The Accidental Apprentice: A Novel

by Vikas Swarup

  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: ‘CLEAR VISION, DETERMINATION, DISCIPLINE & HARD WORK’.

  ‘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 lea
ther 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.’

  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.