by Vikas Swarup
Rosie Mascarenhas calls again today, but rather half heartedly. By the middle of the week she stops calling entirely. To all intents and purposes, Priya is resigned to the ring’s loss; it is mine to keep for ever. But the longer I keep the ring, the more it oppresses me. The diamond has become kryptonite, sapping my strength, giving me the blues. I can sense that the time has come to part with it.
I manage to obtain Rosie Mascarenhas’s number from Madan’s telephone book and call the PR manager in Mumbai. ‘I think I may have found the ring.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ she gasps. ‘I’m flying to Delhi straightaway to get it.’
‘Not you. I will give it only to your boss.’
‘Now that’s not—’
‘Listen.’ I cut her short. ‘Either Priya comes to my house at seven a.m. tomorrow, or the ring goes into the Yamuna. The choice is yours.’
* * *
At 6.45 a.m. on 7 January, a black BMW pulls up at the gate of the LIG Colony. Priya Capoorr has arrived fifteen minutes early. Most of the residents are still asleep, including Neha. The actress who steps into my drawing room is very different from the one who visited the store. Instead of the preening diva, I see a distressed fiancée, devastated by loss. She has come alone, without her makeup man and hairdresser and PR manager. She is nervous and jittery, biting her nails in suspense, fumbling with the cell phone in her hand as she sits on the sofa. She looks as if she has been crying: her face is blotchy and tear-streaked. Her hair is a mess. It is obvious she has fallen off the wagon. No wonder the guard at the front gate did not even recognise her.
‘Is it true you have my ring?’ she asks me in a trembling voice.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I found it on the same day you visited the store, lodged inside the album you had autographed.’
‘Can I … can I see it, please?’
I produce the ring and pass it to her. She examines it, tests it on her finger, and then gives a satisfied nod. ‘Yes, this is my ring.’ She quickly pockets it and stands up.
‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’
‘No,’ she says, glancing around the room for the first time. As she takes in the peeling paint and faded decor, I see her face melt into that same mask of scorn and disgust I had once seen on a suited businessman in the metro when a baby puked on him while being burped.
‘At least have a cup of tea.’
‘I have no time. I’m catching the first flight back to Mumbai,’ she says, and begins to head for the door. Then she stops, turns back. ‘Before I go, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Why did you return it? It is a very expensive ring. You could have kept it if you wanted to.’
‘I couldn’t have kept it. I am not really into diamonds.’
‘Then how come it took you so long to return it?’ she demands. ‘Do you have any idea how much you made me suffer?’ The grateful tone is gone. She has reverted to her mean, bossy ways.
‘What to do, madam?’ I sigh. ‘You see, people like us, our tube light takes a week to switch on.’
* * *
A week later, Acharya invites me to his office once again. For a change he is more considerate, fixing the meeting at 1.30 p.m., so that I can visit him during the lunch break.
‘Well done, Sapna!’ he says. ‘I am glad to see that you have passed the second test. The test of integrity.’
‘Integrity? How?’
‘By returning the diamond ring to Priya Capoorr.’
My head spins. There is no way he could have known about the return of the ring. It was between me, the actress and the walls of our drawing room.
‘But how did you know about that ring?’
‘I have my ways.’
‘Are you keeping me under some kind of surveillance?’
‘Of course not. It is really quite simple. You know that ABC Corporation also produces films. Priya Capoorr is the heroine in my production company’s latest film. She mentioned the story of the ring to her makeup man, who, in turn, told the director, who told the producer, who told me.’
I have no way of knowing if he is telling the truth or just testing to see how gullible I am. Either way, I decide to stick to the facts. ‘I should have returned the ring the very first day. I got no pleasure keeping it for a week.’
‘Integrity means much more than just honesty, Sapna. The real test of integrity is to be honest even when no one is looking. You proved you have a solid sense of right and wrong. Remember, a good leader must have an exemplary character. Only then can he or she inspire trust. Nothing damages an organisation more than the dishonesty of its employees. And, if the CEO himself is crooked, heaven help that company.’
