by Vikas Swarup
‘One week is all you’ve got. Pay up or leave,’ he says, and terminates the call.
I find my hands are trembling with indignation. I take a moment to wish all sorts of lingering painful deaths on Deenu Uncle, before narrating the conversation to the other two occupants of the flat. Ma shakes her head, more in sorrow than in anger. The wickedness of the world is something she has taken for granted.
‘I never trusted that man. God is watching everything. One day Deenu will pay for his sins.’
Neha is surprisingly upbeat. ‘I say if that swine is throwing us out, let’s get out of this dump. It suffocates me to live here.’
‘And where will we go?’ I counter. ‘You think it is child’s play to find a new house?’
Before a fresh argument breaks out between us, Mother brings the focus back to more practical issues. ‘How are we going to get all this money?’ The question looms over us like an ominous cloud.
Papa didn’t leave us much. He had raided his pension fund long ago to finance Deenu Uncle’s initial foray in the restaurant business. And his modest savings from his teaching job were used up in the establishment costs of moving to a new city. At the time of his death, he had barely ten thousand rupees in his bank account.
Ma has already figured out the answer to the question. She unlocks her cupboard and retrieves two pairs of gold bangles. ‘I had kept these for both your weddings. But, if we need to sell them to retain the house, then so be it.’ She offers them to me with a wistful sigh.
My heart goes out to Ma. Since Papa’s death, this is the third piece of heirloom jewellery she has been forced to part with: first to pay for Neha’s education, then to cater for her own medical expenses, and now to save this flat.
A heavy silence hangs over our home as we sit down for dinner. I am haunted by an acute sense of failure, as though I’d let my family down when they needed me most. Never have I felt the lack of money more keenly. For a fleeting moment the vision of all those crisp notes lying on the table of the Coffee House swims into my mind, before I dismiss it as a sick joke. How can a madman like Acharya be taken seriously? Yet he keeps circling my brain like an irritating fly.
To satisfy my curiosity, I sit down at my computer after dinner. It is a decrepit Dell tower unit that I salvaged from the showroom just as they were about to dispose of it to a junk dealer. A dinosaur running on Windows 2000, it nevertheless allows me to surf the Internet, check my emails and use the word processor to tabulate the household expenditure at the end of every month.
I log on to the Internet and type in ‘Vinay Mohan Acharya’ in the search box. The query instantly registers 1.9 million hits.
The industrialist is all over cyberspace. There are news reports about his business deals, speculation on his net worth, image galleries capturing his various moods, and YouTube videos of him making speeches at shareholder meetings and international conferences. Over the next half-hour, I learn many new facts about him, such as his passion for cricket, his occasional (and unsuccessful) forays into politics, his bitter rivalry with his twin brother Ajay Krishna Acharya, the owner of Premier Industries, and his active philanthropy. He apparently donates buckets of cash to all manner of charities and has twice been awarded the President’s Medal for having the best CSR programme. I also confirm that he had indeed lost his wife and daughter in the crash of a Thai Airways flight from Bangkok to Kathmandu on 31 July 1992, which killed all 113 passengers.
As I trawl through the mire of information about him on the web, Acharya comes across as a complex and conflicted personality. He has admirers hailing him as India’s most ethical businessman, and critics decrying his idiosyncrasies, his narcissism and megalomania. But there is no disputing his genius in single-handedly transforming the ABC Group from a startup into India’s eighth-largest conglomerate with holdings in steel, cement, textiles, power generation, rayon, aluminium, consumer goods, chemicals, computers, consulting and even films.
My research makes one thing clear: the owner of the ABC Group is neither a raving lunatic nor a devious shark. By rejecting his offer out of hand, did I miss a big opportunity, I wonder, feeling the first pangs of doubt? The very next moment I chide myself for allowing naïve hope to override sound judgement. In this world, you never get something for nothing, I remind myself. If an offer seems too good to be true, it usually is.
Still, I go to bed plagued with the feeling that time is passing me by. That I am stuck in a dead-end job, with a future on permanent hold. There was a time, not so long ago, when the ship of my life had direction and momentum. Now it seems like an aimless, rudderless drift, where one week leads to another, each day is the same and nothing ever changes.
