The Accidental Apprentice: A Novel

  I can only guess at the inner turmoil that must have led the woman to take such an irrevocable step. ‘What will happen to her now?’

  ‘She’ll probably spend the rest of her life in prison,’ Dr Bansal says, threading his way through the clusters of patients, family members and nurses. The ICU resembles a post-battle scene from a war movie, with mangled and mutilated bodies lying in various states of patch-up. Neha’s bed is at the very end of the ward, propped against a whitewashed wall spider-webbed with cracks, where a small, square window looks out on the central courtyard.

  A lump of sorrow forms in my throat as I approach Neha. My sister’s face is completely swathed in bandages, with just the eyes visible, reminding me of the Invisible Man. I gently take her hand in mine, and give it a consoling squeeze. She quickly pulls away, as one would from a leper’s touch, and latches onto Ma’s hand. The pain in my heart becomes even sharper.

  There is a perceptible coldness in Neha’s demeanour towards me, verging on hostility. Perhaps she feels I did not do enough to protect her. Or that what happened to her was somehow my fault.

  I take Dr Bansal aside. ‘Once the bandages are removed, what should we expect?’

  ‘A face that has been permanently scarred,’ he replies. ‘It will be a painful experience, both for her and for you.’

  A heaving sob escapes my chest. Dr Bansal grimaces sympathetically. ‘The Neha that you knew has gone for ever. The sooner you accept that, the better.’

  ‘Can’t we do something to restore her face?’

  ‘Of course we can. But it will take years of plastic and reconstructive surgery, and will cost you lakhs.’

  ‘I will get you the money,’ I say with a fierce determination and take out my cell phone. Going out into the corridor, I dial Acharya’s number.

  He answers almost immediately. ‘Isn’t it a bit late for you to be calling me, Sapna?’

  ‘I have never asked you for anything,’ I begin, ‘but today I need your help for my sister Neha. I need money for her surgery.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone threw acid on her. Now she is in hospital, fighting for her life.’

  ‘Tch, tch.’ He makes clicking noises with his tongue. ‘That’s very sad. Did they arrest the boys who did this?’

  ‘Boys?’ I pause suddenly. ‘How did you know who did this? And that it was more than one boy? I never mentioned it.’

  He doesn’t speak for a long moment. ‘I … I guessed it must have been more than one person.’

  ‘My God! So you were behind the acid attack!’ I gasp, a bolt of realisation hitting me like lightning. ‘Was this another demented test of yours?’

  ‘Now let’s not jump to conclu—’

  ‘What have you done?’ I shrill at him, my hands forming into fists. ‘You are an insane man who has crossed all limits.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. You were behind the acid attack, weren’t you?’

  ‘Of course not. But I did tell you that the last test will be the hardest.’

  ‘Why did you have to bring my sister into it?’

  ‘I didn’t. God did. Didn’t I also tell you there might be some … ah, collateral damage?’

  ‘You call butchering someone’s face collateral damage?’ I shriek.

  ‘The Japanese have a phrase. It’s called “shikata ga nai”, meaning “it can’t be helped”. Hardship must be borne.’

  His preachy pretentiousness infuriates me further. There is nothing more left to say. Each and every illusion that I have harboured over the last five months has finally been shattered. Karan was right all along. Acharya was a violent sadist and I was a certified lunatic for having willingly become a pawn in his evil scheme.

  A volcano of hate erupts in my brain as I storm back into the ward. A tidal wave of raw, seething, primal rage courses through my blood, making my fingers twitch. I want to wrap them around Acharya’s throat and squeeze until his eyes pop out of their sockets. ‘You are a monster. I will kill you!’ I scream into the phone. The other relatives in the burns ward look up sharply. A nurse frowns at me and puts a finger to her lips. ‘Silence, please.’

  ‘You are needlessly getting excited,’ Acharya says. ‘Why don’t you come over to Prarthana? I’ll explain everything to you.’

  ‘I’m coming there right now. You just wait there, you bastard.’ I terminate the call and stride out of the ward.

