The Accidental Apprentice (23 page)

‘Something about Raoji doesn't seem right to me,' I persist. ‘From now on you shouldn't allow him to come near you.'

‘On the contrary, I must stay close to him,' Neha asserts. ‘It's not often that you get a chance to help a blind man. And his blessings certainly won't harm my prospects of winning the contest.'

I can only shake my head at her calculative insouciance, knowing that I have a doubly difficult task on my hands. Not only do I have to save Neha from Raoji, I have to save my sister from herself.

*   *   *

The rest of the week passes in a whirl of rehearsals, performances, wardrobe changes and photoshoots. Those who are eliminated pretend to smile through their tears. The survivors thank their good fortune and trade words of encouragement.

I don't have much to do: I'm simply a cheerleader for Neha. With all the free time on my hands, my thoughts stray invariably to Karan. We speak on the phone almost every other day. ‘When are you coming back?' he asks. ‘I'm suffering from an acute deficiency of Vitamin-S.' Whenever I hear his low, smooth voice my pulse quickens. Memories of that night I kissed him come flooding back to me. The only poetry I write these days comes from moments of unspeakable emotion, when my pen begins to bleed with the unbearable agony of separation and the raw pain of longing. Is it a response to all the mushy love songs I have been hearing the contestants sing? Or am I really falling in love? Karan is funny. He's smart. He's gorgeous. He's the perfect man for me. But the closer I get to him, the more I feel like he's keeping something from me. And my traitor's mind begins to whisper its poisonous doubts, creating that sudden sinking feeling in my gut. Am I good enough for him? Just because we spend hours in conversation, it doesn't mean he's in love with me. If he were, wouldn't he have responded to my kiss?

To take my mind off this troublesome fancy, I begin spending time with Mercy. Of all the contestants, she intrigues me the most. Her swooping soprano and mellow contralto are burned into my ears. But, beyond her voice, it is her eyes that speak to me. They always seem to be on the verge of tears, as though there were a perpetually bubbling fountain of sadness inside her heart.

She is a loner, forever trying to avoid company. Whenever I see her sitting all alone, it reminds me of a whipped dog cowering in a corner.

‘Why did you decide to come on this show?' I ask her one night. ‘To become Popstar No. 1 you need looks more than voice.'

Even though she is good at hiding her true feelings, I manage to get through her defences this time. ‘I came to see Raoji,' she blurts out.

I am taken aback. ‘Came to see Raoji? What kind of strange reason is that?'

Bit by bit the story tumbles out of her, and I learn the ugly truth about Raoji. Mercy's elder sister, Gracie Fernandez, was an aspiring singer who came to Mumbai eight years ago from Goa. Raoji became her mentor and began training her. Soon he forced her into a physical relationship. But, the moment Gracie became pregnant with his child, Raoji became an entirely different person. He called her a whore, refused to marry her. Gracie begged him to reconsider, but he disregarded all her pleas. Mercy's sister then made the fatal mistake of threatening to go to the press. Raoji became enraged. He beat her black and blue with his belt, said he would kill her. Gracie suffered a miscarriage and had to remain in hospital for six weeks. When she came out, she was consumed by revenge. It was she who attacked Raoji with a knife during a concert six years ago.

‘My sister wasn't mad,' Mercy concludes, tears budding at the corners of her eyes. ‘She was left with no other option by this man. The world thinks Gracie committed suicide, but it was actually murder. Raoji forced her to take her own life.'

‘Then why didn't these facts come out?'

‘Because my sister was a nobody from Goa, and Raoji has money and power. He bribed the police, hushed up everything.'

‘So have you come here to kill Raoji, to take revenge?'

‘No.' She shivers, holding up her crucifix. ‘As Jesus is my witness, I'm not capable of killing a fly. Justice and revenge are best left to God.'

‘Then what's the plan?'

‘There is no plan. When I heard Raoji was going to be a judge on this show, I decided to enter it. I simply wanted to see the man who destroyed my sister's life. She was my guru; she taught me how to sing. Her dream was to see me win a singing contest. I didn't come on the show to avenge her, simply to honour her.'

‘And what about Raoji?'

‘He will eventually be judged in Christ's court.'

