The Accidental Apprentice: A Novel

by Vikas Swarup

  Neha gets into an involved discussion with Raoji on singing technique. I stroll to the edge of the terrace, rest my elbows on the ornate stone balustrade and look out over the vast conurbation stretching beyond the rippling velvet of the ocean. Mumbai’s skyline looks spectacular at night. Glittering, sparkling lights blanket the city, glowing with the luminescence of a mirage. Neon signs blaze softly on the high-rise buildings along the seafront. The markets are alive with the sound of commerce. Cars are still racing on the streets down below. This is truly the city that never sleeps.

  The air is bathed in the intoxicating fragrance of a night-blooming jasmine growing in a pot. It mixes with the damp, salty smell of the ocean, making me drowsy. I take another sip of the juice. It tastes a bit funny. Suddenly my head starts aching, my knees go all weak. I feel as if I’m about to vomit and rush into the toilet at the far end of the terrace.

  I stumble to the wash basin, where I look into the mirror. My eyes seem unusually heavy-lidded. Waves of sleep assault my mind, one after another. I feel lethargic and nauseous. It takes a superhuman effort to splash water on my face. I try to blink the world in front of me back into focus, but my head refuses to clear. I lean against the wall and try to make sense of what is happening to me.

  Raoji must have told his servant to spike my drink, I realise. I can see him now from the window, patting Neha on the back. In my distorted vision he becomes double, then triple, and keeps on multiplying till my mind is filled with the hallucination of a ten-headed Raoji, grinning evilly like the demon Ravan.

  ‘Let’s go down to the studio,’ I hear, as a distant echo. ‘Will you guide me?’

  Through blurry pupils I watch Neha take Raoji’s arm and lead him towards the staircase. ‘Don’t!’ I want to cry out, gripped by a terrible prescience of imminent danger, but find that I cannot move or speak. It is as if I had been hypnotised, put in a trance. My brain does not feel connected to my body any longer.

  I fight off the creeping paralysis and stagger out of the toilet. Raoji and Neha have already gone, leaving behind a bowl of salted cashew nuts.

  My head sags down and my body turns so limp, I can barely lift my head. I know I am about to keel over like a hopeless drunk. That is when my eyes fall on the half-empty bottle of Talisker Scotch glinting on the table. I grab it in my hands. It feels as though it weighs a ton. Summoning up all my reserves of energy, I lift it above my head and smash it down on the concrete floor, where it shatters into pieces. The pungent smell of whisky fills the air. I am left with just the stem of the bottle in my hand, with sharp jagged teeth where it broke off. Still wobbling with dizziness, I take a deep breath and plunge the jagged end into my left thigh like a dagger. It goes through the thin fabric of my salvar to pierce the skin. Hot, searing, excruciating pain shoots through my leg, and radiates throughout my body, clearing the fog in my brain in an instant, awakening all my senses.

  Ignoring the stabbing agony in my thigh, I hobble down the staircase, tear through the drawing room and burst into the recording studio to discover Neha and Raoji entwined on a couch. The musician has clamped his arms around her waist, pinning her arms at her sides. He is trying to kiss her as she is struggling desperately to wrestle free of his passionate embrace.

  ‘Raoji!’ I scream and wrench Neha from his grip.

  He lets go of her, heaving like a man about to have a heart attack. Spit is dribbling out of his mouth and the veins on his face are engorged. ‘Go, Neha!’ he snaps. ‘I was only trying to help you. But you are not worthy of my attention.’

  I am on fire, burning with indignation. I sweep Neha aside with my hand, and lash out at him with my right leg. The next instant his face contorts in shocked pain as my heel slams into his solar plexus. ‘Bitch!’ He lets out a strangled groan, clutching at his stomach.

  My fury is building up to a crescendo. ‘You don’t deserve to live, you pig!’ I swing a fist at him, but with amazingly quick reflexes he catches my arm in midair. He spins me around, pushing my face into the wall and twisting my arm to breaking point. I writhe in agony. ‘I can crush you like a fly,’ he hisses into my ear. Then, equally abruptly, he releases me.

  ‘No more rehearsals now!’ he says, by way of dismissal. ‘Get out of my house, both of you.’

