The Accidental Apprentice (2 page)

The heavy smell of frying dosas and roasting coffee assails my senses the moment I step through the eatery's swinging door. It has all the ambience of a hospital cafeteria. I can see Acharya wrinkling his nose, already regretting the decision to come here. This being lunch hour, the place is packed. ‘Minimum twenty minutes' wait, please,' the manager informs us.

I observe Rana slip him a folded hundred-rupee note and instantly a corner table is readied for us. Acharya and his flunkey sit down on one side, and I take the lone seat opposite them. Rana brusquely orders three filter coffees and then Acharya takes over. He looks me in the eye, his gaze steady. ‘Let me be frank with you. This is like a blind bet for me. So, before I explain my proposal to you, would you tell me a little bit about yourself?'

‘Well, there's nothing much to tell.'

‘You could begin with your name.'

‘I'm Sapna. Sapna Sinha.'

‘Sapna.' He rolls the word around on his tongue, before nodding in apparent satisfaction. ‘Good name. How old are you, Sapna, if you don't mind me asking?'

‘Twenty-three.'

‘And what do you do? Are you a student?'

‘I did my graduation from Kumaun University in Nainital. Now I'm working as a sales assistant at Gulati & Sons. They have a showroom in Connaught Place for electronics and home appliances.'

‘I've been there. Isn't it close to here?'

‘Yes. In B-Block.'

‘And how long have you been working there?'

‘Just over a year.'

‘What about your family?'

‘I live with my mother, and Neha, my younger sister. She's doing her BA from Kamala Nehru College.'

‘What about your father?'

‘He passed away, a year and a half ago.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. So are you the breadwinner in the family now?'

I nod.

‘If you don't mind telling me, how much do you earn in a month?'

‘With my sales commission, around eighteen thousand rupees.'

‘That's all? Then shouldn't you be jumping at the chance to lead a multimillion-dollar company and acquire a fortune?'

‘Look, Mr Acharya, I'm still quite confused about your offer. I mean, first of all, why do you need a CEO?'

‘Why? Because I'm sixty-eight years old and not getting any younger. God made the human body like a machine with built-in obsolescence. I'm about to reach my expiry date. But, before I go, I want to ensure an orderly transition at the organisation I have nurtured for forty years. I want to ensure that I am followed by someone who believes in the same values that I do.'

‘But why me? Why not your own son or daughter?'

‘Well, for one, I don't have a family any more. My wife and daughter died in a plane crash eighteen years ago.'

‘Oh! Then what about someone from your company?'

‘I've searched far and wide within the company. I couldn't find anyone remotely suitable. My executives are good implementers, excellent subordinates, but I don't see the traits of a great leader in any of them.'

‘And what do you see in me? I don't know a thing about running a business. I'm not even an MBA.'

‘These degrees are simply a piece of paper. They don't teach you how to lead people, only how to manage stuff. That's why I didn't go to a management institute to pick my CEO. I came to a temple.'

‘You've still not answered my question. Why me?'

‘There was something in your eyes, a sparkle that I'd never seen anywhere before.' He searches my eyes for confirmation before glancing away. ‘I have always been an observer of people,' he continues, looking around the hall, at the middle-class shoppers and office workers sitting on the other tables. ‘And, of all the people I observed in the temple, you seemed the most focused. Call it intuition, psychic sense, whatever you want, but something told me that you could be the one. You alone had the compelling mix of determination and desperation I was looking for.'

‘I thought desperation was a negative virtue.'

He shakes his head. ‘Happy people don't make good CEOs. Contentment breeds laziness. It is aspiration that drives achievement. I want people with hunger. Hunger that is born in the desert of dissatisfaction. You seem to have that want, that hunger.'

I am getting caught up in his sweeping statements and grand assumptions. But the logic behind his rhetoric still eludes me. ‘Do you always take decisions based on whims?'

‘Never underestimate the power of intuition. Eleven years ago, I bought a troubled factory in Romania called Iancu Steel. It was losing money every day. All my experts advised me against the purchase. They said I was throwing good money after bad. But I remained firm in my decision. I was attracted to the factory only because of its name. Iancu means “God is Gracious”. Today, fifty-three per cent of our steel revenues come from that factory in Romania. God is indeed gracious.'

‘So you do believe in God?'

‘Isn't this proof enough?' He points at the vermilion mark on his forehead. ‘The main reason I came to a temple to select my successor is because I wanted a devout like me. We are living in Kalyug, the dark age, full of sin and corruption. Religion is no longer in fashion. The youngsters working for me are consumed by consumption. They've probably not visited a temple to pray in years. I'm not saying they are all atheists, but their god is money, first and foremost. But you…' He nods at me approvingly. ‘You seem to be just the pious, God-fearing candidate I was looking for.'