At least my dreams that night are different. Through the confused farrago of fragmented images, I vividly remember sitting in a luxurious private plane and flying over the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland. There is only one little problem: the pilot happens to be the industrialist Vinay Mohan Acharya.
* * *
I start the long, treacherous commute to work the next morning with a positive attitude and a clear mind. The metro is less crowded on weekends, but I am extra careful with my handbag, laying a protective hand over it. A gift from my friend Lauren, it is a tan woven purse by Nine West with beige faux snakeskin and looks really classy. Today it also contains the four gold bangles on which depends my family’s collective future.
At Inder Lok station, a familiar-looking man with dyed hair and long sideburns, clad in a politician’s khadi dress, barges into the compartment. He is trailed by a band of supporters and a posse of gun-toting commandoes who start evicting commuters to make way for the VIP and his entourage. The man, I learn from one of his lackeys, is our local legislator Anwar Noorani, taking his ‘weekly metro ride to bond with the common man’. I have read about this gentleman in the newspapers, how he runs a chain of private hospitals allegedly funded by proceeds from an illegal hawala racket. ‘If there are any local issues you wish to bring to my attention, please feel free to visit me in my constituency office located behind the Delhi Institute of Technology,’ the MLA announces. His hooded, restless eyes flit across the compartment and come to rest on me. ‘How are you, sister?’ He flashes me a plastic smile. I avert my gaze and pretend to look out of the window. Mercifully, he disembarks at the very next station.
Delhi is a strange city, I reflect. Here, status is not based on whether you wear Armani, drive a Mercedes or quote Jean-Paul Sartre at cocktail parties. Your status is determined by how many rules you can break and how many people you can bully. That distinction alone puts you in the category of VIP.
The showroom is a hive of activity from morning itself. Saturday is our busiest day. Plus, with the Cricket World Cup approaching, our promotion campaign is in full swing. We expect sales of flat-screen TVs to peak during the next two months.
A newlywed couple approach me for advice on buying the right television. They are debating between LCD and plasma. It doesn’t take me long to persuade them to go in for the latest Sony LED TV, with the added sweetener of a free electronic toaster in our two-for-one promotion, but it is not my best effort. I am distracted and impatient, waiting for the lunch break. As soon as the clock strikes one, I sneak out through the back door, only to bump into Raja Gulati, Delhi’s most obnoxious playboy. For some reason he is lounging in front of Beckett’s, an Irish pub just four doors down from the showroom. Dressed in his trademark leather jacket, he is leaning against his Yamaha motorbike, and counting a sheaf of notes. The moment he sees me, he stashes away the cash and beams at me. Short and pudgy, with a stubbly face, a bushy moustache and long hair, Raja’s only claim to fame is that his millionaire father is the owner of the showroom. His sole pastime is drinking alcohol and picking up girls. If office gossip is to be believed, he has already had success with one of the salesgirls. These days he keeps making crude passes at Prachi and me. But I’d rather eat live cockroaches than give in to this slimeball’s amorous advances.
‘Hell
oo, who do we have here? The Ice Maiden herself!’ He gives me a wolfish grin, and pats the seat of his Yamaha. ‘Would you like to come with me for a spin?’
‘No, thanks,’ I respond coldly.
‘You have great legs.’ His eyes descend my body. ‘What time do they open?’
I feel the burn of anger rising in my face, but this is neither the time nor the place for a showdown. ‘Why don’t you ask your mother?’ I retort, and walk past him. He sighs and heads into the pub, probably to drown his disappointment in drink.
Without wasting time, I proceed to Jhaveri Jewellers in N-Block. Prashant Jhaveri, the young owner, used to be Papa’s student at one time, and always offers me a fair price. I expect him to quote well over ₹200,000 for the four gold bangles nestling inside my handbag.
At the crossing on Radial Road 6, traffic is held up by some kind of religious procession. There are hundreds of men, women and children draped in saffron-coloured clothes, chanting and dancing to the tune of trumpet and dhol. Cars honk in frustration and pedestrians fume, but the group continues on its merry path, unmindful of the inconvenience and nuisance it is causing. And this is a daily occurrence. Delhi has become a city of rallies and roadblocks.
