by Vikas Swarup
In the distance I can see a sprawling mansion of the kind showcased in Bollywood films, set on acres of land. To reach it we have to go through a long, curving driveway with manicured hedges. Along the way I catch a glimpse of a couple of vicious-looking Dobermans tethered to a tree trunk. They begin to strain at their leashes the moment they see the Tempo. All this security makes me uncomfortable. It also makes me curious about the identity of the owner. The marble nameplate on the outside wall mentioned only the name of the house: ‘Prarthana’ – ‘Prayer’ in Hindi.
The main residence itself is a grand, gaudy structure, with Corinthian columns, Palladian windows and cascades of flowering bougainvillea pouring over French balconies. A liveried orderly opens a carved bronze door and I step into an opulent drawing room with gilded furniture, fine Persian carpets and even a grand piano.
‘There you are.’ A man rises from a sofa. ‘Welcome to Prarthana.’
It is Vinay Mohan Acharya. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask in astonishment.
‘Receiving delivery of the TV set I ordered,’ he deadpans. That is when I realise I have arrived at the industrialist’s residence.
‘So is it your birthday?’
‘No. The TV was just an excuse to get you here.’
‘What is it now? Which new test have I passed – or failed?’ I ask peevishly.
‘It’s not about any test this time,’ he replies. ‘I called you here because I want you to attend a rather important business meeting I am about to have.’
‘With whom?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he says, and dismisses Sharad. ‘You can leave. I’ll have Miss Sinha dropped.’
For the next fifteen minutes he takes me on a guided tour of the property. I see the indoor swimming pool, the full-fledged gymnasium and the temple with statues of deities in gold and ivory. There are rooms upon rooms full of incredible antiques from all over the world and a magnificent art collection, including a mural in the dining room designed by Tyeb Mehta. Liveried servants hover about, ready to cater to every whim and need a guest may have.
‘How many rooms does this place have?’ I am curious to know as we enter the study.
‘I’ve never counted, but, if you add all the servants’ quarters on the edge of the compound, it must be close to fifty.’
The study is equally opulent, a high-ceilinged room with oak panelling, hardwood flooring and a mini-library full of leather-bound, antique-looking books. The double French glass doors overlook a lush, landscaped garden with marble fountains and travertine statues.
I have just sunk into a luxurious, high-backed chair when an intercom buzzes. It’s the security at the gate, informing him that his visitor has arrived.
‘Send him through,’ Acharya says.
‘I’ve never seen so much security at a private residence,’ I observe wryly.
‘Delhi is an unsafe city. We need to deter strangers trying to enter the compound.’
‘Nobody takes such precautions simply to deter strangers.’
‘It’s not public knowledge, but there have been two attempts on my life. And I have a strong suspicion both were masterminded by the person who is about to meet me. He is more dangerous than a poisonous snake.’
‘Then why are you meeting him?’
‘He has asked for this meeting.’
‘At least tell me the name of this mystery person.’
‘It is my twin brother, Ajay Krishna Acharya, or AK, as he likes to call himself. The owner of Premier Industries.’
An electric current darts through my body, making me leap out of my chair. ‘In that case I will not attend this meeting,’ I announce.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to involve me in your corporate rivalry,’ I reply, Karan’s words ringing in my ears: ‘Acharya will use you as a pawn to get to his brother.’
Acharya presses his fingertips to his temples, his face suddenly slack. It is clear he did not anticipate this reaction from me. ‘“Know your enemy” is the first rule of strategy and of business,’ he says. ‘I wanted you to get acquainted with the ABC Group’s biggest enemy. The man who tried to infiltrate my organisation. The man who has been trying desperately for the last thirty years to destroy me.’
Just then the doorbell rings. I can hear the sound of the front door being opened.
‘Quick!’ He herds me towards the connecting door. ‘If you don’t want to attend the meeting, at least observe it.’
