The Accidental Apprentice: A Novel

by Vikas Swarup

  ‘What’s the matter, madam?’ The driver looks at me, concerned.

  ‘Nothing,’ I reply, as the cobwebs of uncertainty begin clearing from my mind. ‘Take me back to the house.’

  ‘Back to the house?’ The driver does a double-take.

  ‘Yes. I am not going to Karnal. I am going back to Kuldip Singh’s house. I think I will attend the wedding after all.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ the driver says with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, and begins reversing the vehicle.

  Fifteen minutes later I am back in the house. Kuldip Singh greets me with surprised delight. ‘Yeh hui na bat. I’m so glad you decided to come back. Tonight you will see what a Haryana wedding celebration really looks like.’

  I am desperate to communicate with Babli, but the ladies of the house insist that I join their sangeet ceremony. So I sit in the front row and pretend to enjoy the songs and dances being performed in the courtyard to the rhythmic beat of a dholak and spoon. The bride is supposed to be present during the ladies’ sangeet, but even after three hours there is no sign of Babli. I make a polite enquiry with Kuldip Singh’s wife, a plump and stern-looking woman.

  ‘Babli has gone to the beauty parlour,’ she tells me.

  ‘Your village even has a beauty parlour?’

  ‘What did you think?’ she smirks, eyes alight with a triumphant glow. ‘We are not as backward as you city people think.’

  It is almost 7.30 p.m. by the time Babli returns, escorted by three older women. As she is crossing the courtyard, our eyes meet for an instant. I can see that she is startled to see me, and a look of fear passes over her face. I smile reassuringly at her, trying to convey that her secret is safe with me. I sense an answer in her glance, as though we have just made a silent pact.

  The beauty parlour has done a good enough job on her. The puffiness around her eyes is gone and the bruise on her cheek has been expertly covered up with makeup. Her hair has been swept into an elaborate bun and her skin shines with a faux glimmer. Dressed in a magenta salvar kameez and matching chunni, she looks like a glowing bride rather than the distraught teenager of the afternoon. It is only the wistful sadness in her eyes that tells me this is all an act.

  After a communal dinner featuring such mouthwatering delights as mooli ke paranthe, kadhi pakoras, jeera chawal and besan pinni, I am ready for bed. Kuldip Singh offers to put me up in a deluxe room in an adjoining house, but I tell him I prefer the guestroom in which I had stayed earlier.

  Once I am inside the room, with the door securely locked, I tiptoe to the other door and put my ear against it, trying to listen in. I can hear muffled sobs coming from within, and a couple of women talking. Babli is obviously not alone.

  I return to bed, turn off the light and wait patiently for Babli’s chaperones to doze off. But a wedding house is like a hospital’s emergency ward, plagued by constant interruptions. Someone is always coming in or going out. Add to that creaking floorboards, mooing cows, howling dogs, clanking chains, clanging pans and a running tap, and it is enough to turn me into a cranky nervous wreck.

  I remain lying in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, trying to get used to the unfamiliar surroundings. At 2 a.m., I get up and peek through the curtains. A deep silence hangs over the courtyard. Not a soul stirs in the compound. The house has finally gone to sleep.

  I tiptoe back to Babli’s door. I know she will still be awake, her mind wound tight like mine. ‘Babli! Babli!’ I whisper urgently. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  Nothing happens for a couple of minutes. Just when I am about to give up, I hear a little scraping sound. It is the latch being carefully pulled down. Then the door opens a few inches, and Babli eases into my room, wearing a silk night suit. In the pale moonlight she looks like a fragile porcelain doll. She shivers momentarily, as a cold breeze blows in from my open window. I hastily draw back the curtains, plunging the room into darkness.

  The air between us is awkward at first, heavy with our unsaid thoughts. I am ready to listen, but Babli is not yet ready to share. She is silent, guarded.

  ‘I had a sister called Alka,’ I disclose. ‘She committed suicide when she was just fifteen.’

  ‘Why?’ Babli asks.

  ‘She was in love with a boy who was a drug addict. We tried to make her break off from him.’

