by Leena Nandan
There was a group waiting to get in on the first floor, arguing loudly. The girl cowered behind in the lift—her tormentors looked at one another and then at the group of five, and walked out.
‘Your darling call girl has dumped you once again,’ said the baiter gloatingly.
‘I’ll teach her a lesson she’ll never forget,’ swore his frustrated companion.
FOUR
2 February
The skies were clear, the sun shone bright and a deep breath brought in clean, cool air scented by the fragrance of early blossoms. Winter had departed in a huff before schedule, the gloom of grey skies giving way to the promise of a flowery spring whose first few buds were already peeping out shyly to see whether the world was ready to receive them.
The day, in short, was a lovely one and naturally so, considering that it was Basant Panchami, the festival of spring, a celebration of life after the winter chill. But for millions of children in the country, this was an even more special day. It was Saraswati Puja, when they could propitiate the goddess of learning and ask her to put in a good word for them with the examiners.
The youngsters of Chittaranjan Park, New Delhi were no exception. The spectre of final exams for students of class 10 and 12 loomed large and no matter how thorough the preparation, thousands of hearts beat faster at the prospect of facing question papers, which the whispers went, had been set by a sadist this time. That this was the rumour circulated every year mattered not a bit to the teenagers, gloomily certain that theirs was the unlucky batch doomed to suffer at the hands of someone who wanted all children to be dull boys. Anxious parents, otherwise perfect martinets when it came to regulating study hours, encouraged their offspring to pray to the goddess, for only she would be benign enough to overlook their cavalier attitude towards studies.
The puja pandal had been decorated beautifully with loving attention to detail. The canopy was a kaleidoscope of colour and festooned with tinsel, adding to the glitter. There were people everywhere, laughing and chatting, while children ran around and the pretty girls glanced coquettishly at potential beaus who pretended to ignore them. The colour yellow being auspicious, the women wore sarees of all hues of the sun and created a dazzling picture as they flitted about.
The statue of the goddess in a shimmering golden silk saree emitted a different kind of radiance that drew all worshippers close, and they knelt at her feet, offering flowers. The youngsters, awfully embarrassed at doing puja, considered decidedly ‘un-cool’, avoided looking at the others. One part of their mind was engaged in fervent prayers while the other half was desperately seeking assurance that while chemistry needed some brushing up, math would be a cakewalk with a guaranteed hundred per cent.
As she walked past the puja enclosure, Dr Natasha Grewal cast a disdainful look at the excited bunch of people milling around. How boring these families were, with their faith in a superior being instead of their own powers. She had moved a long way to escape this typically middle class mindset and such manifestations of social bonding always made her scornful. Not for her this blind devotion or adherence to tradition. She eschewed sarees and wore, instead, stylishly tailored pant suits—a symbol of power dressing.
Tall, lissom, with a sophistication rarely seen in the academic fraternity, especially in the field of research, she was a head turner. She had beauty and brains and had never ceased to make the most of both. Supreme self-confidence was her hallmark, coupled with complete disdain for others. So far she had confined herself to research but now her other man management abilities were being called into play. This breakthrough would catapult her into the big league. The eminent Dr Ranjit Maken thought he had her down pat, but she would surprise him yet. She had done her own secret research and could reveal a thing or two…but only at the right time…
Harish Sinha’s untimely death shocked his colleagues from Future Insights and they rushed to the police station. Though not highly enamoured of the local police’s capabilities, they were still unprepared for their apathy. Some tough talking on their part ensued, and the meeting went south. Naveen Kumar, the Assistant Commissioner of Police (ACP), was not generally known for his amicable disposition; today he was in an absolutely foul mood. The death of a junior functionary from the research wing of a call centre didn’t warrant all that hue and cry. It was an accident, and nothing would convince him otherwise. He knew all these call centres and detested all of them—their job content and the lifestyle of the executives which was too modern, too irresponsible. He wasn’t going to take on an additional investigation headache and that too, pertaining to an employee of this particular organisation.