  Outside the hospital, the weather has changed completely. The humid heat has given way to lashing rain. Unseasonal, and therefore all the more frightening. Lightning slices through the pitch-black sky like a great, blue knife, followed by an ominous clap of thunder that rattles the bus shelter on the opposite side of the road. Without an umbrella, I am soaked to the bone within seconds. But it doesn’t matter. Just as it doesn’t matter that I haven’t had a morsel to eat since lunch. Nothing matters except my burning desire for revenge.

  It takes me ten minutes to find an auto-rickshaw. I explain Acharya’s address in Vasant Vihar to the driver. ‘It will cost you two hundred rupees, madam,’ he says flatly, quoting double the normal fare.

  ‘I’ll give you three hundred. Just take me there quickly.’

  We drive through pouring rain and howling wind. Throughout the forty-five-minute journey I maintain a stony silence. My thoughts are trapped in a loop of agonised shrieks and phantom sensations of holding Neha’s writhing body. Her bandaged face swims before my eyes, blocking out all thought. My entire world has been torn asunder and nothing can ever piece it together again. Now I am going to end Acharya’s world, deliver him my judgement from hell.

  As the auto-rickshaw approaches Plot No. 133-C, my heartbeat rises. I clench and unclench my fists.

  A pair of security types with earpieces and radios stop me at Prarthana’s imposing gates. ‘Are you Sapna Sinha?’ one of them asks as he shines a flashlight in my face.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  He waves me through to the guard post, where two uniformed guards begin arguing with each other. ‘Jaane de na. Let her go,’ says one. ‘Boss had told us to expect her.’

  ‘No,’ says the other. ‘No one is allowed to go in without double checking with Boss.’ He picks up the intercom and presses a button. ‘Sir, Miss Sapna Sinha is here.’

  ‘Send her in,’ I hear Acharya say gruffly. The guard nods and brings me an umbrella.

  I glare at him. ‘You expect me to walk to the residence in this rain? Why can’t I go in my auto?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but auto-rickshaws are not allowed to go inside Prarthana. Mr Acharya has given strict instructions. You’ll have to walk. It’ll only take you five minutes.’

  Shaking my head at this ridiculous rule, I turn to the auto driver. ‘Wait here,’ I instruct him. ‘I won’t be long.’

  He looks at the sky. The rain shows no sign of relenting. He scours the deserted street. There is hardly any chance of finding a new customer. ‘No problem,’ he says, inserting a freshly made paan into his mouth. ‘I’ll add another hundred rupees’ detention charge.’

  I unfurl the umbrella and begin the long walk down the curving driveway. The wind picks up, whistling through the manicured hedges like a haunting lullaby. The rain pelts down on the parasol, cascading off the black vinyl in a steady stream. I plod on towards the house, shoes squishing, my wet churidar suit clinging to my body like a second skin.

  Halfway to the house the path curves right and as I turn the bend I find my way barred by a couple of fierce-looking dogs who greet me with low growls. They are the Dobermans, their eyes glowing like fiery embers in the night, their thin black fur glistening like wet rock. Though they are tethered to a tree trunk, I skirt the far edge of the path, putting as much distance as possible between me and them. Another crack of lightning tears through the sky, lighting up the mansion like an exposed negative, and another gust of wind almost twists the umbrella inside out.

  Reaching the shelter of the cove
red portico feels like a major victory. I close the umbrella, shake the rain out of my hair, and press the doorbell.

  I wait for almost two minutes but no one opens the door. I press the doorbell a second time. Again no answer. That is when I notice that the door is ajar. I push it open and step onto a designer welcome mat. Almost reflexively I begin wiping my shoes, ridding them of excess moisture. ‘Mr Acharya?’ I call out, only to hear my own voice echo back in the marbled foyer.

  The eerie silence in the house is unnerving. On my last visit the place was crawling with servants. Tonight it resembles a haunted castle. The vast, empty rooms seem secretive and sinister as I walk through them, the shadows on the walls appearing to watch my every move, whispering conspiracies to each other in response to my rubber-soled sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor.

  I cross the drawing and dining rooms and enter the study, only to find that empty as well. I gently open the connecting door to the bedroom, and peer in.

