The Accidental Apprentice (27 page)

‘And I thought corporations were callous and unscrupulous, driven solely by the need for profit.'

‘Traditional corporations are. By its very nature, business is supposed to be about hard-headed economic decisions, with no scope for emotion. It is hard-wired to think only about making the most money possible, with no regard for the public good. I started out doing business like that, before realising it was the wrong way. Now value comes first for me, and profit second.' He pauses and looks at me. ‘Do you know who taught me this truth?'

‘Your father?'

‘No. It was Maya, my daughter. She was wise beyond her years. That is why God took her away when she was just twenty-five.'

I walk to the side table and pick out the photo of a teenaged girl sitting in an armchair, her black, slanted eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘Is this her picture?'

‘Yes. I miss her every day.'

I search the girl's face for any features similar to mine, but there's not even a superficial resemblance. Acharya certainly didn't pick me because I looked like his daughter. ‘Her features don't seem typically Indian,' I observe.

‘That's because her mother – my wife – was Japanese.'

‘Where did you meet her?'

‘In Nagasaki. I went to Japan as a student and lived there for ten years. I fell in love with their culture and a girl named Kyoko.'

I pick up another photo, this one of a slender, gentle-looking woman in a kimono. ‘Is this Kyoko?'

He nods. ‘She also died in that air crash with Maya.'

He takes the photo frame from my hands and gazes at the picture longingly. ‘Japanese women are very similar to Indian women. They are gentle, sincere, kind, and devoted to family. Like Indian wives, they understand hierarchy.'

I take it as a subtle hint to me. I have to understand and obey hierarchy.

As he places the photo back on the table, I observe a teardrop escape the side of his eye. It is the first time he has let down his taciturn exterior to reveal his softer side. Despite my reservations about this entire project, I cannot help feeling a twinge of sympathy for him. I can see the ravages of loneliness in his weary eyes, imbuing his face with a certain noble sadness. His monumental egoism, I now realise, is actually a form of defence mechanism to hide his vulnerability. He is still a grieving husband and a distraught father. He has succeeded as a businessman, buying up firms and factories, but all his wealth cannot fill the hole in his heart.

He notices me noticing him and looks away, blushing slightly, as if embarrassed at his own sentimentality. ‘Now that you have seen AK, can you appreciate why I need to keep him at arm's length?' he asks, evidently to change the subject.

‘I must say I found him to be incredibly pushy and rude.'

‘The real problem isn't his rudeness: it's his volatility. Have you ever wondered why the symbol of the Premier Group is a charging bull? It's because AK is exactly that, a rampaging bull. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants.'

‘Is he really that powerful?'

‘It's power that comes from collusion and corruption. Let me share something with you in the strictest confidence. Have you heard of Atlas Investments?'

‘Yes, of course. It's the front company behind virtually every scam.'

‘Well, I have a strong hunch that AK is the mastermind behind Atlas.'

‘What?' My head jerks up sharply. ‘That's a pretty strong accusation.'

‘Obviously I don't have hard evidence, but I have carefully analysed the patterns of Premier Group's investments in recent times and they seem to match the timelines of the scams. Plus, as you have already seen, he seems to be flush with cash. No prizes for guessing where all this money has come from.'

‘Then why isn't action being taken against him?'

‘Because everyone is in this together. To bust him we need clinching evidence of payouts into his secret bank accounts.'

‘There is an elderly lady in our colony, a Gandhian called Nirmala Ben, who is threatening to start a people's revolution to force the government to reveal the identity of the scamster behind Atlas.'

Acharya waves dismissively. ‘Tell her not to waste her efforts on Atlas. The network of payoffs runs so deep, it will require more than a totally transparent analysis of structure ownership to reveal the real culprit. And that's not going to happen in a hurry.'

Just then Rana enters the room carrying a thick folder. He is surprised to see me with Mr Acharya. ‘I brought you the Avantha contract for signing, sir,' he tells the industrialist.

‘Yes, of course,' says Acharya, as if reminded of something important.

Suddenly I feel awkward, standing in the middle of Acharya's bedroom. ‘Can I go now? I would like to catch some of the cricket action at least.'

