The Accidental Apprentice (41 page)

My eyes widen in surprise. ‘Acharya never mentioned a word about his cancer to me!'

‘I've also seen footage from the security cameras at Infra Red. Rana was indeed there from twenty-two forty-five till twenty-three fifty-five, which means he also has an airtight alibi.'

‘Then he's manipulated the cameras somehow. I'm pretty sure he was in Acharya's residence when I entered. He killed Acharya and managed to get out by hoodwinking the security at the gate.'

‘But why would Rana want to kill his boss?'

‘For that most basic of reasons: hate. Rana hated Acharya for not choosing him for the CEO's job. And he hated me for being the chosen one. So he killed Acharya and framed me, getting two birds with one stone.'

‘What if you had passed the seventh test? Do you think Acharya would have really made you his CEO?'

‘I don't know,' I reply, biting my lip.

‘I think he was setting you up as a scapegoat. You would have been the one saddled with the Atlas mess.'

‘Yes.' I nod slowly. ‘He was much more devious than he looked.'

ACP Khan steeples his fingers and looks me in the eye. ‘Are you prepared to make a confession now?'

I look right back at him. ‘Do you really believe I murdered Acharya? Is it really that simple?'

He exhales. ‘Murder is never simple,' he says. ‘But we have to go by facts. And the facts are against you. In any event, I'm no longer in charge of the case. It's become too big for this police station. The Crime Branch has taken over. They will be the ones questioning you from now on.'

*   *   *

I have my first encounter with the Crime Branch at 8 p.m. that day. ‘They want you in the Interrogaysun Room,' Pushpa announces, sending a nervous tingle up my spine. I imagine a dim basement room, lit by a lamp suspended over a table, around which grim men sit in shadows, cigarette smoke clouding their faces.

In fact the Interrogation Room turns out to be brightly lit, with the atmosphere of a cosy classroom. There is a wooden table surrounded by sturdy metal chairs and even a blackboard. The three men sitting around the table, however, do not resemble teachers at all. Dressed identically in nondescript safari suits, they have the faceless look of government sleuths.

They tell me to sit down on the lone seat opposite them, making it clear that it was me versus them, one versus three.

Then the interrogation begins. At first they are civil, asking me routine things about my family, my job at Gulati & Sons and my interactions with Acharya. Then, gradually, the tone changes. The questions become pointed, suggestive and downright offensive. ‘Did you have a sexual relationship with Acharya?' ‘How many times did he call you to his bedroom?' ‘Were you aware of Acharya's connection to Atlas?'

For three hours the Crime Branch investigators grill me mercilessly, trying to browbeat me into admitting that I murdered Acharya. When I stand my ground, they yell and scream at me, bully and intimidate me. ‘We'll hang you for this murder if you don't confess.'

‘Then hang me,' I say defiantly. ‘But I won't admit to a crime I did not commit.'

*   *   *

Being enmeshed in a police investigation, I realise, is like stepping into quicksand. No matter how hard you fight to get out, you end up sinking deeper and deeper. Bit by bit, the Crime Branch sleuths gather evidence against me, connecting all the dots, making it a damning indictment. From what I can gather, the police case against me runs as follows: I was Acharya's mistress, having an affair with him; Acharya had promised me the CEO-ship of his company, provided I succeeded in his seven tests; having completed six tests I became impatient, wanting to lay my hands on all his money; along the way a completely unrelated incident, the acid attack on Neha, happened; thinking it to be the handiwork of Acharya, I went to his residence with a knife to blackmail him; Acharya rejected my demands and, in a fit of rage, I attacked him with the knife and murdered him.

I have to admit that the hypothesis sounds quite plausible. In fact, by the end of the third round of coercive interrogation I am almost ready to believe it myself. Perhaps I have indeed killed Acharya, and so traumatic was the experience that I have locked that memory deep inside me and thrown away the key.

As part of their strategy, the Crime Branch people try all kinds of mind games. I am deprived of sleep and food. Instructions are issued to treat me as a maximum-security criminal. A male guard is now posted every night outside my lockup, as though I were some kind of Houdini who can escape from a locked, windowless cell.