  * * *

  Neha is badly shaken by the incident. I can almost feel the shame, horror and revulsion sweeping through her like a desert storm as she sits with me in the taxi taking us back to Colaba. ‘He … he tried to t-touch me,’ she says, faltering. ‘You were right about him, didi.’ She buries her face in my lap, dissolving into tears.

  ‘Don’t worry. Everything will be all right,’ I say soothingly, stroking her hair.

  Her hand accidentally grazes my thigh, where she discovers a sticky wet patch on my salvar. The blood is still seeping through the wound.

  ‘Oh my God, you’re bleeding, didi,’ she cries. The throbbing pain, which the adrenaline in my system had dammed up till now, comes searing back. The flesh stings like a touch of acid.

  Without a moment’s hesitation Neha tears off her brand-new dupatta and fashions it into a bandage, which she wraps around the wound, staunching the flow of blood.

  Sitting in the back of that taxi, we discover each other anew. For perhaps the first time in my life, I see Neha in a new light, truly connect with her. I sense the pulsing of the deeper and warmer heart she has kept hidden beneath that narcissistic veneer of self-centredness, shallowness and superficiality.

  ‘I always felt you loved Alka more than me,’ Neha says, her voice pained with all the pent-up hurt and bitterness she has accumulated over the years. ‘But not any more.’

  It is turning out to be a night of surprises, of confessions and revelations. ‘I always thought you would do anything for fame,’ I respond with equal candidness. ‘But not any more.’

  We hug each other, like two survivors in a flood drifting on the same log of wood.

  Life does not give us the option of choosing a blood relationship, but it always gives us the opportunity to repair it.

  * * *

  Neha continues to cling to me even after we reach the safety of the dormitory. Her forehead feels feverish. Mercy helps me tuck her into bed. As I turn to leave, Neha clutches at my arm. ‘Where are you going now, didi?’

  ‘To the police station, to lodge a report against Raoji. He tried to drug me, to molest you.’

  ‘No, didi.’ Neha springs out of bed and bars my way. ‘I will not allow you to do that.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It will destroy my chances of winning the contest.’

  ‘Are you crazy? You’re still thinking of the contest after what he did to you?’

  ‘Look, I’ll tell George to change my team after this round. I’ll have nothing to do with that swine Raoji any more. But I don’t want to miss this chance. I’m almost there. Once I make it to the last twenty, even Raoji won’t be able to stop me. Don’t take away my only hope, my one dream, didi.’ She starts sobbing again.

  I give in. ‘All right. I’ll not report Raoji if that’s what you want.’

  Mercy, who has been overhearing our conversation, is more concerned about the wound on my leg. ‘You need to see a doctor, didi. If not treated soon, the infected area can become septic.’

  She accompanies me to a nearby clinic, where a nurse cleans the wound and disinfects it. Our route passes through a bustling street market. On the way back, we come across an inspector wearing the uniform of Maharashtra Police. He is busy negotiating with a toy vendor, his Rajdoot motorcycle purring like a wildcat on the side of the road.

  Mercy tries to propel me gently in the officer’s direction. ‘We can still go to the police.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve promised Neha.’

  She grips my arm. ‘We shouldn’t allow Raoji to get away again, didi.’ Her eyes burn with a dark fire, like black lava from a volcano that has erupted inside her.

  I gaze at her, at the toyshop, and an idea flashes across my mind.
r />   ‘I have a plan,’ I whisper to her.

  ‘Tell me,’ she whispers back.

  * * *

  There is an electric charge in the air. It is the final round of eliminations. Today the last two singers will be shown the door, leaving the twenty contestants who will fight it out for the coveted crown on live television.

  I wait with the rest of the audience, as the tension builds to a peak.

  One by one, the judges announce the names of today’s contestants. It is like a game of chess; the trick is to anticipate your opponents’ move. The judges try to protect their assets, pit their best singers against weaker opponents and checkmate the other teams.

  ‘I nominate Javed,’ Bashir Ahmad declares. A ripple of excitement goes through the audience. Javed Ansari is the clear favourite till now. Bashir’s move is a queen’s gambit.

  ‘I select Sujata Meena,’ says Udita Sapru. Sujata is an earthy singer with a throaty voice. She is the equivalent of the horse, the joker in the pack, capable of causing an upset.

  ‘My warrior is Nisar Malik,’ says Rohit Kalra. The Kashmiri is not the best singer in his team. He is a pawn who can be sacrificed.

