The Accidental Apprentice (47 page)

‘Do it,' I say, just as another crack of thunder erupts outside.

Hiren thrusts the revolver inside my mouth. The cold, metallic taste of death is on my lips. It will be quick at least.

The scene unfolds with the punishing clarity of a bad dream. An obscenity slips out of Hiren's lips, his trigger finger twitches, there is the blast of a gunshot and I flinch. But, instead of toppling down, I see Hiren staggering back, incredulity written large on his face. He clutches his left shoulder, where a giant flower of blood is blooming on his tracksuit top.

ACP Khan bursts into the room, his revolver drawn, wisps of smoke curling from the barrel. The acrid smell of cordite fills my senses.

‘Arrest him,' he directs the constables who surge behind him. And trailing all of them is Shalini Grover.

She embraces me. ‘Thank God you are all right.'

I gaze at her with the bewildered air of a coma patient who has just regained consciousness. ‘What's all this? Who tipped off ACP Khan? And what are
you
doing here?'

‘It's a long story, but basically you need to thank this.' She holds up the brown leather bag lying on the floor. ‘My emergency travel bag is also a complete spy kit, with a miniature camera in the buckle, a micro audio recorder sewn into the flap and a wireless transmitter in the base. I was tracking your every move as you went from Delhi to Nainital. But, when I discovered that you were back in Delhi, I alerted ACP Khan. We've got every word uttered by Hiren on tape. This is one jam he won't be getting out of.'

*   *   *

The background noise of wailing sirens and the chatter of police radios drifts up into the rain-soaked air as I make my way through the mêlée of patrol cars, policemen and paramedics.

Standing in the front courtyard, I look up at the heavens. The rain has stopped completely and the sky is starting to clear up. It promises to be a gorgeous day. After all I've been through, that simple assurance rekindles something in my heart I haven't felt for a long time. Hope.

I have settled an old score. The past has finally been buried. Over the eastern horizon the future beckons, still hazy, but slowly becoming bright.

Epilogue

It is a dull, overcast day, filled with intermittent rain. I sit by the window of my new house in Saket, sipping coffee and listening to the gentle patter of raindrops cascading from the gulmohar tree that hugs the compound wall. It is in full bloom, the flame-bright flowers providing a stunning slash of colour against the turbulent grey sky.

I took the house only because of the tree. It comforts me, a shaded, scarlet haven in a hectic corner of the city.

Three months have passed since the traumatic events of June. For the first few weeks, the media hounded me relentlessly. I featured on magazine covers, trended on Twitter, became the staple fare of talk-show discussions.

The one positive outcome of my recent notoriety is that I've landed a dream job as fiction editor at Publicon, a small but sought-after imprint. The pay is good, but, more than that, it is so rewarding to be finally able to do something that taps into my passion.

Besides editing other people's stories, I am also writing my own. A top publishing house in Britain has commissioned me to write my debut book, essentially a memoir covering those tumultuous six months of my life.

My British publishers have also given me a not inconsequential advance. The money has enabled me to begin Neha's reconstructive surgery treatment. Every day brings a new cheer to her face, and the doctors say she will be able to resume her former life fairly soon.

Ma has joined Nirmala Ben and now stays with her in Gandhi Niketan. The austere life of faith, simplicity and charity suits her and has already caused a dramatic improvement in her health.

Shalini Grover is on the front page of today's newspaper, receiving the Courageous Journalism Award. As I gaze at her picture, I am filled with vicarious pride. She didn't need that exclusive interview with me after all. The front page also contains a news item that the bail applications of Hiren Karak and Swapan Karak have been denied yet again. DCP Khan (he got promoted to Deputy Commissioner of Police last month) tells me that, even if they manage to avoid the death penalty, father and son are looking at twenty-year spells in jail, at the very minimum. The Indus Group (dubbed ‘The Atlas Loot' by the media) has gone into liquidation, its assets attached.