  ‘Is that why you came back? To make me break off from Sunil?’

  ‘No. I came back to tell you that life is very precious. And that we have no right to take life, whether it is someone else’s or our own.’

  ‘Tell that to my father and mother, who have taken away my life.’

  ‘We all get upset with our parents from time to time. But they always have our best interests at heart.’

  ‘Are you married?’ she asks me.

  ‘No,’ I reply.

  ‘Then how will you understand my pain? Tomorrow is not my wedding: it is my funeral.’

  ‘I know you don’t want to marry Badan Singh. Then why don’t you tell this to your father?’

  ‘He’s the one who has got me into this situation. I love Sunil. If I am not able to marry him, I am going to die. Tonight.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Consume a whole bottle of pesticide spray. And when I go up I’m going to ask God, Why can’t we girls live our lives like we want to? Why can’t I marry the man who loves me, the man I love?’

  ‘Did Sunil speak to your parents about wanting to marry you?’

  ‘Of course he did. And my father turned him down. We were going to elope but Bao-ji found out and reported the matter to the khap. Bas, the sky fell upon us. The khap decreed that because Sunil’s gotra is related to my subcaste, marriage between us would be like a marriage between a brother and a sister. From that day I was confined to the house. And Sunil was hounded out of the village, with the threat that if he ever comes back he will be killed. Tell me, didi, did we commit any crime? Why are we made to feel like criminals?’

  ‘Who is this Badan Singh?’

  ‘He is a dirty old man who has always lusted after me. I am convinced he had bribed the head of the khap panchayat to give a verdict against Sunil.’

  ‘Do you have Sunil’s number?’

  ‘No. And I don’t even have a cell phone. The khap has banned cell phones for unmarried girls in our village. I live in a prison, not a house, didi.’

  I nod with a sympathetic grimace. Alka had said the same thing.

  ‘At times I feel that the biggest curse is to be born a girl,’ she continues. ‘The struggle begins even before we are born, and continues till our death. My only wish is to be born a boy in my next life.’

  ‘Don’t be so pessimistic. What if I were to somehow stop this wedding?’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘I can’t tell you right now. But I swear to you on my dead sister’s memory I will not allow this travesty of a marriage to take place.’

  ‘Even God cannot stop this wedding now. Only my death will.’

  Her voice has begun to acquire a definite note of hysteria. I catch her hand and hold it. ‘Promise me, Babli, that you won’t do anything rash tonight. In fact, I want you to bring me that bottle of pesticide.’

  Babli does not speak for a long time, as though she is churning that thought over and over in her head, wrestling with her destiny. Then she ducks under my bed and withdraws a plastic bottle bristling with warning labels: ‘DANGEROUS POISON’, ‘KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN’, ‘CAN KILL IF SWALLOWED’. I had no idea my bedroom was serving as her secret storage facility.

  ‘My life is now in your hands, didi.’ She hands me the bottle with a pleading, plaintive expression. Then, as silently as she entered my room, she returns to her own.

  As I hold the bottle of pesticide in my hands, I am overcome with a powerful feeling of déjà vu. I have been down this trail so many times before, in my mind, in my dreams. What if? That question has dogged me since Alka’s suicide. What if I had not tattled about Alka to Papa? I could not save Alka,
but perhaps I can save Babli. This is a moment of grace, a chance at redemption. I won’t be doing this for Babli. I will be doing it for myself.

  There is only one problem. I have made her a promise but I have no clue how I am going to fulfil it. It is one thing to try to right an old wrong, but how do I conjure up a happy ending from a situation that has all the makings of a tragedy?

  I can only hope that tomorrow will bring the answer.

  * * *

  Chandangarh is a village of early risers. Even before the sun has pushed its way past the horizon, the villagers are out and about, drawing water from the well, milking cows or going for their daily ablutions, like me.

