by Vikas Swarup
He doesn’t have the guts to even meet me. I see him slinking past the door when I’m leaving the hospital with Ma. At least he has the decency to feel guilty about what he’s done to me at Acharya’s behest.
Neha, on the other hand, shows no remorse about her actions. In fact, once we are back in the house, she even breaks into a little jig. ‘Now this is what I call having your cake and eating it too,’ she rejoices. ‘We saved your kidney and we saved Ma as well. Hail to ImmunoglobulinX!’
‘Is there something you need to tell me?’ I fix her with a steely stare.
‘What?’ She looks back at me, neither dropping her gaze nor looking the least bit ashamed. Her brazenness astounds me.
I cannot bear to stay in the same room with her. Standing facing the window, I wince at the memory of her kissing Karan in this very spot. Even the air around me now seems contaminated with the smell of subterfuge and secrets.
‘Nothing,’ I reply, forcing an ironic smile.
With Karan there is even greater awkwardness. He, too, acts without a trace of guilt, a backstabber par excellence. I begin avoiding him as much as I can. The evening visits to the garden I terminate completely.
Without a sister to speak to, without a friend to turn to, I am enveloped in a thick shroud of melancholy. It is part anger, part frustration, but mostly it is a grim joylessness that haunts me like a shadow.
Work becomes my only refuge. A single-minded focus on my salesgirl’s job acts like therapy for me, even earning an encomium from Madan. I spend my days slaving in the showroom and my nights fantasising about the pot of gold promised by Acharya. He seems to be the lone silver lining in the dark clouds that have gathered over my life. So far I had made his tests into an abstraction. Now, with just one more to go, I feel the adrenaline rush of real, tangible reward. Ten billion dollars! The very thought of all that money causes goose pimples on my skin. For the first time I can feel the pull of destiny. So much so that, while returning from work one evening, I impulsively buy a ‘business’ book from a street hawker for ₹95. It is by an American management expert named Steven Katzenberg, and it is called How to Become a CEO: Fifty Secrets for Getting to the Top and Staying There.
The Seventh Test
Acid Rain
The first secret to becoming a CEO is knowing that there are no secrets to success. It is always the result of hard work, concentration, careful planning, and persistence. Success is not a lottery but a system, and this book will teach you fifty secrets gleaned from hours of conversations with the world’s greatest CEOs to enable you to implement that system in your daily life, and get to the top.
It is a slow day at the showroom and I am whiling away the time by imbibing wisdom from Mr Steven Katzenberg, the management expert.
Prachi taps the book in my hand. ‘Since when have you started reading business guides?’
‘It’s still better than killing flies, no?’ I reply.
‘Are you planning to do an MBA or what?’ She looks at me suspiciously.
‘Who does an MBA at my age?’ I sigh and attempt to change the subject. ‘So what’s up with you? Any fresh advances from our mutual friend Mr Raja Gulati?’
‘The creep was here yesterday,’ Prachi says, ‘and he’s promised me a raise. The company has made a record profit this financial year.’
‘Well, I hope I get one too.’
‘Tell me, has Neelam written to you?’
Neelam who? I am about to ask, before realising she is enquiring about our ex-colleague. It has been almost three months since her wedding. It is amazing how quickly out-of-sight becomes out-of-mind. ‘No. Why?’
‘Because I received a letter from her yesterday. From Sweden.’
‘What did she say? Is she happy with her marriage?’
‘Happy? She is going mad with joy. Her house is a five-bedroom mansion in Stockholm. She says it’s the cleanest city in the world. She drives around in a Jaguar. And her husband earns the equivalent of six lakh rupees a month. Can you imagine that? Six lakhs per month! That’s like twenty thousand rupees a day.’
‘Good for Neelam.’
‘I keep hoping some tall handsome millionaire will walk into the showroom and sweep me off my feet,’ she says wistfully. ‘Sometimes I feel so trapped, wondering if I’ll be doing this job for the rest of my life. Don’t you also dream of becoming rich?’