I have just set down the coffee cup when the doorbell rings. A groan escapes my lips. It is bound to be yet another pesky reporter. Rising from my seat, I answer the door with the unwilling air of a government clerk at office closing time, and stumble back in shock. Because standing on my doorstep is a ghost. It is Vinay Mohan Acharya, dressed in an off-white silk kurta pyjama, a white pashmina shawl draped across his shoulders and a vermilion tika raked across his forehead. Looking exactly as he did the day he first met me.

‘I … I don't believe this,' I gasp, feeling my head spinning violently, my legs buckling underneath me. It is only the quick catching arms of my visitor that prevent me from collapsing in a heap on the floor.

‘I'm sorry if I alarmed you,' he says as he helps me back on my feet. ‘I'm Ajay Krishna Acharya, owner of the ABC Group.'

‘You mean AK? Mr Vinay Mohan Acharya's brother?' I say weakly.

He nods. ‘May I come inside?'

I still feel wrapped in a fog of surreality as he sits down on the wicker sofa in the drawing room. ‘You look very different from the last time I saw you in Mr Acharya's house,' I observe.

‘I have changed,' he replies. ‘My brother's death made me take a hard look at myself, at my methods of doing business.'

‘Rana was your mole in the ABC Group, wasn't he?'

‘Yes,' he sighs. ‘Rana was a scoundrel ready to sell his soul to the highest bidder. He was on my payroll since 2009. But when he helped Hiren murder Vinay Mohan for a handful of silver, that is when something woke up inside me. It's sad, but I discovered my brother only after his death. And I also discovered God. It will please you to know that I have just come from giving a cheque for two crores to your friend Lauren's charity.'

‘So what do you want from me?'

‘I want you to read this,' he says, passing me a folded sheet of paper.

‘What is it?'

‘A message from my brother addressed to you. I found it only yesterday, while going through Vinay Mohan's old papers. I thought you should see it.'

I open the sheet to discover a letter written on buff handmade paper monogrammed with Acharya's initials. Dated 10 June, a day before he was murdered, this is what it says in his flowing calligraphic handwriting:

My dear Sapna,

If you are reading this then I have already left this world. The pancreatic tumour has claimed me just a little bit earlier than I expected.

I am writing this from my private room in Tata Memorial Hospital, where the doctors are about to operate on me. I may not survive the operation. And, even if I do, the doctors tell me I have less than three more weeks to live. My cancer, which first metastasised to the lymph nodes surrounding the pancreas, has now spread to the liver and lungs. Even with aggressive chemotherapy my chances of survival are less than five per cent. With such odds, I have refused chemotherapy, preferring to die with dignity. As my daughter Maya always used to say, it's the quality of life that's important, not the quantity.

I have had many regrets in the last few years, but none bigger than not being able to spend as much time with you as I had wanted to. You remind me so much of my daughter.

When you met me for the first time on that cold grey afternoon of 10 December, I told you that I had seen a spark in your eyes, but that was not the whole truth. You also have something else, a generosity of spirit that is so rare to find.

I wonder if the date 23 August holds any meaning for you? To you it is probably just another day, but for me it meant a rebirth.

I have one of the rarest blood groups, the Bombay Type. Last 23 August, I had to undergo an emergency surgery. I was in a critical condition, requiring five units of blood, but none of the blood banks in the city had the Bombay Type. The doctors had almost given up on me, till you volunteered to donate your blood.

That day you saved my life. That was the day I decided to make you my CEO. I told you that you were candidate number seven, but that wasn't true. You were always the only one.

You must have thought of me as a heartless sadist when I set you those tests. But inheriting a position is easy; retaining it is the difficult part. Modern business is a dog-eat-dog world, full of risks and falls. I wanted to ensure that you had the necessary qualities not only to take over my company, but also to take it forward. More importantly, I wanted the CEO-ship to be an accomplishment, not a gift.

Through the six tests, I've already taught you the attributes of leadership, integrity, courage, foresight, resourcefulness and decisiveness. The seventh test I will unfortunately not be able to complete. But through this letter I am passing on my final lesson to you.

