The Accidental Apprentice (35 page)

The industrialist puts a hand on my shoulder, and I don't flinch. I need the soothing balm of a human touch, of kind words. ‘I am sorry that I was not totally upfront with you,' he says. ‘But you must believe me when I tell you that you are just one step away from fulfilling all your dreams.'

‘Please…' I look into his eyes, trying to read him. ‘Don't play games with me any more. Is this another one of your tests?'

‘That will come later. The seventh and final test.'

‘Why? Why? Why?' I plead with him like an exhausted fox at the end of the hunt. ‘Just tell me: why did you choose me as your guinea pig? You could have picked anyone from your company, anyone from this city. There are millions who are more qualified than me to run your business.'

‘Qualifications don't matter. Attitude does. I am impressed by your dedication, your willingness and enthusiasm to learn. You've done remarkably well so far, demonstrating qualities of leadership, integrity, courage, foresight, resourcefulness and decisiveness. Now you need to prepare for the final test.'

I shake my head wearily. ‘I don't think I have the strength to undergo another test. Please release me from the contract.'

He abruptly gets up from his chair, goes to the rear door and flings it open. The private room I am in connects to the general ward and my nose is assaulted immediately by the smells of disinfectant and disease. I gaze into a long hall, packed with beds and bodies. The air resonates with the lonely moans of sick patients interspersed with the wails of a hungry child.

‘Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life' – he waves a hand at the river of misery and woe at my doorstep – ‘living amongst the hungry, the wretched and the poor?'

‘There's no shame in being poor,' I reply defiantly.

‘Spare me this misplaced empathy with the losers of the world,' he sneers. ‘Wanting to help them is one thing, wanting to
become
like them quite another. I am prepared to give you a position far above the crippling mediocrity of the masses. But, if you are content to live like them and die like them, then so be it. Just remember, there are three things that wait for no one: time, death and opportunity. Once you miss this opportunity, it will never come again. Now it's your call.'

I close my eyes, unable to bear his mocking gaze. ‘Even assuming I say yes to you,' I respond after a long moment, ‘what explanation will I give to Ma and Neha for not donating my kidney?'

‘Dr Mittal will handle that part,' he says. ‘My only request to you is to keep our arrangement confidential till you pass the seventh test. So you will do it, right?'

The moment for decision has come; I can't evade it any longer. I reflect on the wasteland that my life has become. There is nothing to look forward to, no one to trust, no job to feel good about. I see a future leached of all colour, every pleasure. I have become a loser all over again. And a loser has everything to gain. ‘Okay.' I exhale. ‘I'm in. Now tell me, what's the last test going to be about?'

‘I can't tell you in advance.' He shakes his head. ‘That would be cheating. All I can say is that it will be the hardest of them all.'

‘At least tell me what to expect.'

He thinks carefully before replying. ‘The unexpected.'

*   *   *

The discharge formalities take less than an hour. Dr Mittal calls Neha to his room and gives her some gobbledegook about a new wonder drug called ImmunoglobulinX. ‘This miracle drug came on the market just yesterday. If your mother's condition can be corrected with a few pills, why go for a transplant, don't you agree?'

He doesn't have the guts to even meet me. I see him slinking past the door when I'm leaving the hospital with Ma. At least he has the decency to feel guilty about what he's done to me at Acharya's behest.

Neha, on the other hand, shows no remorse about her actions. In fact, once we are back in the house, she even breaks into a little jig. ‘Now this is what I call having your cake and eating it too,' she rejoices. ‘We saved your kidney and we saved Ma as well. Hail to ImmunoglobulinX!'

‘Is there something you need to tell me?' I fix her with a steely stare.

‘What?' She looks back at me, neither dropping her gaze nor looking the least bit ashamed. Her brazenness astounds me.

I cannot bear to stay in the same room with her. Standing facing the window, I wince at the memory of her kissing Karan in this very spot. Even the air around me now seems contaminated with the smell of subterfuge and secrets.

‘Nothing,' I reply, forcing an ironic smile.

With Karan there is even greater awkwardness. He, too, acts without a trace of guilt, a backstabber
par excellence.
I begin avoiding him as much as I can. The evening visits to the garden I terminate completely.