‘Where did this careless fellow, Harish Sinha hail from?’ he asked Tushar Sen, security director at 24x365. Tushar controlled his temper with difficulty.
‘Our colleague was a decent, hard-working young man, and to my knowledge, belonged to Bhopal.’
‘Oh, then it must be a standard case of getting struck by the bright lights of the metro. He must have been drunk. You guys pay ridiculous salaries and encourage irresponsible behaviour. He must have started drinking and gambling and your management would be clueless because all they care for is obscene profits,’ said Naveen Kumar contemptuously.
‘You are right, it must have been a freak accident,’ said S Benoy, chief security officer of Future Insights, casting a warning glance at Tushar.
‘I agree,’ said Tushar, adding sarcastically, ‘but it was rather inconsiderate of him, don’t you think?’
Without bothering to mouth the customary thanks for the invaluable assistance rendered, they left.
Benoy and Tushar made their way to the CEO’s office for the coordination meeting. Tushar was annoyed with Benoy’s complete pre-occupation with his BlackBerry. He was constantly checking his mail and then barking out instructions in a low voice. Tushar hoped he would concentrate on the responses Security had to make—the others were slightly unnerved by his J Edgar Hoover manner and were wary of crossing him—they’d have cheerfully thrown Tushar to the wolves. Officials from different wings of Future Insights and 24x365 were present for the meeting. It had hitherto been projected as a coup of sorts by Suneil (who insisted on being called Neil) Bansal, senior process manager of 24x365, as his innovative solution to the infuriating lack of communication between the call centre and research facility. Apart from S Benoy and Tushar Sen from Security, Colonel Tiwari, OSD to the CEO, and Neil Bansal were also present for the discussion with the CEO, Shailendra Prakash.
Complete silence prevailed for a good five minutes after the meeting started. It was not the silence of reflection or contemplation. No one was willing to make the first move. Though they individually knew only the part that pertained to their own office, they were worried about the implications; the CEO saw the bigger picture and it filled him with acute dismay. A man of striking looks, today his face was weary and lined. His plans to make his enterprise a world leader were being buffeted repeatedly. The investors were getting restless—he couldn’t hold them off any longer.
The last one week had been nothing short of an unmitigated disaster. One of the women executives of 24x365 had been brutally attacked and gang-raped. He had somehow managed to keep the name of the BPO out of the media; otherwise the company would have been finished. Then two terrible incidents had taken place, and in a bizarre balancing act, one each in the call centre and the research facility. Two executives of the call centre had been arrested for attempted theft in a cyber fraud case and one had committed suicide in the police lock-up. Simultaneously, a researcher who was designing a spy programme in the research facility to pinpoint the source for leakage of information, had died in a terrible accident. The leakage of the cutting-edge software just before its formal launch had struck a body blow. The strain of so much damage control was getting to him and his blood pressure had skyrocketed. Maybe it was time to read the writing on the wall and just hang up his boots.
Benoy and Tushar briefed everyone about their discussions with the police. It
was obvious that the police believed it was sheer bad luck, as road accidents took place all the time.
‘Harish Sinha had sent a strange mail to Dr Maken,’ said Benoy, ‘mentioning a project he was working on in an individual capacity.’
Tushar added, ‘Yes, it was marked to me as well, but it seemed more an outpouring of frustration that their research wasn’t going well.’
‘Wasn’t he supposed to liaison with Dr Maken in the regular course?’ asked Colonel Tiwari.
‘Dr Maken wouldn’t give him the time of day if I know him, but yes, Harish’s report was basically addressed to him,’ said Benoy dryly.
‘But Dr Maken hasn’t delivered anything substantial himself, I must say. He was supposed to track the movement of information on the net and on telephone and come up with his conclusions on who all are involved in this espionage. There has been nothing from him so far and we’re bleeding continuously,’ said the CEO angrily.