I imagine the shock on her face if I were to tell her I’m about to become CEO of a ten-billion-dollar company. Instead, I offer her the old cliché, ‘Money cannot buy you love.’
‘Who says I want love?’ Prachi scoffs. ‘I want that Bottega Veneta bag I saw in Emporio Mall.’
In the adjacent aisle Madhavan, one of the sales boys, is busy flipping channels on a LG Pen Touch TV hooked to a satellite dish, when I catch a fleeting glimpse of Shalini Grover. ‘Stop, stop, stop,’ I shout, startling him into almost dropping the remote.
Sure enough Shalini Grover is on Sunlight TV, standing outside a nondescript house, painted white with green shutters. ‘Returning back to our top story, this is house number 3734, from where the nefarious kidney trade was being run,’ she says. ‘In a day of fast-moving developments, Dr J. K. Nath – or should we say “Dr Kidney”? – was arrested by Delhi police. He was responsible for illegally removing the kidneys of more than five hundred people, mostly poor labourers. The Unity Kidney Institute, where these kidneys were sold to rich patients, has been sealed and a warrant has been issued for the arrest of MLA Anwar Noorani, the man who presided over this entire racket.’ She pauses and flicks a finger at the camera. ‘Remember, you saw it first on Sunlight, the channel that uncovers the truth, insistently, consistently, persistently.’
* * *
I cannot resist calling up Shalini during the lunch break. ‘Congratulations on the scoop. But what took you so long to break the story?’
‘After you told me about the clinic I did a full undercover operation, including interviews with over two dozen victims. It’s taken a while, but now there’s no escape for the crooks. They’ve literally been caught red-handed,’ she replies.
‘That MLA swindled me out of two lakhs. I hope he rots in jail for twenty years at least.’
‘He hasn’t been caught yet. Please be careful, Sapna. He knows I got the story from you, and he can be a dangerous man.’
‘No worries. If he had Dr Kidney, I have Dr Mirchi to protect me.’
‘Dr Mirchi? Who’s he?’
‘What? You don’t know Dr Mirchi? He’s a girl’s best friend, also known as chilli-pepper spray!’
* * *
On returning from lunch I find Raja Gulati hanging outside the rear door, looking like a clownish cad in a half-unbuttoned, purple silk shirt and tight trousers. He bars my way by draping an arm across the doorway.
‘Let me go,’ I say coldly.
‘Why do you remain so aloof from me, Ice Maiden?’ He leers lecherously. ‘Even ice melts in summer.’
‘But a moron remains a moron in every season,’ I reply dryly.
‘Who are you calling moron, bitch?’ he growls, flaring up like a temperamental diva and grabbing my wrist.
‘Don’t you dare touch me.’ I struggle to break free of his grip.
‘First say sorry,’ he demands.
‘You bastard!’ I spin on my heels and slap him across the face.
He releases my wrist, mouth open in shock. ‘You’ll pay for this, bitch,’ he hisses as I shove him aside and enter the showroom.
* * *
Just before closing time, Madan summons me to his cubicle. ‘We are doing another round of stocktaking. I need you in the store on Sunday,’ he says without looking at me directly.
‘That’s June the twelfth, isn’t it? It’s my father’s death anniversary,’ I reply. ‘I can’t come.’
‘Who do you think you are?’ he yells at me. ‘Some queen who can decide when to come and when not? I’ve had enough of your birthdays and death anniversaries. If you don’t come to the store on Sunday
, you’ll be chucked out.’
My mind is already seething from Raja’s brazen effrontery. Madan’s bullying is sufficient to nudge me into the chasm of joblessness. ‘To hell with you and your store,’ I scream back at him. ‘I’m quitting right this instant.’
‘That will be good riddance. And we will also avoid a payout for the notice period,’ he responds, trying to hide the sneaky gloating in his voice.
* * *
The true worth of a job is revealed by the amount of time it takes you to quit it. I had invested so little in mine, it takes me barely twenty minutes to clear out from Gulati & Sons. Most of the sales staff are happy to see my back. They can now aspire to the position of Salesperson No. 1. Prachi is the only one who is genuinely sad at my departure. ‘You shouldn’t have reacted in this way,’ she says. ‘If you want, I can still speak to Madan, sort this out.’
