The Accidental Apprentice (28 page)

I am still in the train when I get a call on my cell phone. It is Neha, screaming with joy. ‘
Didi,
where are you?'

‘Why? What's happened?'

‘India has just won the World Cup, after twenty-eight years!'

A full brass band greets me when I alight at Rohini. There are horns and trumpets blaring, and a young boy wearing tricolour face paint doing cartwheels. The streets are jammed with cars and people and the sky is exploding with fireworks. It all seems a blur to me. The celebrations feel hollow, because one resident of the colony is missing. The entire nation has cheered for the Indian cricket team as it battled against Sri Lanka, but there is no one supporting a heroic woman, fighting a much more important battle.

Ma is the only one concerned about Nirmala Ben. ‘Take me to her,
beti.
I will persuade her to come back.'

‘She's not prepared to listen to anyone.'

‘Then I will also sit on fast with her.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘I've never told this to anyone, but I owe my life to Nirmala Ben.'

I stare back in surprise. ‘What are you saying?'

‘It's true. Six weeks ago, my blood sugar suddenly dipped very low and I collapsed in the kitchen. But for Nirmala Ben, who took me to the hospital, I might have died that afternoon.'

‘And you're telling me all this now?'

‘I didn't want Neha and you to be needlessly worried.'

‘Why do you always have to be the one carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders?' I mask my worry with mock irritation. ‘Sometimes I feel you and Nirmala Ben are identical twins, cut from the same cloth.'

Ma wrings her hands. ‘I cannot sleep knowing that I should be with Nirmala.'

Neither can I. The thought of Nirmala Ben lying all alone on the pavement keeps me up all night. I owe her a deeper debt than I thought.

Both Ma and I arise before dawn and take the first metro of the morning to get back on Jantar Mantar Road.

*   *   *

Yesterday's protesters are still asleep, wrapped in blankets inside their temporary tents. This motley group of students, traders and housewives do not inspire much confidence. In fact the entire stretch of the road looks less like a showroom of democracy and more like a museum of the powerless.

Nirmala Ben is the only one up and about. She has already finished her daily ablutions at a nearby public toilet and is singing ‘Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram' when we arrive.

‘Ben, end this stubbornness and return home with us,' Ma pleads, but she simply smiles.

‘How long can you stay like this without food?' Ma tries again.

‘As long as I have inner strength. And as long as the government doesn't respond to my demand.'

‘But the government doesn't even
know
about your demand,' I cry. ‘And what to talk of the government, even the man on the street does not know. A milkman just passed by on his cycle. I asked him if he supported your cause. He said he's never heard of Atlas Investments.'

‘If you asked him about corruption he would have given you a different answer. Bapu said that truth is by nature self-evident. As soon as you remove the cobwebs of ignorance that surround it, it shines clear. My
satyagraha
is to wake up the powerless and shame the powerful,' says Nirmala Ben. ‘You will see how my protest will swell into a movement that will change the course of history.'

I know then that Nirmala Ben will not return to the colony. Animated by a grand grievance and seduced by the grandiose vision of revolution, she will literally fast to death. But her death will be in vain. The powerless of the world can neither change history nor create it. We are condemned simply to study it.

*   *   *

‘Her blood pressure is rising and her heart rate has increased. It's not life-threatening yet, but I don't think she can continue without food much longer. She should call off her fast,' says the doctor as he packs away his stethoscope and holds out his hand for his visitation fee. I hand him a hundred-rupee note and he shortly disappears into his hole-in-the-wall clinic.

It is Wednesday, 6 April, and Nirmala Ben has not had a morsel of food for four days. Even more worryingly, her protest has found no traction at all. She has attracted a few curious onlookers, but beyond that she could be fasting on the moon. Even the police have stopped bothering her, dismissing her as a crank. The fact is, without a brigade of slogan-shouting supporters and placard-wielding followers, her protest doesn't resemble a protest at all: it looks like a homeless woman dumped in a corner of the city.