I am still waiting for the procession to pass when someone pokes me in the side. It is a street urchin in a tattered sweater. He is no more than eight years old, with a dusty face and grimy hair. He says nothing, just holds out a cupped palm in the universal gesture for need. Nothing upsets me more than seeing these child beggars. At an age when they should be in class, they are on the streets, trying to earn a living by exploiting the only working skill they possess: evoking pity. I almost never give alms to them, as it only encourages their begging habit. Worse, it often leads them into more dangerous addictions such as glue, booze and even drugs. What they really need is a lucky break, a supportive environment and a healthy dose of self-respect. Something that Lauren and her RMT Asha Foundation provide.
This particular beggar is not easily fobbed off. ‘I haven’t eaten in two days. Can you give me some money?’ he mumbles, pressing a bony hand into his belly. Looking down into his large, pleading eyes, I just cannot say no. ‘I won’t give you money,’ I tell him, ‘but I’ll buy you lunch.’ His face lights up. There is a roadside hawker next to us selling chhole kulcha for ₹10 a plate. ‘Would you like one of these?’ I ask him.
‘I love kulchas,’ he replies, smacking his chapped lips.
I unhook my handbag from my shoulder and open the zip to take out cash. At that very instant, someone swoops at me from behind, snatching the purse from my hands. It all happens so quickly that I don’t even catch the thief’s face. All I see is a swish of saffron. Before I know it, he has melted into the crowd of devotees. I turn back and find that the beggar boy has also disappeared. I have fallen for the oldest trap in the book.
For a moment I stand motionless, totally stunned by this turn of events. My hands turn cold and my breathing almost stops. ‘Nooo!’ I let out an anguished cry and rush headlong into the sea of saffron. I am pummelled and crushed from all sides, but I continue to burrow through the human wall in blind pursuit of the thief.
I do not find the culprit, but, once the procession has passed, I find my handbag lying discarded by the side of the road. I rush to retrieve it. It still has my cell phone and house keys. My ID card and lipstick and sunglasses and pepper spray are intact. Everything is there except the four gold bangles.
I slump down on the side of the road, feeling dizzy and nauseous. My arms grow heavy and limp and my vision turns blurry. When things clear up, I find a policeman squatting next to me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I respond weakly. ‘Someone stole my purse.’
‘Then what is this?’ He taps the Nine West in my lap with his baton.
‘He – he took away my mother’s gold bangles and left the bag behind.’
‘Did you see his face? Can you give us the thief’s description?’
‘No. But don’t the police know all the gangs operating in the area? I’m sure you can catch him.’ I clutch his arm like a lifeline. ‘Please, you must do something. We’ll be ruined if I don’t get back the bangles. If you want I can even file a report.’
‘It won’t do you any good. This happens here every day. Unless we have a description we can’t do anything. Take my advice. Don’t waste your time and ours by registering an FIR. Just be more careful with your belongings next time.’ He assists me to my feet, gives me a sympathetic look and walks off, tapping his baton on his palm.
I rummage desperately through the bag once again, hoping against hope to somehow discover those bangles, but miracles happen only in fairytales and films. A huge lump rises at the back of my throat, and tears start streaming down my cheeks as my mind absorbs the full magnitude of the loss. All around me people are laughing, eating, shopping, enjoying the sunshine. None of them can understand my inner torment. As a child I had once lost a favourite doll and cried two full days over it. Now I have lost my mother’s most precious jewellery. The thief has taken more than just gold: he has taken away our future.
I am still sobbing on the pavement when my eyes fall on a giant advertising billboard displaying the temperature and time. With a shock I realise it’s already past two o’clock. Madan, my obnoxious boss, does not take kindly to employees taking an extended lunch break. Having lost the bangles, I am in danger of losing my job as well.
I break into a run, my three-inch heels hurting and occasionally tripping me up, until I arrive breathless at the showroom – except that the showroom doesn’t look the same any more. Loud voices are being raised, bewildered customers are being shepherded out with abject apologies, and the shutter is being hastily pulled down halfway, the equivalent of the flag at half-mast, a sure sign of trouble.