Acharya gestures to Rana. ‘Will you see that she is dropped back to her house?'

With a displeased scowl, Rana leads me down to the underground garage with space for six cars. There is a BMW, a Mercedes, a Jaguar, a Porsche and, rather incongruously, a Tata Indica.

‘What's the Indica doing in this line-up of luxury imported cars?' I ask Rana.

The scowl on his face deepens. ‘It happens to be my personal vehicle. I don't like taking lifts in other people's cars,' he says coldly, as he summons a uniformed chauffeur.

Two minutes later, I leave the mansion in a Mercedes-Benz, my first ever luxury ride. Stretching my legs and watching the city go by from the tinted windows of the sedan, I feel instantly energised and uplifted. The plush leather seat, the temperature-controlled environment and the soothing voice of Jagjit Singh filtering through the car stereo have something to do with it. But most of all it is the thought that one day this car might actually be mine.

*   *   *

By the time I return to Rohini it is almost 5 p.m. Coincidentally, Karan enters the gates of the colony at the same moment as I do. He sees me alight from the Mercedes, does a double-take, and assumes the stiff posture of a professional soldier. ‘
Ba-adab, ba-mulahiza hoshiyar, Mallika-e-Hindustan aa rahi hain.
With respect, pay attention, be alert, the Empress of India is arriving,' he intones, pretending to be a medieval sentry announcing the arrival of a Mughal queen.

‘
Takhliya,
dismissed,' I reply with suitable hauteur, before breaking into a chuckle.

‘So, is this going to be your usual commute from now on?' He jerks a thumb at the departing Mercedes.

‘I wish. Acharya was just getting me dropped back from his residence in Vasant Vihar.'

He rolls his eyes. ‘What were you doing in his house?'

‘Attending a bizarre meeting,' I say and recount the stormy scene between Acharya and AK.

‘So finally AK is in the picture.' Karan exhales. ‘What did you make of him?'

‘There's obviously some kind of history between the two. “It's strictly business, nothing personal,” AK said, but the truth seems to be the exact opposite. What I saw wasn't business: it was strictly personal.'

‘For all I care they can both go rot in hell,' Karan says. ‘I'm going to watch the match. See you later.'

The courtyard, which is usually bustling with residents, is completely deserted. India is about to bat and the entire colony is glued to its TV sets. As I pass by Nirmala Ben's apartment, I discover a lock hanging on her door, definitely not a good sign.

‘Have you seen Nirmala Ben?' I ask Ma, who is pleasantly surprised to see me come home early.

‘She came to return the scissors she had borrowed from me, telling me she was going away for a while.'

‘Did she tell you where she was going?'

‘No, but she behaved a bit strangely, embracing me as though she wasn't going to return again.'

Dhiman Singh, the colony's guard, confirms my fears. Nirmala Ben was seen leaving the colony at 2 p.m. with a small suitcase and a couple of placards. He has no idea where she has gone, but I have. I immediately hail an auto-rickshaw and tell the driver to take me to Jantar Mantar.

*   *   *

Situated on Parliament Street, Jantar Mantar is an astronomical observatory with instruments in masonry built by Raja Jai Singh II of Jaipur nearly three hundred years ago. These days it is better known as Delhi's Hyde Park, the only place where political parties, ordinary citizens and activist groups are legally allowed to hold a sit-in when Parliament is in session.

The actual protests take place on Jantar Mantar Road, a leafy thoroughfare close to Connaught Place, where people with a grievance converge from all over the country, in the hope of getting a hearing, or at the very least, some media coverage. I generally avoid this chaotic and noisy showroom for our democracy, constantly teeming with slogan-shouting, placard-waving demonstrators. There are some groups who camp on the pavement for weeks on end, virtually making it their second home.

