletin board outside the office. It is about the Right to Information Act.

‘Hey.' I nudge Lauren. ‘There's one option open to us. Let's use the RTI.'

‘How will that help?'

‘Under the Right to Information Act, a public authority is required to provide information on any matter requested by the applicant within thirty days or less,' I read out from the poster. ‘So let's file an RTI application with the SDM asking to know what happened to our complaint. At least it will put some pressure on him.'

Lauren is sceptical. ‘I doubt the SDM can be galvanised into action by a paper application.'

‘Look, there's no harm in trying. And it costs just twenty-five rupees.'

I pick up an RTI form from the counter and fill out the application, asking for a status report on our complaint and adding, for good measure, how Anees Mirza had tried to intimidate me by sending his goons. Then I bid goodbye to Lauren and catch the metro to Connaught Place.

*   *   *

Today is Neelam's last day in the office. She is getting married next week. And immediately after that she leaves for Sweden. She seems more excited about her first foreign trip than her first wedding.

‘What about you, Sapna?' she asks me. ‘When are you planning to get married?'

‘You know what they say about marriage. It happens when it has to happen.'

‘But have you found your Mr Right yet?'

I do not reply, but her question brings back memories of that night I kissed Karan. His taste still lingers on my lips; his scent still hovers in the air around me. But there is an awkward distance between us now, as though I have crossed some kind of invisible boundary, a
lakshman rekha.
I feel hurt, almost betrayed, by his aloofness that night. It has left me confused and bewildered. Does he not like me any more? Does he have a secret girlfriend? Is he just very shy? Or am I unfairly rushing to judgement of someone who was probably as overwhelmed by the situation as I was? There are so many questions that burn within me. But I dare not ask him because I fear his answer. All I know is that I don't want to lose Karan. I need time to think and work this all out, figure out his true feelings about me, feelings that he keeps hidden deep inside him, locked away in some dark black box.

I'll find the key to that box eventually. And till then I'll lock my dreams inside my heart, where no one can steal them.

*   *   *

A fortnight later the Cricket World Cup starts and everything else takes a back seat. Like the rest of the country, I too get caught up in the hoopla surrounding the Indian team's victory over Bangladesh in the opening match.

Another week goes by. By now I have almost forgotten about my RTI application when out of the blue I get a call on the office number. It is the SDM himself. ‘Madam, I just wanted to let you know that…' he begins, and then stops abruptly.

‘That what?'

‘That today we raided the illegal lock factory and…'

‘And what?'

‘And we closed it down. We rescued thirty-five children. They will all receive…'

‘Receive what, for god's sake?'

‘Educational rehabilitation to the tune of twenty thousand rupees each as provided under the Child Labour Act. Is there anything else…?'

‘Nothing,' I say and put down the receiver, unable to believe the news. It seems too good to be true. But the evening newspapers carry the story of Mirza Metal Works being sealed. There are even photos of Anees Mirza being led away by the police like a common criminal, his face veiled by a headscarf.

Lauren is over the moon. ‘Hail to the RTI!' she whoops. ‘I was always told that information is power. Now I've seen it too. Today we begin to shape the future for each of those thirty-five kids.'

‘Yes,' I concur. ‘Today we unlock their dreams.'

*   *   *