He beckons me to his side. ‘Come here; look down on the street below. What do you see?’
I gaze down from the bay window. Barakhamba Road is crawling with traffic. ‘I see hundreds of cars and people.’
‘Yes. From up here you can see their heads, but you cannot know what is inside those heads.’ He sighs as though he’s been through an ordeal. ‘People have become adept at masking their true natures. An expert conman can easily cheat his way through the integrity test we give at pre-employment screenings, even fool a polygraph.’
‘So how do you know you are hiring an honest person?’
‘That is the biggest challenge for a CEO. There is no software, no device that can reveal a person’s true feelings with hundred per cent accuracy. I have always gone with my gut instincts, surrounding myself with people who I believe are dependable and loyal. But occasionally even I slip up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have a mole in the system. Someone who has been leaking confidential information about the company to our rivals.’
‘That’s terrible!’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll find the traitor eventually. I don’t want you to lose sleep over it. You need to prepare for the third test.’
‘What’s that going to be about?’
‘How would I know? It is life that deals the card, you who play the hand. I am merely the croupier who announces the results. Goodbye for now.’
* * *
Later, I grab Karan’s arm and lean into his ear, my voice taking on the exaggerated conspiratorial whisper of someone about to share a grave secret. ‘There’s a traitor in ABC Corporation who has been passing confidential company information to Acharya’s rivals.’
‘Aha!’ he exclaims. ‘So the plot thickens!’
We are sitting on one of the benches in the garden outside the colony, surrounded by the cool of the night. I am seeing him after a full week. ‘I wonder why he told me such a sensitive thing.’
‘I’ll tell you why. Because this is all a scheme to draw you in, make you trust him. He’s playing some kind of warped, sick mind game with you.’
‘I know that too. But he sounded so sincere, I almost felt like believing him.’
‘Then you must be extra careful. Wake up to the lies of the enemy, Sapna. Wake up before you get sucked into the abyss.’
‘I am awake and alert. It was you who was sleeping when Priya Capoorr visited my house.’
‘What? Priya Capoorr came to the LIG Colony?’
‘Yes, sir. For once I was able to put a superstar in her place.’ I narrate the episode with the actress to Karan.
‘This is incredible. So you actually returned her twocrore diamond, huh?’
‘Yes. Diamonds are not my best friend. You are.’
The Third Test
Locked Dreams
‘Now repeat after me: C-O-L-D, cold, meaning thanda; T-A-L-L, tall, meaning lamba.’
‘C-O-L-D, cold, yani thanda; T-A-L-L, tall, yani lamba,’ the students chorus, before breaking into scattered giggles.
It is the Sunday English class, being conducted in the drawing room of our flat. Sitting in front of me are Chunnu, Raju, Aarti and Suresh. They are all between the ages of ten and twelve, and live in the nearby MCD Slum Colony. Chunnu is the son of Sohan Lal, who
is employed as a gardener in the Japanese Park. Raju’s father, Tilak Raj, is a ward boy in the government hospital in Sector 17. And Aarti and Suresh are children of Kalawati, a single mother who works as a part-time maid in several houses in the LIG Colony, though not in ours. I cannot afford to keep a servant on my salary.
It was Kalawati who roped me into becoming an English teacher six months ago. ‘Aarti and Suresh go to the government school, but there they teach everything in Hindi. Unless they learn a little English, how will they get a good job?’ she agonised, before clutching my hands. ‘Their future is in your hands, didi. Please help them.’ Unable to hold off her incessant pleas, I agreed to these weekly English lessons for her children. Pretty soon Raju and Chunnu also joined.
I actually enjoy teaching these kids. They may not have all the opportunities, but they do have ambition and motivation. Their dreams have not been corrupted by fate and circumstance. Their destinies are no longer fettered by the morass of caste and class. There is a spark in their eyes and hope on their faces, which will let them reach higher stations in life than their parents.