  The concept of en suite bathroom does not exist in Kuldip Singh’s house. The communal toilets are located at the western end of the compound, and they are all Indian style. I also have to carry an overflowing lota, since the toilet tap generates air, not water. This is what I detest about village life. The poor sanitation. Every winter Papa used to take us to Hardoi, his ancestral town, where grandfather had a sprawling house with a mango grove. But my only memory of that house is of the hole in the ground that used to be the squat latrine. And I used to have nightmares of a disembodied hand rising from that orifice, grabbing me and taking me down to the pile of shit.

  After a quick, cold bath, I seek out Kuldip Singh. He is sprawled on a charpoy in a corner of the courtyard, getting a massage from a thin-looking masseuse with knobbly fingers.

  In the centre of the courtyard, workers are constructing the mandap, where the wedding ceremony will be solemnised tonight.

  I hang around my room till the massage is complete and Kuldip Singh has put his vest back on. ‘Can I have a word with you?’ I ask, puffs of air condensing in front of my face.

  ‘Bilkul, of course,’ he says expansively. ‘Come, sit with me here.’ He pats the charpoy.

  I sit down at the edge and broach the subject gingerly. ‘I learnt yesterday that Babli’s groom is Badan Singh-ji…’

  ‘Yes. Badan Singh is the pride of our community. He even owns a rice mill. Babli will live like a queen.’

  ‘But don’t you think the age difference between them is a bit much?’

  ‘Who said so, eh?’ He suddenly tenses up. ‘Has Babli been speaking to you?’

  ‘No … no. I was just curious, that’s all.’

  ‘A man’s age is not important. As they say in our village, “Joban lugai ka bees ya tees, ar bael chaley nou saal. Mard aur ghora kadey no ho burha, agar milley khurak.” A woman remains youthful only till she is twenty or thirty; an ox remains active for nine years; but a man and a horse, if given a good diet, never get old.’

  ‘I just hope Babli is as happy with this marriage as you are.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ he says, stressing ‘is’. ‘You know how girls are. She is sad to be leaving our family. But then a girl is paraya dhan, someone else’s wealth. One day she has to leave the father’s house and go to her husband’s. You’ll also get married someday. If you want I can suggest some good-looking guys from the village.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say, rising from the charpoy.

  ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘I want to visit the Amba Temple.’

  ‘You can go in the Innova.’

  ‘I’d rather walk and get some fresh air.’

  I saunter out of the house, dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. Once I am some distance away, I take out my cell phone and punch in Karan’s number.

  ‘Where are you?’ he wants to know.

  ‘In Chandangarh village in Haryana.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘It’s a long story. For now, I need you to locate someone for me.’

  ‘Who? Your twin brother who got lost in the stampede during the Kumbh Mela?’

  For Karan everything is a joke. But for me it is a matter of someone’s life or death. ‘It is a man called Sunil Chaudhary, who lives in Ghaziabad.’ I read out Sunil’s address. ‘I want you to give me his cell phone number.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Karan says. A couple of minutes later he tells me, ‘You are lucky. Sunil Chaudhary has an Indus mobile. Note down the number.’

  I call up Sunil, only to be confronted with the wall of a prerecorded message. ‘The Indus Mobile number you are trying to reach is currently switched off. Please try after sometime,’ says a female voice. I keep calling his number at two-minute intervals, but fail to get through even once.

  When you are desperately trying to reach someone, the most frustrating thing in the world is a phone that refuses to perform its primary task. Every time I try Sunil, I encounter the woman’s faintly gloating voice, making me want to smack her.

  Finally I dial Madan’s cell phone number, informing him I won’t be able to come to the office today. ‘I’m still stuck in Chandangarh village, with a severe case of diarrhoea.’

  ‘What did you eat?’ he demands.

  ‘Whatever Kuldip Singh gave me. Oh, my stomach is hurting so bad.’ I throw in a throaty groan for effect. ‘You should never have sent me here.’

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry. It’s okay. You get some rest and take pudin hara. I’ll reimburse its cost.’

  I savour the rare pleasure of hearing a guilty undertone in Madan’s supercilious voice. Feeling self-righteous and smug, I head for the Amba Temple, which is only a stone’s throw away. It stands at the edge of a small pond, and contains an ancient statue of an eight-armed Durga. I bow my head before the goddess, asking for strength to fight the battle on Babli’s behalf.