Media interest in the case shows no sign of abating. There are more OB vans parked outside Vasant Vihar police station than outside 7 RCR, the Prime Minister's residence. My arrest is the number-one story in India, beating even the soap operas on TV. A famous director announces plans to make a biopic on my life. As he puts it, ‘All juicy scandals revolve around money, murder or sex. And, when you have all three present, as in the case of Sapna Sinha, then you have a superhit on your hands!'

*   *   *

Nirmala Ben comes calling on Day 5 of my arrest. News of her impending visit causes a stir in the police station. ‘You even know Big Ben?' Pushpa Thanvi asks me with reverential awe, looking at me with new respect.

The Gandhian arrives at 1 p.m., but is not brought to me directly. First, she is taken for a cup of tea in ACP Khan's office. Then he escorts her on an inspection tour of the police station. She peeps into the various rooms around the courtyard, poses for photographs, even signs autographs. ‘Big Ben, Big Ben.' I hear chants, cheers, and laughs. My anticipation has reached a crescendo by the time Mrs Nirmala Mukherjee Shah steps into the visitors' room, which has been swept clean and spruced up with a flower arrangement.

She looks comfortably elegant in a simple white sari. A roiling scrum of press photographers and TV cameramen surges behind her like a tsunami. The reporters trip over cords and each other in their desperate attempt to get a sound bite. It is not every day that they get a chance to record an encounter between the most famous anticorruption crusader in India and the country's most famous detainee.

Pushpa preens by my side as flashbulbs go off in my face from all directions. The reporters crowd closer, thrusting their microphones at me like daggers. I hold up my hands before my face, shrinking back from the bright lights and shrill voices, from all these people who want to make a spectacle of my misfortune.

ACP Khan tries to get the journalists and TV crews to leave after the photo op, but no one listens to him. It is left to Nirmala Ben to restore a modicum of order. ‘
Dekhiye,
this is a private visit,' she says with folded hands. ‘Please allow me to meet my goddaughter alone, and then I will come and have an interaction with all of you outside.
Barobar chhe ne
?'

It is like a magician performing mass hypnosis. The hordes depart instantly, leaving the Gandhian alone with me, ACP Khan and Pushpa.

Nirmala Ben looks deep into my eyes, searching them, and finds the truth she is looking for. Like a good doctor who knows what is wrong with a patient simply by reading his pulse, she cognises what I am going through, understands my torment.

‘Be brave, my girl,' she says. ‘Remember, bravery is not a quality of the body, but of the soul.' Then she wraps her arms around me and pulls me to her shoulder. I cling to her tightly, feeling her warmth, searching for that wellspring of compassion and understanding I found in Ma. Though I try very hard not to cry, that pit of sadness and despair in my soul bubbles over, and I begin sobbing like a lost child. She passes a hand through my hair, soothing me. ‘Don't worry, everything will be sorted. I've told Susheela, too, that I'll do my best for Neha.'

Twenty minutes later, Nirmala Ben prepares to leave. ‘Close the day with prayer so that you may have a peaceful night free from dreams and nightmares,' she offers as parting advice as she takes my hand in hers. I feel something metallic being slipped into the hollow of my palm and instinctively fold it into a fist. Then she bows her head in
namaste
and walks out of the room.

‘What a remarkable woman,' ACP Khan says as he escorts me back to the lockup.

‘I got a photo with her, sir,' Pushpa beams, eliciting a frown from her boss.

I open my fist to discover a small key.

*   *   *

Nirmala Ben has gone, leaving behind a mystery for me. What is the key, what does it open, and why did she give it to me?

I turn the key over in my hands. It is an ordinary, stainless-steel key, nothing special. Like the type used to close cupboards and cabinets. But there are no cupboards and cabinets inside the lockup. It is probably Nirmala Ben's kleptomania acting up again, I reckon, as I slip it into the pocket of my kameez.

Later in the day a doctor comes to examine me. The incessant interrogation by the Crime Branch officials has taken a toll on my health, both mental and physical. A queasy combination of dread, sadness, hopelessness and helplessness has settled permanently in the depths of my stomach. Inevitably it impacts on my bowels, leading to such a severe attack of diarrhoea that it sends me scurrying to the bathroom even at odd hours of the night, much to the annoyance of Pushpa.

