The Accidental Apprentice (16 page)

Right now, I need the balm of friendship and no one can provide it better than Lauren. In just eighteen short months she has become a cherished part of my life. Our bond was forged in the crucible of tragedy. She was the one who witnessed Papa's accident and brought him to the hospital.

*   *   *

When we first arrived in New Delhi in March 2009, Papa rented a small flat in RK Puram, and we tried to build a new life around the nucleus of South Delhi. I applied for the MA English course in Jawaharlal Nehru University, Neha the BA course in Kamala Nehru. For a while it looked as if we had succeeded in overcoming the ordeal of the past, but it was an illusion. Papa just wasn't the person he used to be. Gone was the swagger and arrogance of old. He had become a trembling morass of regret and self-pity. In fact, within one month of relocating to Delhi, his right hand, the one he had used to slap Alka, developed a mild form of paralysis. He did find a job as a maths teacher in a school in Vasant Kunj, but he couldn't teach any more. Guilt had made him hollow from inside. He was virtually sleepwalking through life. And he died the only way a sleepwalker can die: in a senseless hit-and-run accident.

Delhi has more cars than Mumbai, Kolkata and Chennai combined, which means there is a greater chance of meeting with an accident on Delhi roads than in any other city in India. If a Blue Line bus won't get you, a BMW surely will. My father was killed by a speeding truck just outside the Deer Park in South Delhi, close to midnight on 8 June 2009. He was trying to cross the road, when the truck knocked him over and ran over him. What he was doing at the Deer Park, so far away from home, so late at night, we have not been able to figure out to this day. And neither has the murderous truck driver been caught.

Lauren happened to be driving out of the nearby Indian Institute of Technology at almost the same time, as her then boyfriend was a professor in the Chemical Engineering Department. She saw Papa lying on the side of the road in a pool of blood. Several cars passed by the busy crossing but not one stopped to help Papa. It was Lauren who loaded our profusely bleeding father into her Maruti 800 and took him to the emergency ward of Moolchand Hospital. Apparently, Papa was conscious for a while, but the only thing Lauren heard him mumbling was what sounded like ‘
hiran
' – ‘deer' in Hindi. Perhaps he was trying to convey what he was doing at the Deer Park. We never got a chance to query Papa about it, as he went into a coma shortly after being brought to the hospital. He remained in the ICU for three days, but did not regain consciousness. On 12 June, he passed away.

Alka's death had devastated us psychologically; Papa's death devastated us financially as well. He was the sole breadwinner in the family. With his death, the burden fell on me, the eldest daughter. It completely changed the trajectory of my life. I had to quit studies and start looking for a job.

Though Papa wanted me to become a civil servant, my dream growing up was always to be a writer. So I applied for the post of assistant to the editor in a leading publishing house. To my surprise, I got the job. The editor was more impressed with my amateur poetry collection than with my first-class first degree in English Literature. But the pay they offered was a mere ₹9,000, even less than what a government peon gets these days. Reluctantly, I had to put paycheque before passion.

After a series of temping jobs, I finally found more permanent employment at Gulati & Sons. From an aspiring writer I became a sales clerk. It was painful making the transition from Tennyson to televisions, Fitzgerald to fridges. But the plan was to use this as a stopgap job till I found something better, more suited to my tastes. It's been over a year now, and I have yet to find that something better.

Lauren is the only person I can discuss literature and poetry with. A postgraduate from Vassar, she has an intellectual wit and a passion for the arts. Whenever we meet for coffee to swap thoughts and book recommendations, the fourteen-year difference in our ages just melts away. She says that, like Columbus with America, she came to India by mistake. ‘For my PhD thesis, I had an opportunity to do a field study on a grant,' she told me. ‘I chose to do the study in Nepal, but my air ticket was via India. I initially planned to transit for just two days. I've been here now for fifteen years. And I don't think I'll ever go back. I'm completely under the spell of this amazing country, which only adds, which never subtracts.'

