The Accidental Apprentice (5 page)

‘I am not saying it was you, sir. But what about Raja?'

There is a collective intake of breath. Even I am amazed at my reckless audacity.

‘Are you out of your mind?' Madan goes into an apoplectic fit. ‘Raja-
babu
didn't even come to the shop today.'

‘But I saw him outside the showroom an hour ago, counting a sheaf of notes.'

I can see that Mr O. P. Gulati is troubled by this news. He wrings his hands nervously, biting on his bottom lip, as he weighs up the possibilities. Eventually, paternal affection prevails over his doubts. ‘How dare you make such a scurrilous accusation against my son?' he lambastes me, eyes glittering with anger. ‘One more word and I will dismiss you on the spot.'

I turn silent, knowing that no amount of argument can overcome a father's blind love.

*   *   *

Half an hour later a police jeep arrives bearing Inspector Goswami, a tall, beefy-looking officer, who has been getting a 35 per cent discount from us on all his electronic purchases. He catches hold of the accountant as a butcher grabs a chicken. Choubey goes without protest, without making a scene, as though he has accepted his fate. I watch this travesty of justice unfold before my eyes with a helpless rage. Choubey had been branded a thief simply because he was weak and powerless. And Raja Gulati had got away with embezzlement because he was rich and pedigreed. I feel so nauseated, I want to puke. My entire body shudders with loathing for Raja and his father. I know what happened to Choubey today can quite easily happen to me tomorrow. And, like Choubey, I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. There are only two choices available to the powerless of this world: either accept the abuse or walk away, only to suffer the same abuse from some other powerful person.

Acharya was right. The world is indeed divided into winners and losers. People like the Gulatis are the winners and folk like Choubey and me the losers.

Life pivots on a few key moments. This is one of them. Slowly but surely a knot of resolve hardens inside my stomach. I open my handbag and fish out the visiting card Acharya has given me. That little warning bell inside my head begins trilling again, but I am past caring. A loser has got nothing to lose. I take a deep breath, and then dial the number on the card from my cell phone.

A carefully modulated female voice answers the phone. ‘You have reached the ABC Group. How may I assist you?'

‘I would like to speak to Mr Vinay Mohan Acharya.'

‘May I know who is calling?'

‘Sapna Sinha.'

I expect her to ask ‘Sapna who?' and be passed around a dozen departments, but instead she says, ‘Please hold on, ma'am,' and almost immediately Acharya comes on the line, as though he was waiting for my call.

‘I'm glad you called,' he says.

‘I've decided to accept your offer.'

‘Good,' he says simply. There is no triumphal sniggering or I-told-you-so gloating. ‘Meet me in my office at six p.m. sharp. The address is on the business card.'

‘But my work doesn't get over until—' I begin, only to be cut off by Acharya. ‘Six p.m.,' he repeats, and that's the end of the conversation.

I look at the address on the card. The ABC Group's headquarters are at Kyoko Chambers on Barakhamba Road, not far from Connaught Place. I look at the time. It is 3.15 p.m. I have less than three hours to prepare for the meeting that could change my life.

Madan, our tyrant boss, is notorious for not allowing employees to leave before time. And, today being Saturday, permission to leave early is ruled out – unless I can come up with a plausible excuse.

At 5.30 p.m. I approach Madan with a despondent look. ‘Sir, my sister just called. My mother's had another asthma attack. I need to take her to the hospital. Can I leave right now?'

The manager scrunches up his face like he just smelled something bad. ‘We are already short of a cashier. I cannot be short of a salesgirl too.'

‘But if something happens to Ma…' I let the implication hang in the air. In the Indian pantheon, Mother is the highest ideal, next only to God. Even Madan dare not risk the opprobrium of rendering an employee motherless. ‘Go, then,' he says resignedly, caving in to my emotional blackmail.

Ten minutes later I am sitting in an auto-rickshaw, on my way to Barakhamba Road. I am still wearing my office uniform of white blouse and red skirt, having decided against the comfortable but casual salvar kameez. I am going for a business meeting after all, not a family reunion.

