The Accidental Apprentice (6 page)

I open the envelope to discover it bulging with thousand-rupee notes. Counting the lot seems like a rude thing to do. ‘I trust Mr Acharya,' I declare, and sign the form with a flourish.

Rana picks up the document and puts it back in the leather folder.

‘When will the tests begin?' I enquire, stuffing the envelope inside my purse.

‘They have already begun,' Acharya says cryptically.

Before I can probe any further, the intercom on his desk buzzes. He stares at it for a moment, before depressing a red button. ‘Sir, the party from Hong Kong is on its way up,' Jennifer's perky voice comes through the speakerphone.

Acharya nods and then looks up at me. ‘Good luck,' he says, signalling that the meeting is over.

Five minutes later I am back on the street, pondering over the strangeness of all that has just happened. There is more money in my purse than I have ever possessed in my life and it fills me with a bizarre combination of elation and trepidation. I can already sense the shadowy hand of fate tapping my shoulder, as if warning me that I have made a Faustian pact, and now I must be prepared for the consequences.

*   *   *

The first thing I do after leaving Acharya's office is proceed to Hanuman Mandir to express my gratitude to Goddess Durga. She alone can help me navigate the treacherous currents of life that lie ahead.

After visiting the temple, I take a short detour to a shop in G-Block, before catching the metro. Tonight I don't go all the way to Rithala. I get down at Pitampura, and take an auto-rickshaw to Deenu Uncle's residence. Despite being a wealthy restaurateur, he still lives in a rundown, two-storey house adjacent to a fetid, refuse-clogged canal.

My aunt Manju Chachi, a lazy, overweight woman with a puzzling fondness for sleeveless blouses, opens the door. ‘Hello, Sapna,' she greets me sleepily. Deenu Uncle is lounging in the living room, clad in just a vest and pyjamas, thanks to an electric heater going full blast. He has a chubby face, broad shoulders and a nonexistent neck, giving him the mien of a washed-up wrestler. I glance around the room, at the garish red sofa seats, lumpy and fraying at the edges, the haphazard collection of family photos on the mantel, the cobwebs in the corners. The room smells of dust and neglect. Having always seen Deenu Uncle through the tinted lens of a family member, I hadn't realised how cheap and tawdry he really is.

‘If you have come to beg me to allow you to stay in the Rohini flat, you are wasting your time,' he begins the moment I sit down. ‘Unless you can come up with the money, be prepared to move in two weeks.'

For all his faults, my father was a man of uncompromising principles. His younger brother has none. Deenu is a fast-talking, opportunistic shyster without scruples of any kind. He routinely cheats on his taxes, and probably on his fat wife as well.

‘I have brought the full amount,' I inform him, and count out ₹168,000.

He seems more shocked than pleased. ‘How did you manage to raise so much money so quickly?' he says and flashes me a sly grin. ‘Did you rob a bank?'

‘None of your business, landlord,' I respond tartly, shutting him up. ‘And, since we are now paying tenants, we expect you to draw up a proper rental agreement, repair the seepage in the bathroom wall, fix the leaking sink in the kitchen, and give the apartment a fresh coat of paint.'

He gapes at me like a startled monkey. I have never ever spoken to him like this. But, then, it is not I speaking. It is the power of all that money in my hand, giving me a voice, giving me a spine. With a smug smirk of triumph I swagger out of Deenu's house and hail another auto-rickshaw.

*   *   *

By the time I reach home, it is past 7.30 p.m. Mother is in the kitchen, preparing dinner, and Neha is sprawled on the sofa, watching a musical talent contest on Zee TV.

‘How much did the jeweller give you?' Ma wants to know at once. ‘Was it enough?'

‘Enough to pay off our shameless uncle,' I reply. ‘We can now stay here safely for a year.'

‘And what will happen after one year?'

‘We'll deal with it when the time comes.' I drop my handbag on the dining table and flop down next to Neha.

She is so engrossed in the show, she hardly notices me or the shopping bag at my feet. On screen, a willowy contestant is belting out a popular song from the film
Dabangg.
‘I can sing much better than you,' Neha mocks her, ‘and I certainly look much better.'