Before I know it, I have been shooed into the adjacent room, which I discover to be the master bedroom. It is dominated by a majestic mahogany bed with an ornately carved headboard and rich purple bed linen. The left wall features a massive oval mirror made of black onyx stone. The right wall has a portrait of a stern old man with a walrus moustache, dressed in the style of the 1940s, probably Acharya’s father. On a side table immediately below it sits a collection of family photographs.
I am both apprehensive and uneasy as I drag an upholstered chair from the foot of the bed and sit down facing the connecting door, which Acharya has left open a crack to allow me to see what’s going on.
The man who walks into the study looks like a duplicate of Acharya – same height, same build, same physical features. It is uncanny to see two men in one room looking like mirror images of each other, with the same piercing brown eyes, aquiline nose and firm mouth. The only real thing to distinguish them is their hair. AK keeps a trimmed French beard and his slicked-back, jet-black hair is obviously dyed. In contrast to Acharya, he seems to be a bit of a dandy, dressed all in black – a silk shirt, tight trousers and pointy shoes. His tanned face looks freshly Botoxed, or embalmed, depending upon one’s taste. The overall effect is that of an effete and ageing playboy, an old man trying hard to look young.
He settles down into the chair opposite Acharya, who summons a servant. ‘What will you have, AK?’
‘A martini on the rocks,’ says his twin. Even his voice is eerily similar to Acharya’s.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t serve alcohol in the house.’
‘You’re still the same old prude, aren’t you? Well, then get me a nimbu paani.’
While Acharya is busy instructing the servant, AK takes out a cigar from his chest pocket and lights it. Stretching his legs, he blows cigar smoke towards the ceiling.
Acharya frowns at him. ‘I’m afraid you cannot smoke in here. Prarthana is a no-smoking zone.’
‘Then what do you keep this for?’ AK points scornfully at the marble ashtray on the centre table. He stubs out his cigar in a quick, brutal movement and exhales a last time.
‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’ asks Acharya.
‘About the ABC Group. How badly it is doing.’
‘We are doing quite well, thank you.’
‘Is that so? I’m told your first-quarter results are going to be quite disappointing: revenues down 8.52 per cent in January and 4.7 per cent in February.’
‘First-quarter results haven’t been announced yet. Where did you get these figures?’
‘I have my sources.’
‘Is it the same mole who has been feeding you our secret information, allowing you to underbid us on the national ID-card software tender by one rupee?’
AK ignores the comment. ‘The bad news doesn’t just end there. You have virtually no new revenue, no cash from financing activities, and your overheads are continuing to mount because of your obstinate refusal to lay off workers.’
‘Did you come here to teach me how to run my business?’
‘No. I came here to drill some sense into you. The writing is on the wall, whether you read it or not. Face it: you’ve lost your touch, Vinay Mohan. The ABC Group has been beaten by the Premier Group on seven consecutive bids. Your stake deal with Nippon Steel is in jeopardy. Your proposed buyout of Clemantis Windpower is likely to be rejected by stockholders.’
‘You are reading too much business gossip. Come to the point, AK,’ Acharya says testily.
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‘Well, the point is this. I know that the ABC Group is facing a cash crunch and is negotiating to renew its line of credit with bankers. I can provide you with that cash.’
‘Sorry, we’re not releasing any new stock.’
‘I don’t want to buy your shares: I want to buy your company, lock, stock and barrel. Sell out to me. I am prepared to make a reasonable offer for the ABC Group, as much as five billion dollars.’
‘Never!’ Acharya almost springs out of his chair. ‘I know how you do business, AK. You are a godless thug who buys companies only to suck them dry. I will never allow the ABC Group to be run by scum like you.’
‘Calm down, Vinay. It’s strictly business, nothing personal.’
The atmosphere has become so electric, I can almost see the sparks flying between the two. For the first time in my life I am witnessing the cut and thrust of the business world. How deals are made and rejected. Acharya and his twin are genetic copies of each other, yet vastly different. One is a freewheeling tyrant who rules by instinct and conviction, the other a cunning opportunist who profits through deceit and guile. It’s like watching two bulls lock horns, their contrasting personalities clashing like storm clouds, the room reverberating with the thunder of their mutual animus.
