by Vikas Swarup
‘Look, Inspector sahib,’ I try again. ‘This is a simple case of a boy and a girl deeply in love, both adults, who want to marry. Instead of threatening them, you should be helping them.’
‘Nothing is simple in life, and definitely not in marriage,’ he says. ‘You keep out of it, otherwise I’ll also put you in with the boy as an accomplice to kidnapping.’
All our pleas fall on deaf ears. This wanton abuse of authority fills me with disgust. I feel the impotent rage of the powerless, denied their rights by an arrogant, arbitrary dictator. That is when I remember Shalini Grover. Taking advantage of the inspector’s preoccupation with Sunil and Babli, I scurry into the ladies’ toilet and quickly dial the investigative reporter on my cell phone. ‘Shalini,’ I whisper to her, ‘you were investigating the case of a couple murdered on the diktats of a khap. I’m at Chandangarh police station, where a young couple might be murdered right now for going against the khap. Can you come here immediately? Only you can save them.’
‘I’m still in Panipat,’ Shalini says, pouring cold water on my hopes. ‘There’s no way I can reach Chandangarh quickly enough.’
By the time I leave the toilet, Ram Kumar has already made his calls. An Innova screeches to a halt outside the police station and Kuldip Singh strides in, accompanied by Badan Singh and a posse of half a dozen male family members, all carrying rifles. He gives me a withering look and goes straight to the inspector. I see some cash exchanging hands and realise that for SI Varma this was a business opportunity.
Having paid off the inspector, Kuldip Singh grabs Babli by her hand. ‘Come with me this very instant. Even a whore does not bring the kind of shame you have brought upon our family.’
Babli somehow frees herself from her father’s grip and ducks under the inspector’s wooden desk. As Kuldip Singh bends down to catch her, she entwines herself with one of the legs of the table. ‘I will not go. You will have to cut me down if you want to take me,’ she cries.
‘Then we will cut you down, bitch, and throw the pieces in the Yamuna,’ Badan Singh declares as he, too, joins Kuldip Singh in trying to pull Babli away.
‘I must say the girl has dum,’ says the head constable, as he squats on the floor to get a better view of the tussle.
‘Help her,’ I urge Ram Kumar, when Sultan Singh walks into the room. The head of the khap panchayat is interested only in Sunil. ‘So you have dared to come back?’ he asks with a theatrical swish of the cane in his hands. ‘Now we’ll show you what happens to those who violate our sacred traditions.’
He has not come alone: there are at least fifty of his supporters who surround the police station, chanting, ‘Death to those who defy the khap!’ It is a lynch mob that will have no hesitation in tearing Sunil, Babli and me from limb to limb. Like those mindless zombies in B-grade horror movies, they cannot be stopped, they can only be appeased.
From this point on, events proceed with the inevitability of a Greek tragedy. Babli is finally pulled out from under the table. She screams and claws at the floor, as Badan Singh and Kuldip Singh drag her towards the door. The inspector hands over Sunil to the lumpens of the khap. ‘Go and do whatever you want with him. I’m washing my hands of this entire mess.’
Sultan Singh twirls his cane in glee. ‘We’ll finish him off right now.’
‘Take my advice and do it on the other side of the river. Then it will fall under the jurisdiction of Bhojpura thana, and will become the U.P. police’s headache,’ the inspector advises chillingly.
‘Sunil!’ Babli cries, making a last-ditch effort to break free from her father’s grasp.
‘Babli!’ Sunil tries to reach for her, as he is bundled into a blanket and kicked repeatedly by Sultan Singh’s goons. The inspector and his constables watch all this with a calm detachment, as though this were a roadside tamasha. I feel like retching.
It is Ram Kumar, the head constable, who brings the focus on me. ‘What about her, sir?’ he asks, jerking his head at me. ‘She looks like a real troublemaker to me.’
The inspector sighs, his manner implying that he considers me a needless complication he has to deal with. ‘What exactly is your interest in this whole affair? Are you Babli’s teacher or Sunil’s sister?’
‘Neither,’ I reply. ‘I am just a public-spirited citizen trying to help them.’
‘I don’t know too many public-spirited salesgirls. You seem more like one of those nosy journalist types. Which newspaper do you belong to? Is it Punjab Kesari or is it Jag Bani?’