As I am about to conclude today’s lesson, my cell phone rings. It is Lauren. ‘Sapna, my dear, I’ve just received an anonymous tip-off about an illegal lock factory functioning from the MCD Slum Colony in Rohini. Isn’t that close to where you live?’
‘Yeah. The colony is almost in our backyard.’
‘I’m told this factory employs more than twenty children in extremely dangerous conditions.’
‘That’s shocking!’
‘Isn’t it? Listen, I want you to do me a favour. I want you to make some discreet enquiries with the folks in the MCD Colony to find out if this tip-off is genuine. Can you do this for me?’ Her voice has a desperate, pleading edge to it.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get back to you today itself.’
I put away the phone and turn to the children. ‘Is there some kind of lock-making factory in the slum?’
‘Yes, didi.’ Suresh nods. ‘It’s run by Anees Mirza.’
‘Who is Anees Mirza?’
‘He is a mafia don. The entire colony is scared of him.’
‘Can you show me this factory?’
Suresh begins scratching his head. ‘Mother has given me strict instructions not to go near that place. If she catches me—’
‘I’ll take you, didi,’ Chunnu says. ‘It’s right next to my house. They even offered me a job, promising eighty rupees per day, but I said no. I prefer to go to school.’
‘Well done, Chunnu.’
When I convey this to Lauren, she is immediately distraught. ‘We need to rescue those kids a.s.a.p. I cannot wait a minute longer.’
‘Shouldn’t we inform the authorities?’
‘Only after I’ve checked out the place myself. I’m coming to Rohini right now. Can you arrange a local guide?’
‘He’s right here with me,’ I say.
* * *
An hour later Lauren and I are following Chunnu as he leads us through the maze of dingy alleyways of the slum colony. It is better than some of the other slums I have seen. Instead of temporary shacks made of corrugated iron, tarpaulin, cardboard and plastic bags, most of the houses are made of brick and cement, even though they are small and cramped. The outer roads of the slum are relatively clean, but, as we go inside, the putrid smell of human waste permeates every space. We notice overflowing drains, and garbage piled at the kerbs. A haze of kerosene smoke hangs in the air, casting a grimy pall over the surroundings.
Chunnu takes us past little eateries and vendors selling groceries, till we reach the effluent drain that marks the northern boundary of the slum. The houses on the opposite side of the nala are bigger and better. Chunnu points out a two-storey duplex painted in pale yellow. ‘That is the factory. But don’t tell anyone I brought you here,’ he says, and then scampers back to his house, a one-room shack at the very edge of the slum colony.
I approach the nondescript building with the hesitant steps of a bomb-disposal expert. Lauren, on the contrary, is raring to go.
‘Okay, here’s the plan,’ she says. ‘We’re lost. And we’re trying to get directions to the Delhi College of Engineering.’ She knocks on the front door and waits. After an uncomfortable delay the metal door swings open and standing in front of us is a little boy of about ten, dressed in just a dirty vest and shorts. He stares at Lauren as if he’s never seen a white woman before. ‘Hello, munna, may we speak to your father?’ Lauren asks in perfect Hindi.
For a moment the kid is shocked into silence. He did not expect a foreigner, and certainly not a foreigner speaking in Hindi. ‘Anees Bhai has gone out. He will come back after one hour,’ he responds.
‘Then we’ll just wait for him,’ says Lauren, and, without waiting for his reply, pushes her way inside, pulling me along.
The sight that meets my eyes is one that I will never forget. There are approximately thirty kids packed into a long, low, stifling room. The floor is made of cheap cement; the walls are filthy. There are just a couple of tube lights providing illumination, and there is no ventilation. My ears are assaulted by the sounds of hammers beating metal into submission and noisy power tools whirring and roaring in the background. My eyes begin to smart from the heavy, toxic fumes that swirl in the air like flying snakes.
The children, who are all between the ages of eight and fourteen, are engaged in various activities, ranging from working on hand presses to polishing, electroplating and spray-painting. Not one of them has any protective gear. They glance up briefly when Lauren and I enter, and then go back to whatever they were doing. There are no adults in the room.