‘I’m done with Gulati & Sons,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find a job faster than Raja Gulati finds a bottle.’
As I walk out of the showroom for the last time at 7.45 p.m. on Wednesday, 8 June, I am clear-headed and calm. I have never felt lighter, freer than I do in that moment. Like a convict freshly released from prison. For that is what Gulati & Sons had become, a prison of the mind. I’ve hated the treacherous commute to work every day, the push and shove of humanity in the overcrowded metro, the cacophony and din of Connaught Place, the aggravating customers, the insufferable boss, the apathetic coworkers … It has been a miserable, never-ending daily grind, and I am glad to be rid of it.
Sitting in the metro going home, I take out the book by Steven Katzenberg and flip open a page at random. A quote by industrialist Ram Mohammad Thomas leaps out at me:
I have learnt more from life than books, and it has taught me that you need just three things to be truly happy in this world: a person that you love, a job that you like, and a dream that you live for.
I reflect on his wise words. By this yardstick, I will perhaps never be truly happy. I have no one to love, no job to hold, but I do have a dream to live for, the dream of becoming CEO of the ABC Group.
That has now become the consuming passion of my life. Every night I lie in my bed dreaming about the tantalising promise of a seven-figure salary.
There has been no word from the industrialist for over a month now. Perhaps he is still devising the seventh test. The Seventh Test. The moment I think about it, I am gripped by the sudden conviction that it may have already begun. Acharya said it will be the hardest of them all. What if he stage-managed that confrontation with Raja Gulati, prepared yet another crisis for me?
I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead. Did I do the right thing in quitting in a huff? The stakes are so high that to fail now would be catastrophic.
In desperation I turn to the Katzenberg guide, quickly flipping open to Chapter 27. It’s called, ‘Secret Number 25: How to Handle a Crisis.’
* * *
Neha is strutting about the drawing room in stiletto heels, hips swinging out like a model on a catwalk, when I reach home.
‘What’s got into her?’ I ask Ma.
‘Didn’t Neha tell you?’ Ma says, handing me an envelope. ‘This arrived today.’
The envelope contains a letter from Nova Talent Management, an agency based in Mumbai, offering Neha a modelling contract.
‘You know what this means, don’t you, didi?’ Neha drapes her arms around my neck in an overly affectionate gesture. ‘It means I’ve finally found my true calling. Now you’ll see how I make my mark in the world.’
‘Are you sure this is a reputable agency?’ I ask, disengaging her hands.
‘One of the best. They even have an arrangement with Ford Models in New York. They say I could be walking the ramp as early as next month for Delhi Couture Week,’ she exults. ‘And they think I’m a shoo-in for the Miss India contest as well.’
I cannot prevent a look of chagrin from sweeping across my face. I have just lost my job, and Neha has landed an impressive contract. Of late the equation between me and my sister has become a zero-sum game. Every misfortune that befalls me seems to be accompanied by a corresponding bonanza for Neha.
‘And what about your studies?’ I enquire coldly.
‘Who cares about the BA exams?’ Neha says dismissively. ‘Once I become a model I can always do a correspondence course.’
* * *
After dinner, I concentrate on Chapter 27 again, but Neha keeps distracting me, circling around me like a cat eager for my attention, till I can’t take it any more. ‘What is it now?’ I demand, my voice thick with irritation.
She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, her eyes flashing with indolent impertinence. ‘How come you don’t go down to the garden any more?’
‘Why? Is it compulsory to take a stroll after dinner?’
‘Karan says you’ve started acting very coldly towards him.’
‘I don’t care what he says.’
‘He wanted me to tell you he’s leaving the colony.’
‘That’s good riddance.’
‘You are being really ungrateful.’
‘Ungrateful? You have some nerve calling me ungrateful after what you’ve been doing with Karan.’