*   *   *

Kyoko Chambers turns out to be an impressive fifteen-storey building with an all-glass façade. The security there is like that of a government facility. There are private guards patrolling the entrance and I have to put my bag through a screening machine to go inside. The foyer resembles an elegant hotel lobby, with an enormous crystal chandelier under which sits a huge bronze sculpture of Nandi the Bull, the ABC Group's corporate symbol. A tall man, dressed in a dark suit and red tie, is waiting for me at the reception. It takes me a moment to recognise him as Rana, Acharya's right-hand man.

‘Why so much security?' I enquire.

‘It is necessary. There are rivals keen to steal our secrets,' he responds curtly, and escorts me to an elevator, which whisks us soundlessly to the fifteenth floor.

I step into a dramatic atrium with Roman columns, a 20-foot waterfall, and a glass-domed ceiling refracting the dusk spreading in the evening sky. Rana leads me past mahogany double doors into a brightly lit room that looks to be a front office. The place is all marble and mosaic. The walls are painted a mottled gold and the gilded décor is reminiscent of an opulent Parisian salon, with large murals, thick-pile carpeting and bronze statuary. Another sculpture of Nandi the Bull, this one gold-plated, guards the entrance to Acharya's private suite.

I am surprised to see a blonde white woman sitting behind the desk.

‘This is Jennifer, Mr Acharya's private secretary,' Rana says by way of introduction.

‘You must be Sapna,' she says, standing up and offering her hand. Her accent is just like Lauren's, so I assume she is American. Probably in her late twenties. The first thing I notice about her is her height: she must be at least five foot ten, towering over me like a telephone pole. Her startlingly blue eyes are framed behind rectangular, clear glasses, and her shoulder-length, fluffy blonde hair is magazine-ready. In her stylish blue blazer, worn over a cream-coloured buttoned shirt and grey trousers, she looks like a cross between a well-groomed CNN newsreader and a high-class hooker.

She appraises me like a mistress confronted by the wife. Her cool, sweeping glance is half curious, half condescending. I take an instant, instinctual dislike to her.

The wall clock shows the time as 5.58 p.m. I cool my heels for another two minutes till a buzzer sounds on Jennifer's desk. ‘Mr Acharya will see you now.' She gives me a thin smile and ushers me into his private chamber.

The sanctum sanctorum is even more impressive, with a boardroom table, bookcases filled with books, and a wall-mounted big-screen TV displaying the market rates of stocks. The furniture looks solid, the carpets expensive.

My eyes are drawn to the massive golden head of a woman watching over the boardroom table. From her large bulging eyes, I recognise it as one of those monumental fibreglass sculptures of Ravinder Reddy I had seen in the National Gallery. The original oil paintings on the mahogany-covered walls also seem familiar. There are horses by Husain, cows by Manjit Bawa, and a cubist rendition of a nude, which might have been painted by Picasso himself. If Acharya's aim in calling me to his office was to overawe me, he has succeeded admirably.

He himself sits on a thronelike chair behind an antique, horseshoe-shaped desk, overlooking a large bay window. In his pinstripe suit, with a pink silk handkerchief jutting out of his breast pocket, he looks every inch the corporate tycoon he is. If further proof is needed, it is provided by the wall behind him, which is covered with framed professional photographs of him hobnobbing with all manner of international luminaries from Pope John Paul II and the Dalai Lama to Bill Clinton and Nelson Mandela. I cannot shake off the feeling of being in a cosy private museum, Acharya's memorial to himself.

‘So how do you like my office?' he asks, gesturing that I should sit down.

‘It's very nice.' I nod, sinking into a plush leather chair opposite him. Only then do I notice the wooden plaque on his desk. It bears the inscription: ‘C
LEAR
V
ISION
, D
ETERMINATION
, D
ISCIPLINE
& H
ARD
W
ORK
'.

‘These are the core values which guide our endeavours in the ABC Group.' He taps the plaque. ‘I would expect you to hold the same values when you become its CEO.'

‘You mean
if
I become CEO.'