Today, the demonstrators are few and far between. There is a middle-aged couple from Madhya Pradesh, huddled in their makeshift tent. A handmade placard states that they are protesting against police inaction in tracing their teenaged daughter Parvati, missing since 6 January. Next to them is a traders' association demanding that the government impose a blanket ban on the entry of multinational companies and big corporate houses into retail trade. A third group consists of a bunch of students from Delhi University with gas masks, rallying to save the Yamuna River from pollution. And finally there is a lone woman in a white sari, sitting on the dusty pavement against the drab backdrop of a faded bed sheet, which she has fashioned into a banner. ‘I
NDEFINITE HUNGER STRIKE AGAINST CORRUPTION
', declares the banner in red ink. In each of her hands she holds a rectangular placard with wooden handles, one saying ‘U
NMASK
A
TLAS
' and the other ‘S
AVE
I
NDIA
'.

Her eyes light up the moment she sees me. ‘Sapna,
beti,
you have come here to join my protest?'

‘No, Nirmala Ben,' I reply. ‘I have come to take you home.'

‘That I am not doing,' she declares with a firm shake of her head. ‘I told you I will only leave this place when the government assures me that they will expose the people behind Atlas. Otherwise this fast will continue until my death.'

‘Can you see a single person supporting your fast?' I ask in exasperation. ‘You have chosen the worst possible day to protest. Everyone is busy watching cricket.'

‘Some friends of mine from the Durga Pooja Association and the Gujarati Samaj have promised to come.'

‘Then why aren't they here? Why don't you accept the fact that they don't really care for your cause?'

‘It doesn't matter. Once a
satyagrahi
undertakes a fast from conviction, she must stick to her resolve whether there is a chance of her action bearing fruit or not.
Barobar chhe ne?
'

No amount of argument can dissuade Nirmala Ben from abandoning her fast. She is as stubborn as a teenager, reminding me of Alka. Equal parts frustrated and concerned, I sit down beside her, hoping that good sense will prevail upon her in the next few hours.

By 9 p.m. I am beginning to feel the pangs of hunger. I turn to Nirmala Ben. ‘Don't you want to eat something?' I ask.

‘How can I eat during a hunger fast? You go ahead and get some food. I will make do with this.' She takes a bottle of mineral water from her suitcase and gulps down a mouthful.

An hour later a police constable wanders into the area. Rat-faced and corpulent, he looks suspiciously at us. ‘What's all this?' He taps his baton against the placard in Nirmala Ben's hand.

‘It's called a protest,' I reply, the words laced with more sarcasm than I intended.

‘Have you taken permission? Where is your permit?'

‘I didn't know we needed a permit to protest. We are living in a democracy, after all.'

‘Come with me to the Parliament Street police station,' he leers, ‘and I will teach you the mechanics of democracy.'

‘Look son, we don't intend to cause you any trouble,' Nirmala Ben interjects. ‘This is a peaceful protest to make our country a better place.'

‘Listen,
budhiya,
' the constable growls. ‘This is not your private property where you can hang a banner whenever you want. Now show me your permit or I will forcibly evict you.'

‘I will not obtain any permit,' says Nirmala Ben. ‘And I will not budge from here.'

‘Stupid woman, trying to argue with me?' He gnashes his teeth and raises his stick to strike her, when I rush forward and interpose myself between them.

‘Let's resolve this in a civilised way. I will get you the permit tomorrow. Just allow us to stay here tonight. And please accept this little token of our gratitude.' I open my purse and offer him a fifty-rupee note.

He snatches the note from my hands and inserts it into his top pocket. ‘Well, all right. I'll spare you tonight because the entire city is engrossed in the World Cup. But pack up and leave tomorrow,' he says sternly, and walks off jauntily.

‘Why did you bribe that policeman?' Nirmala Ben berates me. ‘This is exactly what I am fighting against.'

‘If I had not bribed that bullying cop he would have hit you.'

‘Then you should have let him hit me.' She smiles. ‘The essence of
satyagraha
is soul force against brute force. That is the only way to wean away such people from the path of hatred and violence.'

I cannot help being drawn in by her loving smile, suffused with kindness and courage. And I realise deep down that we are in this together. I may not believe in her method, but I believe in her cause. And I will walk with her, even if there is no one else who is prepared to follow her.

By now the night has darkened into a sinister black, and I know I have to head home. I do not want to leave Nirmala Ben all alone, but I draw the line when it comes to sleeping on the pavement. Reluctantly, I bid her goodbye and take the last metro back to Rohini.