‘Neil, Colonel Tiwari has drawn a blank regarding our good scientist. So why don’t you follow up with Maken? He is your wife’s father, after all—just in case you’ve forgotten this little point,’ said Tushar.
‘Come on, you know that anything to do with stodgy analysis, including my aged relative, bores me to death. All that stuff is more up your street,’ drawled Neil, adjusting the knife-edge crease of his immaculately pressed pants. He was wearing a maroon silk shirt with fawn trousers and looked every inch a successful young executive of the most happening software company in town.
The others looked back at Neil with barely concealed dislike, which he found amusing.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said ‘I’ll check it out in a couple of days—with Natasha, of course,’ this last with a gleam in his eye.
The CEO summed up. All efforts had to be on a war footing to beef up information gathering. The company had to pull up its socks on the R&D side, as the situation was worse than visualised, the only silver lining being that Dr Maken, the scientist commissioned to do an analysis three months ago, was close to closure. He had reported noticing an unusual pattern of communication. But that was about all. They would meet again the next day and he expected a meaningful update.
S Benoy was in deep thought. He was a cerebral type and analysis was his forte. He seldom voiced his real feelings, and had ably concealed his near hatred of his ailing wife, to the extent that everyone thought he was heartbroken when she finally died. His mind was like a steel trap—he could remember people, conversations and figures with terrifying accuracy and here again the advantage was that his silence made others ignore, even forget his presence and their conversations added more gunpowder to his armoury. He never forgot an insult or a slight and never let anyone forget a favour he had done either. Life, to him was a game of chess, to be played with mathematical precision and a completely cold-blooded approach.
As soon as Benoy had sat down at his desk, he called in his team. Tushar Sen had been with him from the very beginning and so too some of the field staff. There was some friction between the office and field personnel, but Benoy was in full control as he wielded power with an iron hand. Tushar had a drinking problem and when in a temper, could get belligerent. Benoy had extricated him from a mess in a hotel once and there had been an ugly incident in the company also. Tushar was eternally grateful for both. Not that Benoy ever let him forget it.
Tushar was fuming silently as Benoy’s chief crony, a retired security guard, and a rather unprepossessing-looking individual, sarcastically replied to every point Tushar was making. Tushar had strongly advocated the need to go into Harish’s background, talk to his erstwhile colleagues, neighbours—anyone who could throw some light on the tragic accident. He was not in favour of meekly accepting the theory the local police had adopted. Somehow it was too facile an explanation and didn’t fit the image of the somewhat aloof but cautious man that Harish was known to be.
‘We should get a handle on the situation ourselves,’ he concluded forcefully.
Benoy’s crony, who had been given far too much liberty for a subordinate and that too, a retired chap, rebuffed him.
‘If we get too deep into this, Security will be left holding the baby.’
Tushar opened his mouth to protest, and Benoy gave him that cold, unblinking, lizard-like stare which always made him shiver. ‘Okay,’ Tushar said tiredly, ‘let’s not rock the boat too much.’
This was in their collective best interest.
Further shocks were round the corner. The software programme which they believed had leaked out only in a small way was launched worldwide by One Globe, their biggest Indian competitor. It was obviously a case of espionage but they had no proof, nor respite from fire-fighting, as the share prices of Future Insights crashed to an all-time low. Despite the CEO’s explicit instructions to downplay issues, Neil Bansal decided to brief the press. With disarming candour, he responded to their queries. Yes, he admitted, the new software that Future Insights had designed for keeping a watch on leakage of sensitive information by employees was pre-empted by a similar product launched by another company. Wasn’t that truly ironic, the reporter persisted and Neil said with a charming smile that indeed, the management was a worried lot and heads were bound to roll. The journalist went on to ask about the company’s upcoming plans to improve their public relations in the face of recent reversals, and Neil blew up the reporter on needless bad publicity because of their coverage of Ruby’s gangrape. Now the entire media knew the name of the BPO which had hitherto been kept concealed, and each bulletin on harassment of women executives in call centres began with 24x365 written all over.