  ‘And I field Neha,’ announces Raoji. A gasp escapes from everybody’s lips. A face-off between Javed and Neha makes no sense at this preliminary stage. It is like pitting two queens against each other in the opening gambit itself.

  The four contestants line up on stage and the elimination round begins.

  Bashir Ahmad chooses a powerful love song for Javed, and his protégé delivers it flawlessly, wowing everyone with the range, intensity and raw expressive power of his voice.

  Sujata Meena’s forte is folk songs, and her guru allows her to sing to her strengths. The Rajasthani ballad that she belts out has the audience entranced, her gutsy, freewheeling voice a compelling counterpoint to the calculated perfection of Neha’s vocal style.

  Nisar Malik’s rendition of a tragic Kishore Kumar song is also surprisingly impressive, dripping with the melancholy of heartbreak and disappointment.

  And then it is Neha’s turn. Everybody looks at Raoji expectantly. Neha waits on stage with an angelic smile, but I know she must be having butterflies in her stomach. The only thing that matters to her is winning this contest. And this is the make-or-break moment.

  Raoji clears his throat. ‘Neha is my best singer, so I will give her a song that showcases her full vocal range.’ His face is expressionless under his dark glasses as he tells Neha, ‘Beti, I want you to sing “Kuhu Kuhu Bole Koyaliya”.’

  I am stunned. The taut grimace that skews Neha’s mouth tells me even she wasn’t expecting this. Raoji has set a clever trap. Unfortunately, there is no way for my sister to avoid it. She tries bravely to carry the song, but yesterday’s ordeal has left her underpowered. Her notes sound a little tired and pinched. Once again, the upper register in the song’s most difficult antara strains her voice, which sags towards flatness.

  The result is a foregone conclusion. In the judges’ reckoning, as also in that of the audience, Neha is the weakest singer of the lot. She gets eliminated.

  A solemn hush falls over the audience as it comes to grips with the humbling realisation that one of the early favourites has bitten the dust. Neha is stony-faced, accepting the verdict with stoic resignation.

  The final elimination round begins almost immediately thereafter, one that pits Mercy against three other singers, all much inferior to her.

  Udita Sapru asks Mercy to sing ‘Aye Mere Watan Ke Logon’ (‘O! The People of my Country’), a patriotic song by Lata Mangeshkar, which is revered as the ultimate tribute to the fallen Indian soldiers of the 1962 war with China. Today, Mercy surpasses herself. She breaks through her frozen depths and sings with daring, gifted abandon. The song acquires wings, as though liberated from its earthly confines. Her lilting voice soars upwards to the heavens, sweeping away the orchestra, the judges, the audience, everything in its path. Imbued with the exquisite agony of loss, the dirge becomes almost like a catharsis, an elegy for her fallen sister. I get goosebumps hearing her notes reach a purity of perfection unmatched in the history of the contest.

  The song over, she withdraws into her shell, flushed like an exhausted runner. The judges whisper among themselves, make embarrassed eye contact with the producer. It is clear they are devising strategies to justify eliminating her from the contest.

  Bashir Ahmad takes a sip of water from the glass in front of him before announcing his verdict. ‘It was a … er … good performance. You are obviously talented. But I don’t think you are ready for the next level. There is a rawness in your voice which needs polishing.’

  Rohit Kalra finds fault with her deadpan expression and her awkwardness. ‘Singing is not just about nailing the notes,’ he observes. ‘It’s also about how you convey your message to the audience.’

  Raoji discovers an imaginary lapse in concentration in the penultimate stanza. ‘That one little blemish spoilt the entire performance for me. But I tell you what: you do a little more riyaaz – a little more practice – and no one can stop you from winning next year’s contest.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Mercy squeaks. ‘I need your blessing.’

  ‘I shall deliver it personally,’ says Raoji. He leaves the judges’ podium and shuffles towards the stage, feeling his way forward with his stick. Mathew George guides him up the steps. Mercy stands with her head bowed as Raoji approaches her. When he is barely ten paces away, she springs to her feet with a silent cry, a knife appearing magically in her right hand. Under the stark red spotlight, the serrated blade seems to be soaked in blood.

  A shocked gasp rises from the audience, and reverberates around the hall.