‘Do something,
beti,
or it might be too late,' Ma frets. We have worked out an arrangement between us. Ma remains with Nirmala Ben all day and gives her company. I visit her whenever I can spare some time from the showroom, which is just minutes away.

Nirmala Ben has lost some weight but her crusading zeal and her faith in human nature are intact. ‘People will come, eventually,' she says, still hopeful.

No one comes, of course, but during the lunch break I chance upon Shalini Grover, my friend from Sunlight TV. It turns out that one of the students with the gas masks protesting against pollution in the Yamuna is her nephew.

I look to her for advice. ‘How can we get the word out about Nirmala Ben's fast?'

‘You have to get TV cameras here,' she says. ‘That is the only way to start a chain reaction.'

‘Can you come with a camera crew?'

‘We are an investigative channel not a general news channel. And even the news guys don't cover a protest unless it is significant.'

‘Well, what makes a protest significant?'

‘Either the subject should be catchy, or the numbers should be massive. Have you ever wondered why a thousand journalists cover the glamorous models strutting down the ramp during India Fashion Week, but I was all alone reporting on farmers' suicides in Vidarbha? Bad news doesn't sell. Nirmala Ben's fast against a nebulous front company just isn't sexy enough. But, if she were to get the women of Delhi to organise a SlutWalk kind of protest march, like the one which took place a couple of days ago in Toronto, it would instantly attract eyeballs and become a media event.'

‘Atlas Investments is only a symbol. Her real target is high-level corruption.'

‘Don't make me yawn. No one gives a damn for corruption in this country. Half the middle class indulges in bribery and the other half just isn't bothered to come out on the streets and do something about it.'

‘Don't you think you are being a bit unfair on the middle class?' I protest.

‘I'm simply expressing a harsh truth. The middle class doesn't care about anything – we neither vote nor fight elections – so nobody cares about the middle class.'

The next day also brings no new supporters to the cause. The only change in the situation is that Nirmala Ben's health deteriorates even further. ‘Her pulse rate is eighty-eight and her blood pressure is a hundred and fifty by ninety. Urgent medical attention might be needed in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Please keep an ambulance on standby,' says the doctor as he completes her medical examination.

Nirmala Ben has lost over three kilos in the last six days. Her complexion has turned darker because of dehydration, and her face has acquired a dangerous gauntness, emphasised by dark circles under her eyes. She no longer has the strength to sit up all day. Most of the time she is curled up on a sheet. But her mind is still lucid and sharp.

‘Nirmala Ben, please end this madness,' I implore her. ‘Let's just accept that we failed this time. You have to live to fight another day.'

‘No,' she says firmly. ‘Now only my dead body will leave this place.' Her terrifying fixity of purpose chills me.

Vinay Mohan Acharya comes visiting at noontime. He claims he heard a brief mention about Nirmala Ben's fast on Sunlight TV. ‘Is this the people's revolution you were promising me?' He gazes at the Gandhian lying all alone. ‘But where are the people?'

‘Nirmala Ben is dying.' I wring my hands. ‘And no one seems to care.'

‘I told you she would be wasting her time on Atlas.' He lets out a derisive snort. ‘I, too, tried to be an agent of change, but to usher in a revolution in this country is impossible. History tells us that for a revolution to succeed you need one of two things: either a ruling figure who is universally hated or an opposition figure who is universally liked. In India we have neither. We Indians have neither too much hate nor too much love for anyone.'

‘Is there nothing we can do to galvanise people in support of her cause?'

‘Forget it. People can be galvanised into action only on an issue that touches their heart. And removing corruption, I am sorry to say, is still not an emotive issue with people. They feel it is too pervasive to be removed.'

The industrialist leaves after delivering his homily, but I am not prepared to accept defeat so easily. Back in the showroom, I rack my brains for a solution. I know it is time for a new approach. People will not come on their own to support an unknown woman with no organisational backup. It is a cardinal rule of marketing that you have to build presence in the consumers' minds before you can get them to buy your product. This is what advertising is all about. But how do you market a protest?

That is when my eyes fall on a giant billboard towering over Jantar Mantar. It shows actress Priya Capoorr, her face glowing brightly, holding up a tube of Amla herbal skin cream. The answer comes to me in a flash: Nirmala Ben, too, needs celebrity endorsement.