‘It’s worse than I thought,’ Lauren whispers. ‘This is a sweatshop run by child labour alone.’ She pulls out her cell phone and begins taking pictures.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’ A tall boy, who looks like the team leader, drops his spray-painting gun and stares at us belligerently.
‘Relax,’ says Lauren. ‘I am not a labour inspector.’
‘But Boss told us not to allow anyone to take pictures.’
‘That does not apply to us.’
‘Who are you?’ he demands, eyeing us suspiciously.
‘We are importers from America. And we have come to see the quality of your locks to see if we want to buy them,’ Lauren says without batting an eyelid, intimidating him into a wary acceptance of our presence.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask him.
‘Guddu,’ he replies.
‘Tell me, till what time do you all work?’
‘It depends on Anees Bhai. Sometimes till eight, sometimes till ten at night.’
‘How long have you been doing this, Guddu?’
‘For five years. Ever since Anees Bhai came from Aligarh and opened the factory. I have become such an expert lock and key maker, now I can open any lock within a minute.’
I observe the young kids operating hand presses to cut different components of locks. What I notice instantly is that many of the children have bandages on their fingers. ‘These poor kids often lose the tips of their fingers in accidents caused from sheer exhaustion,’ Lauren explains, her eyes clouding up with tears.
I move on to stand beside a kid working on the buffing machine used for polishing locks. He is covered in black emery powder, making him look like a coal miner. As he bends over the rotating machine, barely ten inches from the bobs, I can see that he is inhaling the emery powder, causing him to go into periodic bouts of coughing. Even I have to clamp my nose and mouth to prevent breathing the fine metal dust. ‘Many of these children will develop respiratory disorders, asthma and tuberculosis,’ Lauren grieves.
Another boy has what seem like rashes on his back. As I trace a gentle finger over the skin, I discover them to be a lattice of angry welt marks. ‘How did you get these?’ I ask him.
He does not answer, but the boy next to him does. ‘Radhua got punished by Anees Bhai. Boss does not like any boy making too many mistakes and on top of that coming late
to work.’
I shudder in revulsion. ‘The man’s a sadistic monster,’ I whisper to Lauren. ‘Let’s go before he returns.’
‘Okay, I think we have seen enough,’ Lauren announces loudly, stashing away her phone. ‘We’re leaving.’
We have reached the door when Guddu shouts. ‘Wait!’
‘Yes?’ Lauren turns slowly on her heels.
‘You never told us your name. If Boss asks me who came, what should I tell him?’
Lauren thinks about it for a moment. ‘You tell him that Ma Barker had come to visit from New York.’
‘Ma … what??’
‘She’s Ma.’ Lauren points at me. ‘And I’m Barker.’
* * *
‘Wasn’t Ma Barker a notorious crime lord?’ I ask Lauren as we hurry back to my flat. ‘I seem to remember a Boney M song about her.’
‘That song was “Ma Baker”,’ Lauren explains. ‘But it’s the same lady. They changed the name because “Baker” sounded better. But even her crime was minor compared to what this man Anees has done,’ she continues, her voice suffused with anger. ‘Her gang merely stole money. This man has stolen the future of those kids.’
‘So what’s our next step?’
‘We report this to the local subdivisional magistrate. He’s the one who will organise a raid party to rescue those kids and close down the factory. Let’s go there right away.’
‘But today is Sunday. The office will be closed.’
‘Damn, I completely forgot. I guess we’ll have to go there first thing tomorrow morning.’
* * *
At 9 a.m. on Monday, we are at the SDM’s office. It looks like a typical government office with whitewashed walls adorned with portraits of national leaders, utilitarian furniture and ledgers and files stacked up everywhere. There are crowds milling outside the building, but the atmosphere inside is one of sheer lethargy. Lauren’s presence, however, elicits a flutter of interest from a middle-aged clerk called Keemti Lal, a jowly man with a toothbrush moustache and grizzled sideburns. ‘Yes, madam, how can I help you? Do you need to get a property registered?’