Neha stiffens. ‘And what exactly do you mean by that, didi?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know anything,’ I reply, the sarcasm in my voice now turning to anger.
‘I really don’t understand what you are hinting at,’ says Neha, still pretending to be a lost little girl.
All my pent-up hurt and bitterness comes exploding out. ‘You have been carrying on with Karan behind my back. Both of you have been taking me for a ride.’
She gapes at me, momentarily stunned. Her shock looks genuine enough, before it is replaced by a determined bellicosity. ‘You had better explain yourself, didi,’ she demands, a classic case of the red-handed thief challenging the inspector.
‘I’ve seen pictures of the two of you in this very room.’
‘Pictures? What pictures?’
‘Drop the pretence. Did you or did you not kiss Karan right here, standing next to the window?’
‘Oh, that!’ She looks down, and a tinge of regret crosses her face at last. ‘I confess I shouldn’t have done it. Don’t read too much into it. I’m not in love with Karan or anything like that. He’s reserved only for you. It’s just that I was so grateful, I did it out of impulse. It was nothing more than a thank-you kiss.’
‘A thank-you kiss? Thank-you for what?’
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it was Karan who lent me those two lakhs for the kidney transplant.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, it’s true. All my friends had failed me. In desperation I turned to Karan for help. He was amazing. First he went to Dr Nath and offered his own kidney for Ma, but his crossmatch came out positive. Then the poor fellow sold off half his belongings and took a loan from his office to put together all that money. I wanted to tell you, but he forbade me. We can never repay the debt we owe him. I tell you, didi, you are the luckiest person in the world to have a friend—’
I don’t wait for her to finish. I rush out of the apartment and race up the stairs to the third floor, my mind roiling with self-hatred and shame. I have wronged Karan grievously and nothing can ever make it right.
I knock on the door of B-35 like a storm-wrecked traveller seeking refuge for the night. The door does not open for such a long time that I almost lose hope. My heart sinks with the realisation that Karan has gone for ever.
Just as I am about to turn away in abject despair, a latch is pulled and Karan’s face peeps out. ‘Yes?’ He stands with his hands on his hips, looking at me warily, like a stranger meeting another stranger.
‘I came to ask your forgiveness,’ I murmur.
‘Forgiveness for what?’
‘For treating you like dirt, after all that you did for us. Neha has told me everything.’
He keeps looking at me in silent judgement. I hold my
breath, waiting, steeling myself for an explosion of righteous fury, when suddenly he holds out his right palm.
I gape at him, completely nonplussed.
‘Salvation is free, balika, but a hundred-rupee donation would help,’ he intones with the gravitas of a guru pontificating on Aastha channel. Then he breaks into a loud guffaw and opens his arms to me, like an impenetrable fortress opening its doors.
His laughter is medicine to my heart. I tumble into his waiting embrace. Just feeling his manly chest pressed against me fills me with such joy and peace that I forget everything else. Tears begin flowing from my eyes, melting away the pain, the shame, the frozen icicles of guilt clinging to the jagged edges of my soul.
Karan had forgiven me. Things were going to be right between us. And that was all that mattered to me.
* * *
We have a more extended meeting later that night, in the garden. I tell him everything that has transpired between me and Acharya.
‘My God!’ He listens to me with growing astonishment. ‘So it was all a setup, just as I suspected all along.’
‘Yes,’ I reply with an embarrassed smile. ‘I was the heroine of a private soap opera conceived and directed by Acharya.’
‘That man deserves to be shot! He had been keeping you and your entire family under surveillance. He even tried to put a detective on my trail but I caught that bastard snooping around and thrashed him so much he dare not come near me again.’
‘Acharya mentioned it to me. Anyway, it will all end soon. I have a gut feeling the seventh and final test has begun.’
Karan’s eyebrows knit together in a puzzled frown. ‘Do you mean to tell me that, after all this, you’ve still not put an end to Acharya’s charade?’
‘Now that I’ve come so far, why not see it through to the end?’
‘How could you?’ He slaps the wooden bench in frustration. ‘You still believe that psycho is serious about making you his CEO?’