‘Stop talking to the TV and see what I've got for you,' I instruct her.

Neha turns around and her eyes open wide when she sees what I have withdrawn from the shopping bag: a brand-new Acer laptop.

‘Didi!'
she squeals in delight, and hugs me tightly. ‘You're the greatest.'

Grabbing the laptop from my hands, she begins fiddling with it like a child given a new toy, her face flushed with excitement. Mother gently squeezes my shoulder. ‘Your father would have been so proud of you,' she says, dabbing at her eyes. ‘I have never seen Neha so happy.'

Who will make
me
happy? I feel like asking her, before surrendering to the occasion. For a brief while I am enveloped in the warm glow of family love and everything seems rosy and full of promise. Such moments come rarely these days, and disappear all too quickly. Before long, Ma will grow distant again; Neha will become her usual bitchy self. And despair, heartache and pain, my daily companions, will return to haunt me.

But today at least I can keep them at bay. My mind is still buzzing with all the possibilities unleashed by Acharya's offer, and the house is too small to think in. So I head down to the garden just outside the colony gate. It is not really a garden, just a patch of earth contained by a low brick wall, with a few shrubs and fruit trees scattered around. During the day the neighbourhood kids use it for their cricket matches, causing quite a racket, but at this time of night it is deserted and silent. I park myself on one of the wooden benches. The night air is nippy and the ground is damp beneath my feet. I draw my woollen shawl more tightly around my shoulders, hugging the warmth closer.

I have been sitting for less than a minute when Kishore Kumar begins to serenade me with a song from the film
Amar Akbar Anthony:

My name is Anthony Gonzalves.

I am alone in the world.

My heart is empty, my home is also empty,

In which will live someone very lucky.

Whenever she thinks of me, she should come visit

Palace of Beauty, Love Lane, house number 420!

I feel a warmth in my face, as if a faint flush of crimson has crept into my cheeks. I know that the legendary singer has not returned from the dead. And neither does he live in house number 420. The melodious voice belongs to Karan Kant, resident of apartment B-35.

Karan moved into the LIG Colony a month after we did. Over the last fifteen months he has become much more than a neighbour to me. He is an orphan with no family, and works as a call-centre agent in Indus Mobile, India's third-largest cellular service operator. Though he is twenty-five years old, his boyish looks make him appear five years younger. With his above-average height, perfectly sculpted body, chiselled, clean-shaven face and curly hair, he is easily the most handsome man in Rohini, if not in Delhi. Add to that his crinkly smile and dreamy eyes and it's enough to make schoolgirls swoon. Not just schoolgirls, but even the menopausal housewives in our colony are smitten by him. They find one excuse or another to come to the balcony in the evenings just to catch a glimpse of him returning from work. But Karan seems to have eyes only for me. I do not know what he sees in me. Perhaps he regards me as a kindred spirit. We are both high-potential underachievers, bruised by life, buffeted by fate. Of all the people in the colony, he has chosen me to be his confidante. We are each other's sounding board, staunchest supporter and most honest critic.

It is still too early to give a name to our relationship. Suffice it to say that he is my soulmate, my strength, my rock. Sometimes I look upon him as a brother; at other times as a trusted companion; and once in a while – dare I say it? – as a boyfriend. There is always the vulnerable note of courtship in his actions, though he tries to hide his feelings behind a flippant exterior and acts of buffoonery. He is a hugely talented mimicry artist who can impersonate the voice of just about anyone, from the actor Shahrukh Khan to the cricketer Sachin Tendulkar.

For all his droll playfulness, there is an undercurrent of sadness in his eyes. I have often caught him looking at me with a tortured, haunted expression. At times like these I can almost touch the raw loneliness in his heart, and I bleed in sympathy. He is a true clown, making others laugh while crying silently inside.

‘Why so serious, Madam-ji?' he says as he plonks down next to me.

‘It's been a really crazy day.' I exhale.

‘Did you (a) win a lottery, (b) get robbed, (c) get a job offer or (d) meet a celebrity?' He is mimicking Amitabh Bachchan asking a question on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?.

‘All of the above,' I reply.