The shareholders were furious—Shailendra Prakash’s future looked bleak indeed…
FIVE
3 February
There was no doubt about the purpose of the CEOs’ meeting; the tension was palpable. Shailendra Prakash had been up all night trying to ward off rumours of a hostile takeover and was in a killer mood.
‘What the hell is happening? The fatal accident of a researcher, the unpleasant publicity over the rape of a call centre staffer and now this leakage of our software. Why is everything unravelling like this? All of you promised that ‘Ice Breaker’ would be a great product by itself, apart from helping identify the person responsible for sabotaging the company. But that pompous scientist we’re paying a fortune to, hasn’t delivered anything. Get in touch with him ASAP. I want his analysis on my table in forty-eight hours.’
S Benoy and Tushar Sen were subdued as they filed out. Someone somewhere would be fixed—that much was clear. Benoy and Tushar were certain of one thing—no matter how much the prodding; they were not going to let anyone see the report till the security wing had pored over the first draft. They went to the research facility. The building had been designed by an architect wanting to take revenge on the world. It was rectangular in shape, with square glass windows. The façade was stone in a hideous shade of brown, relieved by an equally uninspiring grey border. The whole atmosphere was depressing and anyone who could do path-breaking research in these environs was either a robot or a madman.
Dr Maken, Tushar had to grudgingly concede, appeared to be neither. Dressed in a navy blue suit with a brick red tie, he was tall and had an imposing personality with a voice that resounded in the corridor—he didn’t think them important enough to be invited into the hall. Not surprisingly, their attempts to gauge the state of progress were completely stonewalled by him. He showed his displeasure too, in no uncertain terms.
‘Benoy, it seems I have been labouring under a misapprehension regarding your intelligence level. Did you seriously expect me to be the archetypal yes man who will come out with a report making someone the fall guy?’
Benoy, surprisingly, did not take the bait and remained silent.
Tushar tried unsuccessfully to keep his cool.
‘We’re only asking you how the study is going. We’re under a lot of pressure to find out the truth and…’
The scientist fixed a steely gaze on him. ‘I d
on’t know you and I don’t care to, either. But I very much doubt that you’ll want the plain, unvarnished truth.’
Without waiting to see if they had anything more to add, he turned his back on them and returned to the hall, shutting its door firmly in their face.
‘He kills you softly with his charm, doesn’t he,’ murmured Benoy. He bent down to tie his shoelaces and they left.
Surrounded by peace and quiet, Dr Maken worked hard at regaining his equilibrium. He would not be shoved around like a minion. He logged the numbers and transcript put together by Harish into his computer for a preliminary appraisal, his interest growing when he made the connection. Suddenly, he exclaimed. Surely he was mistaken. He went back over the sheet several times, oblivious to the time, and then decided he would let the computer also do its analysis. He picked up the office phone and placed a brief call.
Dr Natasha Grewal hurried to the research centre, trying to overcome her irritation at the sudden development. Even though she had made no specific plans for the night, it irked her to be at Ranjit Maken’s beck and call. Usually elegant to the point of being fastidious, her hair today kept escaping from the knot and the shoes were pinching her feet. She’d tried to work on the analysis at home, but the pieces of the puzzle kept eluding her and it made her want to scream. She knew her frustration was not on account of an inability to analyse, but the fact that all the data was not being shared with her. Dr Maken was doing this only because of the satisfaction it gave him that she was one step behind, though he knew full well that it was due to his deliberate withholding of information. But she could twist him and Neil around her little finger, couldn’t she—and she laughed aloud, throwing her head back. It was a harsh sound sans all grace that made passers-by stop and stare, startled by the contrast between her sophisticated looks and raucous laugh.