The house Lauren lives in is as interesting as she is. Located close to the Qutub Minar, it is an old, half-ruined
haveli
that used to be the residence of the nawab of some princely state. Even though the plaster is crumbling, the antiquated furniture stained and scuffed, and the carpets so threadbare you can see right through to the floorboards, the place has character. The magnificent crystal chandeliers and lofty ceilings attest to its former splendour. And Lauren has spruced up the front walkway garden and covered the paved patio with bougainvilleas and jasmine to create a warm and welcoming ambience. It is a safe haven for anyone who enters its trellised front gate, especially the homeless and abused children who are the primary focus of the RMT Asha Foundation, Lauren's charity, which she started eight years ago with funds provided by the billionaire industrialist Ram Mohammad Thomas, himself a former street kid. Today, the Foundation supports more than a thousand children, providing them with shelter, education and a loving environment where they can grow up with dignity and pride. Above all, infusing them with hope –
asha.

Despite being the host of a New Year party, Lauren is dressed in her usual no-nonsense style. Her dirty-blonde hair is tied sternly back. She wears an embroidered phulkari shawl over her white kurti and denim jeans and her trademark kolhapuri slippers. Her exuberant hazel eyes light up when they see me. She greets me on the steps of the patio with a warm hug and a kiss on both cheeks.

Inside the spacious drawing room there is a crackling fire and beer on tap. There are close to forty guests, mostly Indian, with a sprinkling of foreigners. The women wear big bindis, the men sport straggly beards. All are dressed uniformly in cotton Fabindia kurtas, faded jeans and cloth sling bags. They are part of what is referred to as the jholawala or NGO crowd. They are the passionate advocates at environmental meetings, the colourful presence at social development forums, the audacious hecklers at official press conferences and the placard-wielding protesters at global summits.

‘Meet James Atlee,' Lauren says, introducing me to a tall Britisher with shaggy blond hair and striking blue eyes. From the way James slides a proprietary arm around her waist, I surmise he is her current boyfriend. I am envious of the way Western women find love so easily. James is Lauren's third boyfriend in eighteen months, proof also that they fall out of love equally quickly.

‘So, are you also trying to save the world?' I ask him.

‘That's Lauren's field.' He smiles. ‘I'm just trying to save some companies.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning that I'm a brand consultant.'

‘I've never met a brand consultant before.'

‘We are the chaps who help organisations build, manage, change or revive their brand image. In simple terms, we help create a company's unique identity, at times even its name and logo.'

I nod my head in impressed agreement. ‘So where do you work? London?'

‘I used to, but now I live in New Delhi. I'm on a one-year contract with Indus Mobile, helping redesign their corporate image. They're flush with money, and are planning a major expansion.'

‘Oh, a friend of mine works at Indus, Karan Kant. Do you know him?'

‘What does he do?'

‘He's a call-centre agent.'

‘In that case I wouldn't have met him. I deal only with top management, Mr Swapan Karak, the owner, in particular.'

After chatting with James, I move on to the other guests. A bearded, bespectacled man accosts me, waving a brochure for the RMT Asha Foundation in my face. ‘Do you also work for Lauren?'

‘No. She's a friend.'

‘Then tell me, how is she able to afford this magnificent place?'

‘Pardon me?'

‘According to this brochure, she is a trustee of the Foundation. But the first rule for a trustee is that she cannot derive any benefit from the trust. I can smell the stink of corruption coming from the Foundation.'

His own breath stinks of too much whisky. I excuse myself politely and walk away from him. A drunk I can tolerate, but not an ingrate abusing the hospitality of this house.

I make idle conversation with a couple of other guests but I'm only going through the motions. I do not have anything in common with these people. And small talk bores me. Besides, something is making me uneasy. I know it is the ring secreted in my handbag. ‘I'm not feeling too well,' I say, making my apologies to Lauren. ‘Perhaps I should go home. Can you call me an auto?'

She is understanding, as usual. ‘I wouldn't advise taking an auto at this time of night. I'll get Shantanu to drop you.'

Shantanu is Lauren's devoted chauffeur, who has been with her for the last eight years. A thin, lanky man in his forties, he takes me home in Lauren's battered Maruti 800 of 1999 vintage. As we are passing through Hauz Khas, the sky suddenly lights up with fireworks, signifying that midnight is upon us.