Listening to this tragic tale, I can't help admire Mercy's forbearance. If I were in her shoes, I don't think I could have looked at Raoji's face without wanting to spit on it. And neither would I have had the patience to wait for God's judgement.

*   *   *

Gracie's story not only moves me, it also strengthens my growing suspicion of the music director. ‘From now on you are not to meet Raoji in any circumstance,' I instruct Neha. ‘Once a sadist, always a sadist in my book.'

‘This is stupid,' Neha fumes. ‘He's my guru, for God's sake. And he has called me tonight for a final rehearsal.'

‘Tell him you won't come.'

‘And miss out on the title of Popstar No. 1? Don't talk nonsense,
didi.
Besides, what can a blind man do to me? I am definitely keeping the appointment.'

‘If you must go, then I insist on coming along.'

*   *   *

Raoji meets us on the terrace of his house. It is a cool and breezy night. A full moon shines in the cloudless sky, illuminating the enormous mansion.

Dressed in a silk kurta pyjama, the music director is his usual charming self, but I cannot look at him now without a shudder of loathing for what he did to Mercy's sister.

Neha looks lovely in a soft, pink, crêpe salvar suit she bought yesterday from Crawford Market. The chiffon dupatta alone cost me eight hundred rupees.

Raoji's manservant enters with a tray bearing drinks. I have asked for an orange juice, Neha a Diet Coke. Raoji's preferred poison, I have learnt, is Talisker single-malt whisky. ‘Tonight I will give Neha my greatest lesson,' he says somewhat mysteriously, filling his glass with dark golden liquid. ‘We are almost at the end of the first stage. Tomorrow is the final elimination round. After that, Neha, you will be unstoppable. Cheers!' He raises his glass in salute and downs the liquor in two swigs.

Neha gets into an involved discussion with Raoji on singing technique. I stroll to the edge of the terrace, rest my elbows on the ornate stone balustrade and look out over the vast conurbation stretching beyond the rippling velvet of the ocean. Mumbai's skyline looks spectacular at night. Glittering, sparkling lights blanket the city, glowing with the luminescence of a mirage. Neon signs blaze softly on the high-rise buildings along the seafront. The markets are alive with the sound of commerce. Cars are still racing on the streets down below. This is truly the city that never sleeps.

The air is bathed in the intoxicating fragrance of a night-blooming jasmine growing in a pot. It mixes with the damp, salty smell of the ocean, making me drowsy. I take another sip of the juice. It tastes a bit funny. Suddenly my head starts aching, my knees go all weak. I feel as if I'm about to vomit and rush into the toilet at the far end of the terrace.

I stumble to the wash basin, where I look into the mirror. My eyes seem unusually heavy-lidded. Waves of sleep assault my mind, one after another. I feel lethargic and nauseous. It takes a superhuman effort to splash water on my face. I try to blink the world in front of me back into focus, but my head refuses to clear. I lean against the wall and try to make sense of what is happening to me.

Raoji must have told his servant to spike my drink, I realise. I can see him now from the window, patting Neha on the back. In my distorted vision he becomes double, then triple, and keeps on multiplying till my mind is filled with the hallucination of a ten-headed Raoji, grinning evilly like the demon Ravan.

‘Let's go down to the studio,' I hear, as a distant echo. ‘Will you guide me?'

Through blurry pupils I watch Neha take Raoji's arm and lead him towards the staircase. ‘Don't!' I want to cry out, gripped by a terrible prescience of imminent danger, but find that I cannot move or speak. It is as if I had been hypnotised, put in a trance. My brain does not feel connected to my body any longer.

I fight off the creeping paralysis and stagger out of the toilet. Raoji and Neha have already gone, leaving behind a bowl of salted cashew nuts.

My head sags down and my body turns so limp, I can barely lift my head. I know I am about to keel over like a hopeless drunk. That is when my eyes fall on the half-empty bottle of Talisker Scotch glinting on the table. I grab it in my hands. It feels as though it weighs a ton. Summoning up all my reserves of energy, I lift it above my head and smash it down on the concrete floor, where it shatters into pieces. The pungent smell of whisky fills the air. I am left with just the stem of the bottle in my hand, with sharp jagged teeth where it broke off. Still wobbling with dizziness, I take a deep breath and plunge the jagged end into my left thigh like a dagger. It goes through the thin fabric of my salvar to pierce the skin. Hot, searing, excruciating pain shoots through my leg, and radiates throughout my body, clearing the fog in my brain in an instant, awakening all my senses.