It is one of the paradoxes of success that the more power you gain, the more you lose control. No amount of foresight, planning or resourcefulness can keep you completely insulated from the vagaries of the outside world. Past performance is no guarantee of future results. The fact is that nothing remains constant. You might be on top today, but there are always rivals within and without looking to bring you down. And, when that happens, you need that most essential quality in a leader: wisdom.

Many people think that wisdom comes with age, but that's not true. Only white hair and wrinkles come with age. Wisdom comes from a combination of intuition and values, from making choices and learning from them. It comes from the ability to handle failure and rejection. Each of my six tests has taught you a valuable lesson. But the most valuable lesson of life is to trust your own inner voice. Knowing the world is cleverness; knowing yourself is wisdom.

So, whatever you do, be yourself. At all times listen to your heart, do what you think is right, and stand up for the principles you believe in. Everything else will follow.

To show that I practise what I preach, I am hereby nominating you as CEO of the ABC Group. I am leaving my business in the hands of the most deserving candidate: you.

It is now up to you to set the future direction of the company and carry forward my legacy. My best wishes will always be with you.

Good luck and God bless.

Affectionately,

Vinay Mohan Acharya

I close the letter with tears in my eyes. Behind his stern façade, Acharya was a loving father and a dogged teacher, straining to impart his knowledge till his last breath. Even delivering a final lesson from the grave.

‘Thank you,' I tell AK, wiping my eyes. ‘I'm glad you showed this to me.'

‘I didn't come here just to show you the letter,' he replies. ‘I've come to make you the same offer my brother would have made you in person had he not been treacherously murdered.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

‘Become CEO of the ABC Group. Only this time there won't be any tests. You've already proved your mettle.'

I remain silent, my eyes half closed, as a menagerie of memories from Acharya's tests flash before them like a newsreel on fast forward.

‘How does a salary of one crore per annum sound to you?'

One crore. That's ₹10,000,000. Just the thought of all this money makes my throat run dry.

Once the initial shock subsides, I assess the offer dispassionately. All those zeroes had overwhelmed my mind; now I try to listen to my heart.

The answer comes to me in a heartbeat, and I know it is the only decision to make. ‘I don't want it,' I say.

He frowns. ‘Pardon me?'

‘I don't want to become CEO of the ABC Group. I'm not really suited for the cutthroat world of business.'

‘I think you are underestimating yourself,' he says. ‘There is a lot you can contribute to the company.'

‘I'm trusting my inner voice. Just like Mr Acharya wanted me to. I know that I'll be happier as a struggling writer than a business tycoon.'

‘Can nothing change your mind?'

‘No,' I say firmly.

‘Very well, then. I will respect your wish, Sapna.' He exhales and rises.

*   *   *

As I watch the industrialist get into his chauffeured Bentley, I do not feel any pangs of regret. I have realised it takes more than money to be truly happy in this world. What sustains me is the love and support of my family, the kindness of friends, the compassion of strangers and the little miracles that God blesses us with every day.

One happens right before my eyes. The dark clouds are suddenly torn open, allowing the sun to break through. And then a magnificent rainbow appears, painting the sky with its dreamy, magical colours, suffusing my soul with an overwhelming joy and wonder. It leaves me without a shred of doubt in my mind. I know who I am, what I want to be.

Sometimes it takes a trial by fire to overcome our greatest fears, to find out what we are truly made of. I have passed seven tests, but more will come. And I'll be ready for them. For Acharya has taught me the most important lesson of them all.

I don't believe in lotteries: I believe in myself. Life does not always give us what we desire, but eventually it does give us what we deserve.

Acknowledgements

This book grew out of an image that came unbidden to me several years ago: of an elderly billionaire at the Hanuman Mandir in Connaught Place, searching for someone.

From that seed, a story began to sprout as I tried to figure out how and why he was there. The journey led me eventually to Sapna Sinha. In the eighteen months it took me to chart her path, Sapna became more than a character; she became a voice in her own right, one that I learnt to trust and respect.