Without a sister to speak to, without a friend to turn to, I am enveloped in a thick shroud of melancholy. It is part anger, part frustration, but mostly it is a grim joylessness that haunts me like a shadow.

Work becomes my only refuge. A single-minded focus on my salesgirl's job acts like therapy for me, even earning an encomium from Madan. I spend my days slaving in the showroom and my nights fantasising about the pot of gold promised by Acharya. He seems to be the lone silver lining in the dark clouds that have gathered over my life. So far I had made his tests into an abstraction. Now, with just one more to go, I feel the adrenaline rush of real, tangible reward. Ten billion dollars! The very thought of all that money causes goose pimples on my skin. For the first time I can feel the pull of destiny. So much so that, while returning from work one evening, I impulsively buy a ‘business' book from a street hawker for ₹95. It is by an American management expert named Steven Katzenberg, and it is called
How to Become a CEO: Fifty Secrets for Getting to the Top and Staying There.

The Seventh Test

Acid Rain

The first secret to becoming a CEO is knowing that there are no secrets to success. It is always the result of hard work, concentration, careful planning, and persistence. Success is not a lottery but a system, and this book will teach you fifty secrets gleaned from hours of conversations with the world's greatest CEOs to enable you to implement that system in your daily life, and get to the top.

It is a slow day at the showroom and I am whiling away the time by imbibing wisdom from Mr Steven Katzenberg, the management expert.

Prachi taps the book in my hand. ‘Since when have you started reading business guides?'

‘It's still better than killing flies, no?' I reply.

‘Are you planning to do an MBA or what?' She looks at me suspiciously.

‘Who does an MBA at my age?' I sigh and attempt to change the subject. ‘So what's up with you? Any fresh advances from our mutual friend Mr Raja Gulati?'

‘The creep was here yesterday,' Prachi says, ‘and he's promised me a raise. The company has made a record profit this financial year.'

‘Well, I hope I get one too.'

‘Tell me, has Neelam written to you?'

Neelam who? I am about to ask, before realising she is enquiring about our ex-colleague. It has been almost three months since her wedding. It is amazing how quickly out-of-sight becomes out-of-mind. ‘No. Why?'

‘Because I received a letter from her yesterday. From Sweden.'

‘What did she say? Is she happy with her marriage?'

‘Happy? She is going mad with joy. Her house is a five-bedroom mansion in Stockholm. She says it's the cleanest city in the world. She drives around in a Jaguar. And her husband earns the equivalent of six lakh rupees a month. Can you imagine that? Six lakhs per month! That's like twenty thousand rupees a day.'

‘Good for Neelam.'

‘I keep hoping some tall handsome millionaire will walk into the showroom and sweep me off my feet,' she says wistfully. ‘Sometimes I feel so trapped, wondering if I'll be doing this job for the rest of my life. Don't you also dream of becoming rich?'

I imagine the shock on her face if I were to tell her I'm about to become CEO of a ten-billion-dollar company. Instead, I offer her the old cliché, ‘Money cannot buy you love.'

‘Who says I want love?' Prachi scoffs. ‘I want that Bottega Veneta bag I saw in Emporio Mall.'

In the adjacent aisle Madhavan, one of the sales boys, is busy flipping channels on a LG Pen Touch TV hooked to a satellite dish, when I catch a fleeting glimpse of Shalini Grover. ‘Stop, stop, stop,' I shout, startling him into almost dropping the remote.

Sure enough Shalini Grover is on Sunlight TV, standing outside a nondescript house, painted white with green shutters. ‘Returning back to our top story, this is house number 3734, from where the nefarious kidney trade was being run,' she says. ‘In a day of fast-moving developments, Dr J. K. Nath – or should we say “Dr Kidney”? – was arrested by Delhi police. He was responsible for illegally removing the kidneys of more than five hundred people, mostly poor labourers. The Unity Kidney Institute, where these kidneys were sold to rich patients, has been sealed and a warrant has been issued for the arrest of MLA Anwar Noorani, the man who presided over this entire racket.' She pauses and flicks a finger at the camera. ‘Remember, you saw it first on Sunlight, the channel that uncovers the truth, insistently, consistently, persistently.'