AK has still not given up. ‘Listen to me, brother,’ he says, leaning forward on his haunches and speaking in his most suave voice. ‘We are united by ties of blood. We have both faced personal tragedies. You lost your wife and daughter. My only son committed suicide. Why can’t we bury the hatchet? United we stand, divided you fall.’
‘I seem to recall that many years ago you had made a similar plea to our mother. Poor Amma sold out her share, only for you to squander it all on fast women and slow horses.’
‘That’s old history. You better not bring Mother into the discussion.’
‘Then you better not bring the ABC Group into it.’
‘If I won’t, someone else will. I am told you have been keeping indifferent health lately.’
‘Lie. Utter lie!’
‘Still, have you considered what will happen to the ABC Group after you are gone?’
‘I have a succession plan ready.’
‘And who is this successor, if I might ask?’
‘Someone who believes in the same values as I do. Someone who will keep the ABC Group safe from predators like you.’
‘You don’t need a succession plan: you need a rescue plan. I still care for our blood ties and my buyout offer will remain on the table. You can either make it happen, or, at the very least, let it happen. Otherwise, I promise you, Vinay, you will be left wondering what happened.’
‘That is enough.’ Acharya raises his voice. ‘I suggest you leave now.’
‘Fine.’ AK gets up and smoothes his shirt out. ‘The next time I see you will be at your funeral.’
The moment AK departs, Acharya charges into the bedroom, nostrils flaring, jaw set in anger. ‘Who does this uncivilised bigot think he is? The King of England?’
I assume the neutral attitude of a judge at a particularly bitter divorce proceeding. ‘AK may be an obnoxious jerk, but are the facts and figures he trotted out true? Is the ABC Group really in bad shape?’
‘Not at all,’ Acharya says vehemently. ‘We have been impacted by the continuing global slowdown, as has everyone else. But the situation is not half as bad as made out by AK. Our balance sheet is quite healthy and our debt–equity ratio is less than one. That’s why he wants to buy us out.’
‘But you rejected his offer out of hand. Was it too low?’
‘Let me ask you a question. Would you agree to marry a practised womaniser, a habitual drunk and a thief to boot?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Exactly. That is why I will never sell out to the Premier Group, even if they offer me twenty billion. Because it is run by a cabal of cheats, headed by the biggest villain of them all, AK.’
‘He also mentioned something about you refusing to lay off workers.’
‘I can fire employees for cheating and disloyalty, not for an economic crisis they didn’t create. Before you fire an employee you have to think of the social costs, not just the economic benefits. Take our cement factory in Laos, for example. It’s losing money, but not so much that we need to shut operations. People are poor there. If we lay off the workers, their families will starve to death. I can’t allow that.’
‘And I thought corporations were callous and unscrupulous, driven solely by the need for profit.’
‘Traditional corporations are. By its very nature, business is supposed to be about hard-headed economic decisions, with no scope for emotion. It is hard-wired to think only about making the most money possible, with no regard for the public good. I started out doing business like that, before realising it was the wrong way. Now value comes first for me, and profit second.’ He pauses and looks at me. ‘Do you know who taught me this truth?’
‘Your father?’
‘No. It was Maya, my daughter. She was wise beyond her years. That is why God took her away when she was just twenty-five.’
I walk to the side table and pick out the photo of a teenaged girl sitting in an armchair, her black, slanted eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘Is this her picture?’
‘Yes. I miss her every day.’
I search the girl’s face for any features similar to mine, but there’s not even a superficial resemblance. Acharya certainly didn’t pick me because I looked like his daughter. ‘Her features don’t seem typically Indian,’ I observe.
‘That’s because her mother – my wife – was Japanese.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘In Nagasaki. I went to Japan as a student and lived there for ten years. I fell in love with their culture and a girl named Kyoko.’