I still have the number for Rosie Mascarenhas, the PR manager for the actress. I call her up and explain my proposal. ‘Do you think Priya will agree to say a few words in support of Nirmala Ben's fast? It's for a noble cause.'

The PR lady is not amused. ‘You have some nerve calling me after the way you behaved with Priya,' she admonishes, before adding, ‘Who's heard of this Nirmala Ben? We never associate ourselves with unknown brands.'

Undeterred, I switch to Plan B, and turn to Karan. ‘If Priya Capoorr won't support Nirmala Ben's fast, then Salim Ilyasi will.'

‘But how do we get in touch with him? I don't have his secretary's number.'

‘You
are
Salim Ilyasi. Remember the prank you pulled on me on April Fools' Day? I want you to do the same for Nirmala Ben.'

‘I don't get you.'

‘I want you to record a message in the voice of Salim Ilyasi, asking people to come to Nirmala Ben's fast, and send it out to Indus customers as an MMS message.'

‘Hold on! You want me to go to jail? What if Salim sues me?'

‘We'll not use Salim Ilyasi's name. If someone's voice sounds just like his, it's not our fault, is it?'

‘And what about the company? If my boss finds out I've sent this bulk MMS for free, I'll get fired.'

‘I know there is a risk, but this is our only chance. Otherwise, Nirmala Ben dies.'

Karan takes a little convincing, but, once he's on board, he gives it his all. I have already prepared a text, and Karan records it perfectly, his voice an exact clone of Salim Ilyasi's. Even he is impressed at his uncanny mimicry. ‘The hundred million subscribers of Indus are in for a real surprise,' he grins.

Three hours later, my cell phone beeps with an incoming message from a Mumbai number. I click it open to be instantly captivated by Salim Ilyasi's deep baritone. ‘Friends, our country is going through trying times,' the superstar says. ‘Scam after scam has shaken the confidence of the people. We cannot remain helpless bystanders any more. I have therefore decided to join Nirmala Ben's courageous fight against corruption. I will be there to support her at Jantar Mantar on Saturday, the ninth of April. So should you. Together we can make India a better place. So do come. It will be funtaastik.'

I call up Karan. ‘It's superb! But I am just a little bit worried about the Mumbai number you used. Is it Salim Ilyasi's actual phone?'

‘Are you nuts? I'd be arrested if I did that.'

‘Then whose number is it?'

‘It's a nonexistent number, but, if you change the last digit from zero to one, you will get connected.'

‘To whom?'

‘The Andheri Mental Hospital!'

*   *   *

The plan works better than I could ever imagine. The fake Salim Ilyasi MMS goes viral. Details of Nirmala Ben's fast are conveyed through blogs, Twitter, Facebook, MySpace and YouTube, till some kind of critical mass is reached. People start streaming into the fast venue from early in the morning of Saturday. They come looking for Salim Ilyasi but then something curious happens. They see Nirmala Ben, this frail old lady carrying on without food for a week, and they stay on, drawn as much to her sheer doggedness as to the prospect of meeting a Bollywood superstar.

By afternoon the crowd has swelled to eight thousand people, maybe more. That is when another interesting thing happens. Almost on its own, a force of active volunteers forms. They begin constructing a proper stage. Somebody sets up a collection bucket and donations start pouring in spontaneously. The owner of a tent house loans us a huge
shamiana,
providing much-needed protection from the harsh sun. Someone brings in a portable generator, another a PA system. A group of local singers and musicians joins Nirmala Ben on stage and the air begins resonating with bhajans and patriotic songs.

Nothing revives a fasting protester more than the sight of cheering throngs. Nirmala Ben is filled with new energy and fresh zeal. She even manages to stand up and give an impassioned speech, calling upon the multitude to launch a new revolution to cleanse the country of corruption. ‘You unmask Atlas, and you strike a body blow against corporate collusion,' she declares to sustained applause, her voice pulsating with moral fervour and motherly authority.