‘I am not a journalist. I’m only—’
Varma cuts me off. ‘Do you know what we do to troublesome journalists? We encounter them.’ Then, just like that, he slaps me.
I am more stunned than insulted. This is the first time in my life someone has slapped me. ‘How can you…?’ I begin, blood rising in my cheeks, when he raises his hand again. ‘Shut your trap or worse will follow. Ram Kumar, take her into custody.’
‘On what charge?’ I demand.
‘Oh, there is no dearth of charges. We could recover drugs from your handbag, book you for criminal conspiracy, arrest you for a hate crime, or even indict you for prostitution.’
My body literally goes limp as I hear these words. Just as my vision begins to turn grey and blackness surrounds me from all sides, the deafening silence in my head is broken by the sound of distant sirens, several of them, coming closer and closer. It seems like the Prime Minister’s motorcade is passing by the village.
The convoy comes to a stop directly in front of the police station. There is the sound of car doors opening and then an important-looking politician wearing a bandgala troops in from the door accompanied by half a dozen uniformed police officers and bureaucrats in wrinkle-free suits.
A mystified Sub-Inspector Inder Varma snaps to attention. Head Constable Ram Kumar is too flustered even to salute, seemingly overwhelmed by the sight of so much top brass in one room.
‘Arrest them,’ the politician directs, and a police officer wearing a national emblem with a silver star on his epaulettes produces a pair of handcuffs.
‘What – what h-happened, sir?’ Inder Varma stammers as the handcuffs are closed on his wrists.
‘Are you aware of the live spectacle that has been going on the Sunlight TV channel for the last half-hour?’ another senior police officer blasts him. The three stars on his epaulettes identify him as a Deputy Inspector General of Police. ‘The whole country has seen you terrorising an innocent boy and girl, allowing the khap to take the law into its own hands, and browbeating a good Samaritan by framing false charges against her. You are a blot on the police force.’
‘Live coverage? Sunlight? But sir, there are no TV cameras here.’ Varma quickly looks left and right.
The DIG walks up to me and gently withdraws the cell phone that is peeping out from the top pocket of my coat, with the camera facing outwards. ‘I don’t think we need the live broadcast any more.’ He switches it off, before returning it to me.
Varma’s eyes pop out as the penny finally drops. I flash him a cheeky smirk. Once I realised Shalini was not going to make it, I decided to become an undercover journalist myself. Using my cell phone, I started secretly recording all that was happening in the police station, with the video feed going directly to Sunlight TV’s website.
What follows next is reminiscent of the scripted ending of a Bollywood movie. SI Inder Varma and Head Constable Ram Kumar are taken into custody. The frenzied crowd outside is lathi – charged and dispersed. Sultan Singh runs for cover with his tail between his legs. And Kuldip Singh has an instant change of heart, deciding that the best match for Babli will be Sunil.
As I watch the joyous bride and groom perform the seven rounds around the sacred fire that night, I cannot resist looking up at the sky. I wink at Alka, and whisper, ‘Kamaal ho gaya. Something amazing happened today!’
* * *
I arrive back in Delhi the next morning, driven in Kuldip Singh’s Toyota Innova all the way to my residence. After a quick shower and chan
ge of clothes, I’m off to work and the daily grind.
‘You don’t look sick at all.’ Madan eyes me suspiciously the moment I step into the showroom.
‘Thanks to pudin hara.’
After all that has happened yesterday, the return to the humdrum world of dishwashers and microwaves feels like a weary plod. But I’d rather sell TVs than risk getting slapped by a psycho cop.
That afternoon I get a call from Shalini Grover. ‘Hats off, Sapna. You really pulled it off. You were incredible,’ she gushes.
‘I couldn’t have done it without you,’ I reply. ‘It was you who taught me how to log onto the Sunlight TV website.’
‘Look, I also do a column in the Daily Times. For my next column, I want to do a feature on you. You are an inspiration to Indian women.’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I don’t want my fifteen minutes of fame. It’ll only make people jealous, and goons from the khap panchayat may make me a target.’
‘Yes, that is a danger,’ Shalini admits. ‘How about if I do the piece without using your real name?’