  Fortified by Durga Ma’s blessings, I set out to seize the day. The men are already heading out to the fields or the nearby mills for work; the women are busy making cow-dung patties for cooking fuel.

  As I am leaving the temple precincts, I come across a jeep with a red beacon and a golden inscription on the number plate stating ‘BLOCK DEVELOPMENT OFFICER’.

  The BDO, I know, is an important functionary responsible for formulation and implementation of various government schemes. My eyes light up at this unexpected good fortune. If there is one entity that can get Babli out of this unholy mess, it is the government.

  The BDO turns out to be a middle-aged, turbaned Sikh called Inderjit Singh, sporting an unkempt beard flecked with grey. I tell him about Babli’s plight and seek to enlist his help in resolving the situation.

  He listens to me sympathetically. ‘Look, I don’t know about Babli and Sunil, but there have been several instances of the local khap creating trouble for couples who go against the diktats of the community. In one instance they had the boy forced to drink urine; in another they had him paraded naked through the village.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t you be doing something to stop these inhuman acts?’

  He shakes his head slowly. ‘I cannot do anything in the matter. No one can fight the khap.’

  ‘Even when you know what they are doing is criminal and wrong?’

  ‘Yes. I know some of their pronouncements are anti-poor and anti-women in character,’ he says candidly. ‘But to meddle with the local social hierarchy is to invite trouble.’

  ‘If you won’t help me, who will?’

  ‘Try and understand this is a village, not India Gate, where you can hold protest marches and candlelight vigils. There are no social activists here who can challenge the khap. The men are indifferent, the women cowed down.’

  ‘I’m not cowed down. I’ll challenge the khap. Who is the head of the khap panchayat?’

  ‘It is Sultan Singh. And that is his house.’ He points out a redbrick house in the distance. ‘But, if you think you can reason with him, you are being foolhardy.’

  ‘Perhaps I am. But, as a famous Hindi proverb says, now that I have decided to put my head into the mortar, why fear the pounder?’

  ‘Well, then, good luck to you,’ the BDO says, and drives off in his jeep.

  It takes me a fifteen-minute walk to reach my next destination. Sultan Singh is a wizened old man with the impressively patrici
an air of an old zamindar. He meets me on the porch of his decaying haveli, wearing a black waistcoat and carrying a cane in his gnarled hands. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ he says gruffly, gazing at me with the suspicious eye of a girls’ hostel warden.

  ‘You are the venerable head of the khap panchayat, and the flag bearer of its principles. So I thought I would meet you directly to seek justice for Babli.’

  ‘Babli? Who is Babli?’

  ‘Kuldip Singh’s daughter.’

  ‘Ah, that chhori,’ he says, with a portentous pause. ‘Wa to aafat ki pudiya sai. She is nothing but trouble.’

  ‘You know she loves Sunil. Then why are you condemning her to this loveless marriage with Badan Singh?’

  ‘Don’t you know that Babli is from Jorwal gotra and Sunil from Jaipal gotra? In our village, people from these two subcastes have had a relationship of brotherhood for centuries. So a marriage between these two gotras cannot be sanctioned.’

  ‘Who cares about gotras in this day and age? I don’t even know my gotra.’

  ‘I pity your parents. They didn’t teach you anything about our glorious heritage and traditions.’

  ‘There was a time when sati was also supposed to be part of Hindu tradition. Widows used to be burnt alive on their husbands’ funeral pyres. Hounding people who are in love and killing them is no less reprehensible.’

  ‘Who says we kill people?’ he says heatedly, almost poking me in the face with his cane. ‘This is a canard spread by the lower castes. Our khap has played a positive role in banning dowry and liquor consumption in the village.’

  ‘But you have banned Sunil from entering the village. And now Babli is threatening to commit suicide.’

  ‘Then let her die. No one will shed any tears for her. A dishonourable girl is a blot on a family,’ he says unapologetically.

  ‘So love has no value for you?’