He narrows his eyes. ‘Then would you like to phone a friend?'

It seems he has read my mind. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours that I can't keep it bottled up any more. I need to talk it over with someone, get it off my chest. And I can't think of anyone better than Karan. I am mindful of Acharya's stern admonition about maintaining strict confidentiality, but, if I can trust anyone to keep a secret, it is the man sitting next to me. I gaze into his soulful eyes and feel the world come to a standstill. ‘You won't believe what I'm about to tell you.'

I tell him everything, starting with that chance encounter with Acharya in the temple to Deenu Uncle's phone call, the theft of the bangles, the scene in the showroom with Choubey and the final meeting with Acharya in his office resulting in the unexpected windfall of two lakh rupees in hard cash.

Karan listens to me in rapt attention. Then he lets out a long, low whistle. ‘Boy, this is a story for my grandchildren!'

‘So you think Acharya is serious about making me his CEO?'

He chuckles. ‘Are you nuts? This is a scam if I ever saw one. Nobody suddenly offers a complete stranger a tenbillion-dollar company on a platter.'

‘But I researched Acharya. He looks to be above board.'

‘So does every conman before he gets caught. Big Bull Harshad Mehta was hailed as a financial wizard before he brought down the entire stock market.'

‘But what can Acharya hope to get from me? I don't have any money to invest in his company.'

‘Maybe he has a thing for dusky beauties.'

‘He doesn't seem like a lecher. And I'm no Bipasha Basu.'

‘Is there any chance at all that you might be his longlost illegitimate daughter?'

‘Don't be facetious. This is not a Bollywood film.'

‘But I can already visualise the scene.' Karan holds up his hands like a director framing a shot. ‘He calls you to his house late at night. You don't find him there, but you discover his wife lying in a pool of blood. She has been shot dead. And the gun that killed her has your fingerprints on it. Then you realise that all this was part of an ingenious plan to get rid of his wife and pin the murder on you.'

Before his hyperactive imagination conjures up yet another gruesome scenario, I cut him off. ‘Acharya doesn't have a wife. End of conspiracy.'

‘Then there must be some other devious design. It is common knowledge that Acharya loathes his twin brother Ajay Krishna Acharya. Premier Industries is the ABC Group's biggest competitor. What if Acharya is making you a pawn to get to his twin?'

‘Acharya didn't utter a word about his brother. And what am I, a stupid fool who will willingly become someone's pawn?'

‘I'm not blaming you. It is a basic rule of human nature that the promise of unexpected wealth short-circuits both intelligence and common sense. That is why we have all these Ponzi schemes, chit-fund scams, timber-plantation frauds. I see it happen every day in the call centre, with gullible customers sucked into dubious deals floated by fly-by-night telemarketers who always manage to fly the coop before the cops show up.'

‘There's also something called taking a risk. Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.'

‘Did Acharya say this?'

‘It was T. S. Eliot. And
I'm
not even the one taking the risk here: Acharya is. He's the one betting on me. How could I pass up the opportunity of a lifetime? For the first time, I sense a glimmer of hope about my future.'

‘Ha!' he reacts dismissively. ‘Hope is a recreational drug, giving you an artificial high based on a dosage of unrealistic expectations. What you need is a reality check.'

‘And what you need is a dose of sunshine. Why do you always have to be so negative?'

‘Because I care for you, and I have a bad feeling about this, Sapna. You should never have taken Acharya's money.'

‘I had no choice.'

‘I just hope you don't end up regretting it. There's bound to be a quid pro quo. And yet you know nothing about his so-called seven tests. What do they entail? How will they happen? When will they happen?'

‘Yes, I'm also a bit apprehensive about the tests.'

‘Let me tell you a little fable, Sapna. Once upon a time, there was a man who was desperate to be taller. So he prayed to God for twenty years and God finally granted his wish. But there was a condition. God said “I can make you taller, but, for every inch I add, five years will be deducted from your life.” The man agreed. So God made him three inches taller – and the man died instantly. Moral of the story: never enter into a deal without knowing all the facts.'

‘I have no intention of taking any tests. I'll promptly fail the first one. And get to keep the two lakhs. End of story.'