‘That depends entirely on you. As chairman, my task is simply to select the right person and set the right direction. I am convinced you are the best person for this company. But you must also feel the same way. Remember, the first step to achieve success is that you must really want it.' He drops his eyelids, as though recollecting something, and quotes a verse in perfect Sanskrit:
‘Kaama maya evayam purusha iti. Sa Yatha kaamo bhavati tat kratur bhavati. Yat kratur bhavati tat karma kurute. Yat karma kurte tad abhisam padyate.'

I am familiar with the verse. It is from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. ‘You are what your deep, driving desire is. As your desire is, so is your will. As your will is, so is your deed. As your deed is, so is your destiny.'

‘I've never really believed in destiny,' I respond.

‘But destiny may believe in you,' he rejoins.

‘Then let's get this over with. I suppose you'll need me to sign that undertaking.'

‘That's right. Let me call Rana.' He presses a buzzer and Rana enters the room, bearing a leather folder. He sits down next to me and hands me a sheet of paper. It's the same form I had seen last time.

‘Before you sign it, I need to know if you have discussed my offer with anyone,' Acharya says.

‘No,' I reply. ‘I haven't spoken to anyone about this.'

‘Not even with your mother and sister?'

‘No. But why all this secrecy?'

‘Well, as you can see, my methods are a bit … ah, unconventional. I don't want my shareholders getting needlessly twitchy. Complete confidentiality is a necessity when going about such things. You must not utter a word about our arrangement to anyone.'

‘I won't.' I nod. ‘And what's this clause about not being allowed to terminate the contract mid-period?'

‘It simply means that the contract remains in force till all seven tests have been completed. You cannot quit in between.'

‘But what if I fail any of those tests?'

‘Then I terminate the contract, not you.'

‘Please sign at the bottom,' Rana says, offering me a pen.

‘Before I sign, I also want something.'

Acharya frowns. ‘What?'

‘I want double.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘According to this contract, you are to pay me a sum of one lakh rupees to participate in the tests. I am asking for two lakhs.'

‘And what makes you think I will agree to your demand?'

‘In life you don't get what you deserve: you only get what you negotiate. Isn't this what you told me in the Coffee House? Well, I'm only following your advice. I'm negotiating with you.'

‘Touché!' Acharya claps grudgingly. ‘You are a fast learner. But in order to negotiate you need to have leverage of some kind. Do you have a choice in this case?'

‘I could ask you the same question. Do you have a choice? A better candidate?'

‘I like your spunk.' Acharya nods. ‘But why do you need so much money?'

‘I have some urgent family commitments.'

Acharya gazes out of the bay window, brooding over my demand. From his vantage point, like an eagle on his perch, he can see Lutyens's Delhi spread out below him. There is something magical and mystical about seeing a city from a high-rise, far from the soot and dust of the concrete jungle, the heat and noise of the road. I crane my neck to catch a view of the capital. All I can see is a shimmering ribbon of glitter draped across the horizon, blurring the boundary between earth and sky.

After a few tension-filled minutes, Acharya finally looks up and nods as if arriving at a decision. ‘Rana, give her two lakhs.'

Rana gives me a dirty look and exits the room.

I turn to Acharya. ‘Can I ask you a question?'

‘By all means.'

‘Why didn't you consider Rana for the job you are offering me? After all, he is your trusted confidant.'

‘For the same reason that I don't take investment tips from my barber,' he says, leaning back in his chair and fiddling with a crystal Ganesha paperweight. ‘To use a cricketing analogy, Rana is a good all-rounder, but would make a poor captain. He doesn't have the mindset of a leader. He can never sit here.' He taps his chair. ‘But you can, provided you succeed in my seven tests.'

‘Your tests are making me apprehensive.'

‘Don't be. My tests are not so much about passing or failing, as about discovering yourself. Through each of the seven tests you will gain practical wisdom of running a business in the real world.'

‘It reminds me of those ancient tales of kings who set tests for their children to decide who amongst them should inherit the crown.'

‘My inspiration is more modern. I despise the feudal culture of inheritance. Of spoilt rich kids getting everything handed to them through hereditary succession. I am a self-made man and I have created a culture of achievement in the ABC Group. You have to fight for your dreams, earn your place in the company.'

Running a company was never my dream, I feel like telling him, when Rana returns. He plunks down a manila envelope in front of me. ‘There is two lakhs inside. Check the cash.'