‘That should be okay,’ I say doubtfully, still not fully reconciled to the idea.
‘What name should I use for you?’
‘How about Nisha?’
‘Sounds good. But why Nisha?’
‘Don’t you see? It’s a perfect anagram for Sinha!’
* * *
Two days later I get a call from Rana. ‘Mr Acharya wants to see you today. Come to the office at six p.m. Don’t be late.’
A knot of apprehension forms in my gut. I get so flustered I can’t even think of a new excuse. So I just go with the old one when I approach Madan in his manager’s cubicle. ‘Sir, my mother has had a relapse. I have to rush her to hospital again.’
Madan throws up his hands in exasperation. ‘This is getting tiresome. Why don’t you put your mother permanently in hospital? If you have to leave early every other day, I will be forced to terminate your employment.’
‘Look, I’ll put in extra hours next week. But I have to go right now.’
This mollifies the manager somewhat and his threatening attitude turns to sullen acceptance. At 5.45 p.m., I am on my way to Kyoko Chambers once again.
Rana meets me in the lobby and Jennifer ushers me into Acharya’s office promptly at six.
‘Congratulations!’ The businessman greets me with a warm smile.
‘Congratulations on what?’
‘On passing the first test.’
‘What test?’
‘The test of leadership.’
‘I’m afraid this is making no sense to me.’
‘Look at this.’ Acharya picks up the newspaper lying on his desk. It is today’s issue of the Daily Times. He jabs a finger at Shalini’s article titled ‘LOVE IN THE TIME OF KHAP’. ‘Have you seen this piece?’
I nod.
‘I know you are the heroine of this story.’
‘What makes you say that? The article is about a call-centre operator called Nisha.’
‘There’s no need to pretend with me. The DIG who visited you in Chandangarh police station is the son of an old friend of mine. He’s told me everything. And I’ve also spoken to Sunil and Babli.’
‘How did you even know I went to Chandangarh?’
‘I found out from the showroom. Look, Sapna, it’s not important how I know. What’s important is that you passed the first test. If you wanted to, you could have walked away from it all, left Babli to her fate. But you chose to take responsibility for doing what was right. You decided to fight an injustice even when the odds were stacked against you. In my book, that qualifies you as a leader.’
‘I didn’t know this was a test set by you.’
‘Not by me: by life. What did I tell you? That life tests us every day by forcing us to make choices. You made the right choices in that village. You showed real leadership.’ He drops the newspaper in his lap and rubs the top of his forehead. ‘Leadership is the one competency that cannot be learnt in management school. A manager is trained to do things right; a leader does the right things. It is not a matter of training and preparation, but one of instinct and conscience.’
‘Look, Mr Acharya, just because I helped Babli, it doesn’t mean I’ve become a great leader. I’m just an ordinary salesgirl.’
‘That’s precisely the point. A leader doesn’t have to be the smartest, strongest or prettiest. I’d rather have a less-than-brilliant leader as my CEO than a genius but gutless plodder, because leadership is the most important factor for a business to succeed. Just as machines need maintenance and products need marketing, employees need direction. It is the leader who provides that direction, who encourages and inspires ordinary people to do extraordinary tasks. For this the leader has to walk the talk. To paraphrase Thomas Jefferson, in matters of style, a leader swims with the current; but, in matters of principle, he stands like a rock. You stood like a rock in Chandangarh. I’m not just proud of you, Sapna, I’m proud to be your mentor.’
I have not heard such words of praise and appreciation outside of university. It makes me acutely self-conscious. ‘Well … I don’t know what to say.’
‘Don’t say anything, just do. Continue to follow your conscience, and you will pass the remaining tests with flying colours.’
I have to remind myself that this is all a game to Acharya. Neither have I become a leader, nor is he my mentor. He is simply a bored rich man, using me as a toy for his enjoyment. And I am obliged to play along because I had taken ₹200,000 from him. So I look up at him and flash him a grateful smile. A two-lakh smile.
* * *
That night I share the latest development with Karan at our garden rendezvous. ‘Acharya said I’ve passed the first test. I’m now a certified leader.’