I pick up another photo, this one of a slender, gentle-looking woman in a kimono. ‘Is this Kyoko?’
He nods. ‘She also died in that air crash with Maya.’
He takes the photo frame from my hands and gazes at the picture longingly. ‘Japanese women are very similar to Indian women. They are gentle, sincere, kind, and devoted to family. Like Indian wives, they understand hierarchy.’
I take it as a subtle hint to me. I have to understand and obey hierarchy.
As he places the photo back on the table, I observe a teardrop escape the side of his eye. It is the first time he has let down his taciturn exterior to reveal his softer side. Despite my reservations about this entire project, I cannot help feeling a twinge of sympathy for him. I can see the ravages of loneliness in his weary eyes, imbuing his face with a certain noble sadness. His monumental egoism, I now realise, is actually a form of defence mechanism to hide his vulnerability. He is still a grieving husband and a distraught father. He has succeeded as a businessman, buying up firms and factories, but all his wealth cannot fill the hole in his heart.
He notices me noticing him and looks away, blushing slightly, as if embarrassed at his own sentimentality. ‘Now that you have seen AK, can you appreciate why I need to keep him at arm’s length?’ he asks, evidently to change the subject.
‘I must say I found him to be incredibly pushy and rude.’
‘The real problem isn’t his rudeness: it’s his volatility. Have you ever wondered why the symbol of the Premier Group is a charging bull? It’s because AK is exactly that, a rampaging bull. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants.’
‘Is he really that powerful?’
‘It’s power that comes from collusion and corruption. Let me share something with you in the strictest confidence. Have you heard of Atlas Investments?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s the front company behind virtually every scam.’
‘Well, I have a strong hunch that AK is the mastermind behind Atlas.’
‘What?’ My head jerks up sharply. ‘That’s a pretty strong accusation.’
‘Obviously I don’t have hard evidence, but I have carefully analysed the patterns of Premier Group’s inves
tments in recent times and they seem to match the timelines of the scams. Plus, as you have already seen, he seems to be flush with cash. No prizes for guessing where all this money has come from.’
‘Then why isn’t action being taken against him?’
‘Because everyone is in this together. To bust him we need clinching evidence of payouts into his secret bank accounts.’
‘There is an elderly lady in our colony, a Gandhian called Nirmala Ben, who is threatening to start a people’s revolution to force the government to reveal the identity of the scamster behind Atlas.’
Acharya waves dismissively. ‘Tell her not to waste her efforts on Atlas. The network of payoffs runs so deep, it will require more than a totally transparent analysis of structure ownership to reveal the real culprit. And that’s not going to happen in a hurry.’
Just then Rana enters the room carrying a thick folder. He is surprised to see me with Mr Acharya. ‘I brought you the Avantha contract for signing, sir,’ he tells the industrialist.
‘Yes, of course,’ says Acharya, as if reminded of something important.
Suddenly I feel awkward, standing in the middle of Acharya’s bedroom. ‘Can I go now? I would like to catch some of the cricket action at least.’
Acharya gestures to Rana. ‘Will you see that she is dropped back to her house?’
With a displeased scowl, Rana leads me down to the underground garage with space for six cars. There is a BMW, a Mercedes, a Jaguar, a Porsche and, rather incongruously, a Tata Indica.
‘What’s the Indica doing in this line-up of luxury imported cars?’ I ask Rana.
The scowl on his face deepens. ‘It happens to be my personal vehicle. I don’t like taking lifts in other people’s cars,’ he says coldly, as he summons a uniformed chauffeur.
Two minutes later, I leave the mansion in a Mercedes-Benz, my first ever luxury ride. Stretching my legs and watching the city go by from the tinted windows of the sedan, I feel instantly energised and uplifted. The plush leather seat, the temperature-controlled environment and the soothing voice of Jagjit Singh filtering through the car stereo have something to do with it. But most of all it is the thought that one day this car might actually be mine.