Ignoring the stabbing agony in my thigh, I hobble down the staircase, tear through the drawing room and burst into the recording studio to discover Neha and Raoji entwined on a couch. The musician has clamped his arms around her waist, pinning her arms at her sides. He is trying to kiss her as she is struggling desperately to wrestle free of his passionate embrace.

‘Raoji!' I scream and wrench Neha from his grip.

He lets go of her, heaving like a man about to have a heart attack. Spit is dribbling out of his mouth and the veins on his face are engorged. ‘Go, Neha!' he snaps. ‘I was only trying to help you. But you are not worthy of my attention.'

I am on fire, burning with indignation. I sweep Neha aside with my hand, and lash out at him with my right leg. The next instant his face contorts in shocked pain as my heel slams into his solar plexus. ‘Bitch!' He lets out a strangled groan, clutching at his stomach.

My fury is building up to a crescendo. ‘You don't deserve to live, you pig!' I swing a fist at him, but with amazingly quick reflexes he catches my arm in midair. He spins me around, pushing my face into the wall and twisting my arm to breaking point. I writhe in agony. ‘I can crush you like a fly,' he hisses into my ear. Then, equally abruptly, he releases me.

‘No more rehearsals now!' he says, by way of dismissal. ‘Get out of my house, both of you.'

*   *   *

Neha is badly shaken by the incident. I can almost feel the shame, horror and revulsion sweeping through her like a desert storm as she sits with me in the taxi taking us back to Colaba. ‘He … he tried to t-touch me,' she says, faltering. ‘You were right about him,
didi.
' She buries her face in my lap, dissolving into tears.

‘Don't worry. Everything will be all right,' I say soothingly, stroking her hair.

Her hand accidentally grazes my thigh, where she discovers a sticky wet patch on my salvar. The blood is still seeping through the wound.

‘Oh my God, you're bleeding,
didi,
' she cries. The throbbing pain, which the adrenaline in my system had dammed up till now, comes searing back. The flesh stings like a touch of acid.

Without a moment's hesitation Neha tears off her brand-new dupatta and fashions it into a bandage, which she wraps around the wound, staunching the flow of blood.

Sitting in the back of that taxi, we discover each other anew. For perhaps the first time in my life, I see Neha in a new light, truly connect with her. I sense the pulsing of the deeper and warmer heart she has kept hidden beneath that narcissistic veneer of self-centredness, shallowness and superficiality.

‘I always felt you loved Alka more than me,' Neha says, her voice pained with all the pent-up hurt and bitterness she has accumulated over the years. ‘But not any more.'

It is turning out to be a night of surprises, of confessions and revelations. ‘I always thought you would do anything for fame,' I respond with equal candidness. ‘But not any more.'

We hug each other, like two survivors in a flood drifting on the same log of wood.

Life does not give us the option of choosing a blood relationship, but it always gives us the opportunity to repair it.

*   *   *

Neha continues to cling to me even after we reach the safety of the dormitory. Her forehead feels feverish. Mercy helps me tuck her into bed. As I turn to leave, Neha clutches at my arm. ‘Where are you going now,
didi?
'

‘To the police station, to lodge a report against Raoji. He tried to drug me, to molest you.'

‘No,
didi.
' Neha springs out of bed and bars my way. ‘I will not allow you to do that.'

‘But why?'

‘It will destroy my chances of winning the contest.'

‘Are you crazy? You're still thinking of the contest after what he did to you?'

‘Look, I'll tell George to change my team after this round. I'll have nothing to do with that swine Raoji any more. But I don't want to miss this chance. I'm almost there. Once I make it to the last twenty, even Raoji won't be able to stop me. Don't take away my only hope, my one dream,
didi.
' She starts sobbing again.

I give in. ‘All right. I'll not report Raoji if that's what you want.'

Mercy, who has been overhearing our conversation, is more concerned about the wound on my leg. ‘You need to see a doctor,
didi.
If not treated soon, the infected area can become septic.'