‘Happy New Year, madam!' Shantanu says, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

‘To you too. May all your dreams come true in the New Year.'

‘Don't waste your wishes on me. I have stopped dreaming dreams.'

‘Why?'

‘If you keep a dream for a long time, it gets rust. And nothing is more dangerous than rusted dreams. It poisons the heart.'

‘What was your dream?'

‘To own my own garage. But it will never happen. I will never earn enough money to afford it. That garage is rusted now. Like my brain.' His voice catches in his throat, choked by the bitter juice of disappointment and defeat.

For a second I am tempted to take out the ring and gift it to Shantanu right then and there. He can buy ten garages with it. But the little bell in my head is going, ‘No! No! No!' warning me that the ring does not belong to me. And I have never really lived by the dictum of ‘finders keepers'. I am simply a trustee of the ring. And the first rule for a trustee is that she cannot derive any benefit from the trust.

*   *   *

In the first golden light of the New Year, I examine the ring again. Like a magic spell that has worn off, it does nothing for me this time. I look deep into its facets, but it remains just a shiny piece of rock. I am tempted to show the ring to Neha, sleeping peacefully in her bed, before junking the idea. It is a guilty secret that I dare not share with anyone, not even Karan.

Various impossible plans flash through my brain. I can throw the ring into the Yamuna River, à la
Titanic.
I can sell it to a shady jeweller and give the proceeds to Lauren's charity. I can smuggle it into Madan's pocket and frame him for robbery. All I know is that I don't want to return it to Priya Capoorr. The actress has lost her right to it after the way she treated me.

Rosie Mascarenhas calls the store four times during the day, enquiring if we were able to locate the ring. Madan cannot keep up the pretence any longer. ‘No, madam,' he informs her, ‘we have not found it, and I don't think we will find it.'

On Monday, 3 January, I do something audacious. I actually wear the ring when going to work in the metro. It is an act of calculated defiance. I rotate my wrist, bite my nails, wave my hand, to let the rush-hour crowd know I'm wearing a two-crore bauble. I want them to notice the size and sparkle of the diamond, to hear their oohs and aahs, but I get no reaction at all. No one takes the slightest notice of me or the diamond on my finger. That is when it hits me. People don't realise I am wearing a diamond. They think it's a cheap cubic zirconia ring, the type you can pick up in Janpath for a few hundred rupees. They know that someone with a real diamond does not travel in the metro. A bitter smile crosses my lips at the irony of it all. Even if I wear a real diamond, people will think it is a fake. And, even if Priya Capoorr wears a fake diamond, people will think it is real. We never really see things as they are. Just as beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, value lies in the beholder's mind.

Rosie Mascarenhas calls again today, but rather half heartedly. By the middle of the week she stops calling entirely. To all intents and purposes, Priya is resigned to the ring's loss; it is mine to keep for ever. But the longer I keep the ring, the more it oppresses me. The diamond has become kryptonite, sapping my strength, giving me the blues. I can sense that the time has come to part with it.

I manage to obtain Rosie Mascarenhas's number from Madan's telephone book and call the PR manager in Mumbai. ‘I think I may have found the ring.'

‘I don't believe it!' she gasps. ‘I'm flying to Delhi straightaway to get it.'

‘Not you. I will give it only to your boss.'

‘Now that's not—'

‘Listen.' I cut her short. ‘Either Priya comes to my house at seven a.m. tomorrow, or the ring goes into the Yamuna. The choice is yours.'

*   *   *

At 6.45 a.m. on 7 January, a black BMW pulls up at the gate of the LIG Colony. Priya Capoorr has arrived fifteen minutes early. Most of the residents are still asleep, including Neha. The actress who steps into my drawing room is very different from the one who visited the store. Instead of the preening diva, I see a distressed fiancée, devastated by loss. She has come alone, without her makeup man and hairdresser and PR manager. She is nervous and jittery, biting her nails in suspense, fumbling with the cell phone in her hand as she sits on the sofa. She looks as if she has been crying: her face is blotchy and tear-streaked. Her hair is a mess. It is obvious she has fallen off the wagon. No wonder the guard at the front gate did not even recognise her.