  As Mercy arcs the knife at Raoji’s chest, the music director instinctively extends his hands to protect himself. Discarding his stick, he leaps down from the stage with a stifled scream, his face a waxlike pastiche of panic.

  An even bigger gasp of surprise emanates from the crowd.

  ‘You … you can see?’ Bashir Ahmad notes, his jaw dropping open.

  ‘That is true,’ I say, clambering onto the stage and grabbing the mike. ‘Mercy was not trying to kill Raoji, only to expose him.’

  Mercy throws down the plastic toy knife I purchased last night from the street market, her chest heaving with emotion. She falls on her knees, crosses herself and kisses the crucifix around her neck. With tears running down her face, she lifts up her hands in prayer. ‘Lord, have mercy on my sister’s soul.’

  ‘Raoji is not blind, at least not in both eyes,’ I continue. ‘He had kept up the pretence so that he could feel up young girls, lure them by sympathy and ultimately exploit them, like he exploited Mercy’s sister Gracie, forcing her to kill herself. Last night he tried the same dirty trick with Neha. This evil man deserves to be publicly whipped.’

  The crowd roars in approval.

  Udita Sapru stands up suddenly. ‘I cannot bear to stay in the same room as this monster,’ she declares in a shaky voice, and then stalls, as though fighting with herself to continue. ‘He … he … did this to me, too, when I was a contestant on Song of Life.’

  The revelation is met with shock, astonishment and ultimately anger by the audience. A couple of men advance threateningly towards Raoji, who cowers in fear.

  ‘Cut it!’ Mathew George leaps out from his director’s chair. ‘I say, what’s going on?’ he asks no one in particular, struggling to maintain an air of professional calm.

  ‘I should never have agreed to judge this third-rate contest.’ Udita flashes a scornful look at him. ‘I quit.’

  ‘So do I,’ says Bashir Ahmad.

  ‘Me too,’ says Rohit Kalra.

  They walk out of the studio in a huff, leaving Raoji at the mercy of the hordes swarming at him from all sides.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, I discover Mathew George sitting forlornly on a bench, surveying the ruins of his set vandalised by the frenzied mob.

  ‘What have you done?’ t
he producer-cum-director screams at me. ‘Raoji is in hospital with fifty broken bones. And my contest has ended even before it had begun.’

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ I respond calmly. ‘I only gave you what you wanted.’

  ‘Why would I want to destroy my own show?’ he cries, tearing at his dreads like a madman.

  ‘You wanted our dirty laundry, our secrets and confessions. Well, I’ve given you a first-rate scandal. Enjoy.’

  * * *

  Neha and I take a train to Delhi the same afternoon. We spend the eighteen-hour journey in near complete silence, absorbed in our own thoughts. Karan’s face hovers in my mind like a persistent fever dream. Neha is unnaturally subdued, with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘No more singing contests for me,’ she tells me. She has seen the true face of the world, at last, and it has shattered her illusions, doused her fiery ambitions of instant stardom.

  There is a pleasant surprise in store for us the moment the train pulls into Paharganj station at seven a.m. the next day. Waiting on the platform is Karan Kant, holding an enormous bouquet of yellow carnations. I had informed him of our arrival, briefed him on the fiasco that was Popstar No. 1, but I never expected him to meet us at the station itself, and that too with a welcome gift. It melts away the failure and frustrations of Mumbai in an instant, makes me feel truly special.

  He looks dashing in a striped polo shirt and khaki chinos. My face flushes and my heart almost lurches out of my throat as I step forward to receive the flowers.

  To my utter astonishment, he slides past me and puts the bouquet into Neha’s lap. ‘Welcome back, Singing Queen.’ He beams at her. It’s a sweet gesture to cheer her up, but I cannot help feeling a trifle betrayed. A sickly surge of jealousy sours my gut as I watch Neha blush.

  Perhaps Karan had anticipated my reaction, for he turns to me an instant later. ‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten you, madam.’ He grins like a magician at the end of a trick, and whips out a single red rose encased in cellophane. He offers it to me with a grave little half-bow. Finding me still wrapped in confusion, he scratches his head and rolls his eyes. ‘You don’t like roses? Would you have preferred a steaming cup of tea?’ Screwing up his face, he intones throatily, ‘Chai! Chai garam!’ mimicking the singsong voice of the mobile chai wallahs who stalked our compartment at every stop.