*   *   *

It is past midnight, but sleep is far from my eyes. Though despondency buffets me every day, I'm feeling particularly down tonight. There is talk of transferring me to Tihar Jail, where only the most hardened criminals are housed. The prospect of spending my entire life behind bars stretches before me like a Siberian winter, barren, bleak and entirely desolate.

I still have belief in ACP Khan, but he has been reduced to the status of a helpless bystander. The Crime Branch sleuths are a law unto themselves and they will stop at nothing to secure a murder conviction. I can feel all doors closing on me. ‘Only a miracle can save you now,' my lawyer says. But even Goddess Durga seems to have deserted me, making my faith wobble.

Lost in my thoughts, I barely hear the cell door being opened. It is Pushpa Thanvi, wearing her usual sour face. ‘I am fed up of your friends,' she declares.

‘Why?' I ask. ‘What happened?'

‘Now there's a phone call for you.'

‘From where?'

‘Kochi.'

‘Kochi? I don't know anyone in Kerala.'

‘Then you better tell that mad night owl to stop disturbing us at unearthly hours,' she says, and marches me down to the Reporting Room where three constables are huddled around an old rotary phone like dogs around a bone.

I pick up the receiver. ‘Hello?'

‘Is that you, Sapna?' I hear a voice crackling with long-distance static. It is a voice I would have recognised even from a million light years away.

‘Karan?' I ask in astonished delight. ‘Where are you calling from?'

‘From Coachella in California.'

The sound of his real voice is like a balm to my wounded soul, instantly bridging that great chasm of distance and time between us.

‘I'm so sorry,' he continues. ‘I just heard the news about Acharya. I'm now scraping together funds to get a flight to Delhi as soon as possible.'

‘Don't bother,' I tell him. ‘You have more important things—'

‘Nothing is more important to me than you,' he says, cutting me off. ‘I had just started a new job here, but it can wait. First I have to get you out of this mess.'

‘There's nothing you can do, Karan.'

‘I'm already doing my bit from here, Sapna. I got my friends in Indus to pass me details of Rana's most recent call record. Guess who Rana has been speaking to every day since Acharya's death.'

‘Who?'

‘Ajay Krishna Acharya. I'm convinced Acharya's murder was a conspiracy cooked up between Rana and AK. AK looks and speaks just like his brother. What if he was somehow inside Prarthana that evening?'

‘My God!' I whisper. ‘I never thought about this possibility.'

‘I'll blow the lid off this whole thing. You just wait, Sapna. I'm coming,' he says before another burst of static disconnects the call.

*   *   *

I return to my cage infused with new courage and renewed hope. Karan may be gay and a world away, but he is still my rock, and, with him by my side, I might yet be able to prove my innocence.

At the same time I am seized with the sudden, irresistible conviction that I need to take matters into my own hands, get out of this suffocating lockup.

I keep pacing the cell for the next two hours, racking my brains for an escape plan, when the queasiness in my stomach starts up again. Punishing spasms ripple across my abdomen, making me cry out in pain. I drag myself to the cell door and call out to the guard dozing on a chair. ‘I need to go to the toilet. Please call Pushpa.'

A few minutes later Pushpa appears, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘Even a witch does not stay awake this late at night,' she mutters darkly as she unlocks the cell. ‘Oh, the grief you've given me.'

The courtyard is silent as a tomb. I can even hear snores coming from a few rooms. Pushpa shoves me inside the ladies' toilet with a grunt. ‘I'll take just a few minutes,' I mumble.

‘You can rot here the whole night for all I care,' she responds, fumbling inside her pockets for the toilet key. Not finding it only adds to her irritation. ‘Where the hell is it?' she mutters, digging a hand inside her trouser pocket. ‘Sarla has already lost hers. Is some bastard now stealing our toilet keys?'

She eventually succeeds in extracting it from her breast pocket. ‘Found it!' she says triumphantly, holding it up like some ancient artefact discovered from an archaeological dig. I gaze at it, mesmerised.

‘Now shit all you want. I'm giving you thirty minutes. But you dare not disturb me again tonight after then, you hear me?' She gives me a death glare as she slams shut the door and locks it securely from the outside.