I duck inside the shutter to discover even more bedlam. There is a lot of yelling and swearing. Accusations are flying in the air like paper planes. Everyone seems to be gathered round the cashier’s cubicle, including Mr O. P. Gulati himself, our venerable owner, and someone is crying out in agonised pain. I force my way through the crush of errand boys, back-office clerks, delivery-truck drivers and sales staff to discover that the shrieks are emanating from Mr Choubey, our balding, fifty-five-year-old cashier. He is rolling on the floor, being mercilessly beaten by Madan, our manager and the most hated man in the store. ‘Namak-haram! You traitorous bastard,’ Madan rants, as he punches Choubey in the face and kicks him in the gut. A gruff, abrasive man, Madan has only two passions in life: sucking up to Mr Gulati and getting sadistic pleasure from reprimanding store employees.
‘I don’t know how it happened. I was away for just twenty minutes for lunch,’ the cashier laments, but cannot prevent yet another lacerating blow. I wince in sympathy for him. I have only lost a few gold bangles; Choubey has lost his pride, his dignity.
‘What’s going on?’ I nudge Prachi. She fills me in on what has happened during my absence. Apparently Mr Gulati made a surprise inspection this afternoon and discovered a shortfall of almost ₹200,000 from the morning shift. Since the cash was under the cashier’s direct supervision, Choubey was now being accused of embezzlement.
‘I swear on my three children I didn’t do it,’ the cashier wails.
‘Tell me where the money is and I might still spare you,’ Mr Gulati says, his bushy eyebrows furrowed like two caterpillars trying to reach each other.
‘Madan has already searched me. I don’t have the money,’ cries Choubey.
‘The bastard must have passed it to his accomplice,’ Madan theorises. ‘I say we hand him over to the police. They’ll get the truth out of him in no time. I’ve been cultivating Goswami, the inspector at the Connaught Place police station, for quite a while. Now is the time to use him.’
‘Please don’t do this, sahib.’ Choubey clutches Mr Gulati’s feet. ‘I have served this shop for thirty years. My wife and children will die without me.’
‘Then let them die,’ Mr Gulat
i says spitefully, yanking his leg free. ‘Madan, phone that inspector of yours,’ he orders.
I don’t know Choubey all that well. He is a quiet man who keeps to himself. Our interactions have been limited to the polite exchange of pleasantries, but I have always found him to be conscientious, courteous and diligent. It is inconceivable that he could defraud the company. And even a hardened criminal does not make a false oath on his children. That is when an image pops into my head: of Raja Gulati sitting on his bike, busy counting a sheaf of notes. I know that the senior Gulati doesn’t approve of Raja’s drinking and womanising. And the rotten son is quite capable of surreptitiously raiding the till to fund his extravagant lifestyle.
‘Wait!’ I address Madan. ‘How do you know Mr Choubey is the culprit?’
Everyone turns to look at me. Madan gives me a murderous glance, but deigns to answer. ‘He is the only one with keys to the safe.’
‘Isn’t it true that the Gulati family also has keys to the safe?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Mr O. P. Gulati interrupts me. ‘That I have robbed my own shop?’
‘I am not saying it was you, sir. But what about Raja?’
There is a collective intake of breath. Even I am amazed at my reckless audacity.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Madan goes into an apoplectic fit. ‘Raja-babu didn’t even come to the shop today.’
‘But I saw him outside the showroom an hour ago, counting a sheaf of notes.’
I can see that Mr O. P. Gulati is troubled by this news. He wrings his hands nervously, biting on his bottom lip, as he weighs up the possibilities. Eventually, paternal affection prevails over his doubts. ‘How dare you make such a scurrilous accusation against my son?’ he lambastes me, eyes glittering with anger. ‘One more word and I will dismiss you on the spot.’
I turn silent, knowing that no amount of argument can overcome a father’s blind love.
* * *
Half an hour later a police jeep arrives bearing Inspector Goswami, a tall, beefy-looking officer, who has been getting a 35 per cent discount from us on all his electronic purchases. He catches hold of the accountant as a butcher grabs a chicken. Choubey goes without protest, without making a scene, as though he has accepted his fate. I watch this travesty of justice unfold before my eyes with a helpless rage. Choubey had been branded a thief simply because he was weak and powerless. And Raja Gulati had got away with embezzlement because he was rich and pedigreed. I feel so nauseated, I want to puke. My entire body shudders with loathing for Raja and his father. I know what happened to Choubey today can quite easily happen to me tomorrow. And, like Choubey, I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. There are only two choices available to the powerless of this world: either accept the abuse or walk away, only to suffer the same abuse from some other powerful person.