‘Ha!’ he laughs. ‘He thinks we are certified numbskulls. He had nothing to do with what happened in that village, yet he is taking credit for it. Anyway, stuff Acharya! I’m proud of you for what you did for Babli and Sunil.’
‘Do you think they will live happily ever after?’
‘I don’t know. But, thanks to you, they will at least live.’ He gazes off into the distance. There is a curious tension in his features; the line of his jaw is tight. Then he releases a half-smile. ‘Actually, there is only one class of people that lives happily ever after.’
‘And who are they?’
‘The dead.’
The Second Test
Diamonds and Rust
It is 11 a.m. on Friday, 31 December, the last day of the year, and a mile-long queue has already formed outside the showroom. In a country where five hundred gather routinely to watch a street brawl, it is only natural for five thousand to turn up to ogle a celebrity.
Yes, today is the big day when Priya Capoorr graces our showroom as the brand ambassador for Sinotron TVs.
Two days ago, a pushy woman named Rosie Mascarenhas, the actress’s PR manager, came to the store to select an ‘attendant’ for Ms Capoorr. The requirements were very specific. ‘It has to be a girl. She must be able to speak excellent English. And she must have a soft voice and good manners.’ All four salesgirls were paraded before her and she chose me. I will undoubtedly provide the best contrast to Ms Capoorr’s fair complexion, allowing her to shine more brightly. The change in my status from ‘flight attendant’ to just ‘attendant’ is deeply galling, but the entire store is behaving as though I have won a lottery. ‘So you’ll get to spend some quality time with a star. How lucky, yaar,’ Prachi moons. ‘Who knows, she might even offer you a bit part in her next movie.’
I enjoy watching Hindi films, but I’m not a great fan of Priya Capoorr. She has no real talent; she’s just a glamour doll whose only claim to fame is that she is the scion of one of Bollywood’s most enduring dynasties. And this mindless celebrity worship nauseates me. I don’t envy celebrities: I pity them. They are abnormal human beings, sad clowns dancing to entertain others, condemned to live their lives in a fishbowl, ogled by their legions of fans.
> The fans are even more pathetic. These vapid, starstruck fools who blindly follow celebrities, seduced by the fake intimacy of their tweets, need to have their heads examined. Take Swati, our store clerk, for instance. She says she feels closer to Priya Capoorr than to her own mother!
Most celebrities are so insecure that they take superstition to a whole new level. Priya Capoorr herself is a perfect example. The name she was born with was Priyanka. When her debut film bombed, she shortened her name to Priya, on the advice of an astrologer. Then she changed her surname from Kapoor to Capoor. And finally, on the urging of her numerologist, she added another ‘r’, so that now to pronounce her name you need to purr like a cat. That is not all. If the rumours doing the rounds in Tinsel Town are to be believed, she has had more cosmetic surgery than Pamela Anderson, getting her lips stuffed with collagen, her bust size increased and her nose tucked. As a result, she looks like a freaky, plastic Barbie, older than her twenty-six years. Nevertheless, she has given three superhits in a row and is now ranked among the top four heroines in Bollywood.
Her visitation is scheduled at twelve noon, and we have been working round the clock to get everything ready. The entire store has been decorated with balloons and streamers. Advertising posters for Sinotron TVs adorn every wall. A makeshift stage has been created on one side of the main display hall, against a giant backdrop of the actress’s face, while dance anthems from her hit films blare from loudspeakers, creating a disco-like mood.
At 11.30 a.m., the front door is opened and the crowd are allowed to come in and settle down. Within seconds, every inch of space in the main hall, the foyer and aisles is filled with people. Their anticipation and eagerness is palpable. ‘Priya! Priya! Priya!’ someone begins chanting. Pretty soon others join in, heightening the atmosphere to a fever pitch.
Priya Capoorr arrives fashionably late at 1.30 p.m., an hour and a half behind schedule. She doesn’t come alone. There’s a whole entourage with her consisting of six burly bodyguards, PR manager, makeup man and even a hairdresser. She comes in through the rear entrance, and is whisked into the back office, which has been cleaned up and converted into a holding area. Our owner, Mr Gulati, and his son Raja are there to personally welcome her, together with a Chinese-looking man named Robert Lee, the marketing head of Sinotron Corporation.