  A weak spotlight shines a dim glow over the portrait of Acharya’s father. The rest of the room is in complete darkness. ‘Mr Acharya?’ I call out again, thinking he might be in the bathroom.

  Receiving no answer, I enter the bedroom gingerly, feeling around for the light switch. After a bit of fumbling around, my fingers hit a plastic panel, and I flick all the switches. The sudden burst of light that floods the room makes me shield my eyes.

  The bedroom is pretty much like the last time I saw it. There’s the same mahogany bed with purple bed linen, the black onyx mirror and the side table full of old family photographs. The only change in the room is the 65-inch Sony TV, installed on the wall opposite the bed.

  ‘Mr Acharya? Where are you?’ I shout, feeling the waves of frustration and impatience surging within me. It is clear that he is deliberately avoiding me. The bathroom seems like the most likely place he could be in. I begin to move towards the solid-oak bathroom door on the far side of the room, when I hear a squelch. I look down and shrink back in horror. I have stepped into a small red puddle. It becomes quickly evident that what I am seeing is fresh blood, pooling on the floor like an oil stain, now all over the sole of my shoe.

  My eyes skim over the floor, frantically tracing the source of blood. The trail goes all around the bed till it ends at something that stops me cold in my tracks. There is a body lying on the floor, on the other side of the bed. It appears to be that of a man dressed in an off-white silk kurta pyjama. From where I am standing, I cannot see the man’s face, but he is quite obviously dead, a knife with a wooden handle sticking visibly out of his stomach, like a candle on a birthday cake.

  A scream rises and dies in my throat. I have just witnessed the first murder of my life. And it induces in me such nausea that I double over on the floor, nearly regurgitating my lunch. A scenario painted by Karan long ago flashes through my mind. Acharya calls me to his house late at night. I don’t find him there, but I discover a dead body – and the murder is pinned on me. In Karan’s word picture, the body was that of Acharya’s wife. Here, I am looking at the dead face of a man, and it drains both my courage and my curiosity to gaze on it. I know I have walked into a trap set by Acharya. Any minute now the security men will burst through the front door, unleashing their dogs on me. Just the thought of those two fierce hounds leaping at me, tearing apart my flesh with their strong sharp teeth, causes my hair to stand on end. No, I can’t risk being found lurking at a crime scene. Which means I must pretend I’ve seen no crime and leave as quickly as I can.

  Without any further thought, I take off my shoes and, holding them in my hand, slip out of the bedroom. I gingerly retrace my steps back to the front door, let myself out, and put the shoes back on. Then I open the umbrella and try to walk as normally as possible towards the gate.

  A feral snarl almost makes me jump, reminding me that I am approaching the dogs. They begin barking madly the moment they see me, as if some sixth sense has already told them of the murder in the residence. I creep past them as though walking on eggshells.

  The tension inside my body is at fever pitch by the time I turn the bend that puts me out of the Dobermans’ line of sight. I try to calm down my breathing with slower breaths as I near the guard post.

  ‘That was a quick meeting,’ the duty guard observes when I return his umbrella.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, smiling weakly and clambering into the waiting auto-rickshaw. ‘Take me back to Rohini.’ I have to nudge the driver, who is dozing at the wheel. ‘Quickly.’

  He peers at me. ‘Is everything all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ I reply through clenched teeth. ‘Just drive.’

  With an indifferent shrug, he spits out paan juice and cranks the engine. The auto refuses to start, further tightening my already fraught nerves. My hands turn cold and clammy, my heart is hammering violently in my chest and my stomach is churning like a cement mixer. Eventually the engine does roar into life, but I cannot hold back any longer. We have gone barely fifty metres when I puke all over the back seat.

  * * *

  The bright lights of the hospital are a welcome refuge from the nightmarish world I have escaped from. Even the mutilated faces in the burns ward seem preferable to the sight of the murdered body in Prarthana.

  Though it is past midnight, Ma is still by Neha’s bedside. ‘Where did you go away so suddenly?’ she asks me.

  ‘To consult a plastic surgeon,’ I lie blithely.