*   *   *

I cannot resist calling up Shalini during the lunch break. ‘Congratulations on the scoop. But what took you so long to break the story?'

‘After you told me about the clinic I did a full undercover operation, including interviews with over two dozen victims. It's taken a while, but now there's no escape for the crooks. They've literally been caught red-handed,' she replies.

‘That MLA swindled me out of two lakhs. I hope he rots in jail for twenty years at least.'

‘He hasn't been caught yet. Please be careful, Sapna. He knows I got the story from you, and he can be a dangerous man.'

‘No worries. If he had Dr Kidney, I have Dr Mirchi to protect me.'

‘Dr Mirchi? Who's he?'

‘What? You don't know Dr Mirchi? He's a girl's best friend, also known as chilli-pepper spray!'

*   *   *

On returning from lunch I find Raja Gulati hanging outside the rear door, looking like a clownish cad in a half-unbuttoned, purple silk shirt and tight trousers. He bars my way by draping an arm across the doorway.

‘Let me go,' I say coldly.

‘Why do you remain so aloof from me, Ice Maiden?' He leers lecherously. ‘Even ice melts in summer.'

‘But a moron remains a moron in every season,' I reply dryly.

‘Who are you calling moron, bitch?' he growls, flaring up like a temperamental diva and grabbing my wrist.

‘Don't you dare touch me.' I struggle to break free of his grip.

‘First say sorry,' he demands.

‘You bastard!' I spin on my heels and slap him across the face.

He releases my wrist, mouth open in shock. ‘You'll pay for this, bitch,' he hisses as I shove him aside and enter the showroom.

*   *   *

Just before closing time, Madan summons me to his cubicle. ‘We are doing another round of stocktaking. I need you in the store on Sunday,' he says without looking at me directly.

‘That's June the twelfth, isn't it? It's my father's death anniversary,' I reply. ‘I can't come.'

‘Who do you think you are?' he yells at me. ‘Some queen who can decide when to come and when not? I've had enough of your birthdays and death anniversaries. If you don't come to the store on Sunday, you'll be chucked out.'

My mind is already seething from Raja's brazen effrontery. Madan's bullying is sufficient to nudge me into the chasm of joblessness. ‘To hell with you and your store,' I scream back at him. ‘I'm quitting right this instant.'

‘That will be good riddance. And we will also avoid a payout for the notice period,' he responds, trying to hide the sneaky gloating in his voice.

*   *   *

The true worth of a job is revealed by the amount of time it takes you to quit it. I had invested so little in mine, it takes me barely twenty minutes to clear out from Gulati & Sons. Most of the sales staff are happy to see my back. They can now aspire to the position of Salesperson No. 1. Prachi is the only one who is genuinely sad at my departure. ‘You shouldn't have reacted in this way,' she says. ‘If you want, I can still speak to Madan, sort this out.'

‘I'm done with Gulati & Sons,' I tell her. ‘Don't worry, I'll find a job faster than Raja Gulati finds a bottle.'

As I walk out of the showroom for the last time at 7.45 p.m. on Wednesday, 8 June, I am clear-headed and calm. I have never felt lighter, freer than I do in that moment. Like a convict freshly released from prison. For that is what Gulati & Sons had become, a prison of the mind. I've hated the treacherous commute to work every day, the push and shove of humanity in the overcrowded metro, the cacophony and din of Connaught Place, the aggravating customers, the insufferable boss, the apathetic coworkers … It has been a miserable, never-ending daily grind, and I am glad to be rid of it.

Sitting in the metro going home, I take out the book by Steven Katzenberg and flip open a page at random. A quote by industrialist Ram Mohammad Thomas leaps out at me:

I have learnt more from life than books, and it has taught me that you need just three things to be truly happy in this world: a person that you love, a job that you like, and a dream that you live for.

I reflect on his wise words. By this yardstick, I will perhaps never be truly happy. I have no one to love, no job to hold, but I do have a dream to live for, the dream of becoming CEO of the ABC Group.

That has now become the consuming passion of my life. Every night I lie in my bed dreaming about the tantalising promise of a seven-figure salary.