  ‘And what did he say? Can Neha’s face be restored?’

  ‘Yes, but we won’t be able to afford it.’

  Ma turns away, already expecting this. ‘I’ll speak to Nirmala Ben. Perhaps she can help us raise the money.’

  ‘Why don’t you go back to the apartment?’ I lay a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll stay here with Neha.’

  ‘Hospitals have become my home now,’ she replies. ‘You go back and get some rest.’

  I look out of the window. The rain has stopped but the atmosphere is still charged with electricity. The terrible cloud of murder hangs over the city like a shroud.

  I sit down in the empty chair by Neha’s bedside. Closing my eyes, I try to order my thoughts, make sense of the jumble in my brain. Acharya hired a couple of youths to throw acid on Neha. Then he had bumped off someone at his own residence. He had done his best to pin the murder on me but I was able to get out just in time. Nevertheless, the police are bound to question me, and I have resolved to tell them everything. I will reveal the perverse nature of his seven tests, expose the true face of Vinay Mohan Acharya to the world. But there are some things I won’t tell the police. Such as entering Acharya’s bedroom and finding the dead body.

  I go to the washroom and check my clothes. There’s not a drop of blood on them. I take off my sneakers and wash them thoroughly, removing every trace of blood from the soles. Then I return to the chair and try to sleep, but the dead body floats into my mind like a fever dream. The knife dangles before me like a teasing vision, always just out of reach. It is impossible to sleep, impossible to rest, impossible to pretend that nothing has happened.

  Overcome with hunger and exhaustion, I finally fall into a fitful slumber around 4 a.m., only to be woken up half an hour later by a policeman prodding me with his stick.

  ‘Are you Sapna Sinha?’ he addresses me. Behind him are half a dozen other constables.

  I nod, still groggy with sleep. Ma immediately tenses up, her mother’s instinct telegraphing that something bad is about to happen.

  ‘You are under arrest,’ he says.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the murder of Vinay Mohan Acharya.’

  I am jolted out of my half-sleep. ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘This seems like a joke to you?’ he says, holding up the arrest warrant with my name on it.

  ‘There must be a mist—’

  Mother doesn’t even let me finish the sentence. She lets out a howl of anguish and promptly faints.

  * * *

  Arrest is
easily the most shattering and disorienting experience of life. It cleaves your world into two, before arrest and after. You are suddenly wrenched from your everyday life, from your friends and family, and thrown into an utterly alien environment.

  I am transported to Vasant Vihar police station and booked for murder. They take my fingerprints, DNA sample and mugshots. My apartment is raided and my computer taken away together with my personal diary. The clothes I was wearing yesterday as well as my shoes and cell phone are confiscated. I am produced before a magistrate who denies me bail and remands me to police custody for seven days.

  Now I am at the mercy of Assistant Commissioner of Police I. Q. Khan. A tall, trim man with a craggy face and a neat moustache, there is something very un-policeman-like about him. He has the military bearing of a soldier and the cultured grace of an old aristocrat.

  A female constable called Pushpa Thanvi has been attached to me like a conjoined twin. An overweight, bosomy woman with a bad complexion and a voice like that of a duck with laryngitis, she watches me like a hawk and has the disconcerting habit of habit of poking me whenever she needs my attention.

  Even more disconcerting is ACP Khan’s unblinking stare as I sit across from him. The fatigue of the previous night, coupled with all the rushing around since the morning, has worn me out. The only thought circulating in my brain is that this is some horrible dream from which I will awaken shortly.

  We are meeting in ACP Khan’s office, a large, cheerless room made even more stuffy by heavy velvet drapes. The whitewashed walls are adorned with framed photos of Gandhi, Nehru and Subhash Chandra Bose and motivational quotes from Einstein and Kahlil Gibran. A wall-mounted Philips LCD television is switched off, but a wall clock next to it is busily ticking away the seconds to 3.55 p.m.

  ‘Are you prepared to make a confession?’ he asks, staring me in the eye.

  I look away, wilting under his remorseless scrutiny. ‘I have nothing to confess.’