‘Okay, I get it. You act on whims, and your latest whim tells you that I'm the chosen one. Now tell me: what's the catch?'

‘There is no catch. But there are some terms and conditions. You will have to pass a few tests.'

‘Tests?'

‘Don't worry: I'm not taking you back to school. A school simply tests your memory. But life tests your character. My seven tests are rites of passage, designed to gauge your mettle and potential as a CEO.'

‘Why seven?'

‘In my forty years of running a business, I have learnt one thing: a company is only as good as the person who runs it. And I have whittled down the traits of a successful CEO to seven basic attributes. So each of the seven tests will focus on one of those seven traits.'

‘And what exactly will I have to do to pass those tests?'

‘Nothing that you wouldn't do in your daily life. I will not ask you to steal or kill or do anything illegal. In fact, you won't even be aware of the tests.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘My tests will come from the textbook of life. Doesn't life test us every day? Don't we make choices every day? I will simply evaluate your choices, your responses to life's daily challenges. That will reveal the stuff you are made of.'

‘And what if I fail any of those tests?'

‘Well, then I will have to look for someone else. But my gut instinct tells me you won't fail. It almost seems destined. The biggest lottery ticket of all time will be yours.'

‘In that case my decision is quite clear. I'm not interested in your offer.'

He seems astounded. ‘But why?'

‘I don't believe in lottery tickets.'

‘But you believe in God. And sometimes God gives you much more than you ask for.'

‘I'm not that greedy,' I say, rising from the table. ‘Thank you, Mr Acharya. It was nice meeting you, but I really must get back to the showroom now.'

‘Sit!' he orders me. There is steel in his voice. I swallow hard and sit down like an obedient student.

‘Listen, Sapna.' His voice softens. ‘There are only two types of people in the world: winners and losers. I am giving you the chance to be a winner. All I ask in return is for you to sign this consent form.' He gestures to Rana, who produces a printed sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his tracksuit and lays it in front of me.

Since Alka's death, I've developed a sixth sense about some things, a little warning bell that goes off in my head whenever a situation is not quite right. That bell is ringing as I pick up the form. It is short, just five sentences:

1. The signer hereby agrees to be considered for the post of CEO of the ABC Group of Companies.

2. The signer hereby permits the ABC Group to perform necessary checks and procedures to assess the signer's suitability for the job.

3. The signer is not permitted to terminate the agreement mid-way, while the necessary checks and procedures are still being conducted.

4. The signer agrees to maintain complete confidentiality of this agreement by not discussing it with any third party.

5. In consideration of the above, the signer has received a non-refundable advance of ₹100,000.

‘This only talks of one lakh rupees,' I observe. ‘Didn't I hear you mention the figure of ten billion dollars?'

‘The one lakh is simply to participate in the tests. If you fail, you get to keep the money. And, if you pass, you get the job. I assure you the CEO's salary will have many more zeroes.'

By now the warning bell is clanging like a fire alarm. I know that this is a swindle, and that Acharya has tried this ploy before. ‘Tell me, how many people have you got to sign this form so far?'

‘You are candidate number seven.' Acharya exhales. ‘But I know in my heart that you will be the last one. My quest is over.'

‘So is my time.' I stand up decisively. ‘I have no intention of signing this form or participating in any test.'

Rana responds by laying a stack of thousand-rupee notes on the table. They look crisp and new, straight from a bank. He is baiting me, but I am not tempted. ‘You think you can buy me with your money?'

‘Well, this is a negotiation, after all,' Acharya insists. ‘Remember, in business as in life, you never get what you deserve: you only get what you negotiate.'

‘I don't negotiate with people I hardly know. What if this is some kind of trap?'

‘The only trap is that of low expectations. Look, I understand your reservations,' Acharya says soothingly, leaning forward on his elbows. ‘But you need to take a less bleak view of human nature, Sapna. I sincerely and genuinely want to make you my CEO.'

‘Do you have any idea how ridiculous this conversation sounds? Such things happen only in movies and books, not in real life.'

‘Well, I am real and you are real and my offer is real. A man like me does not waste time in tomfoolery.'

‘I am sure you can find other candidates who would be more than willing to accept your offer. I am not interested.'

‘You are making a big mistake.' Acharya wags a finger at me. ‘Perhaps the greatest mistake of your life. But I will not pressurise you. Take my card, and, if you change your mind within the next forty-eight hours, call me. The offer will still be valid.' He pushes a business card across the table, Rana watching me like a hawk.

I take it, smile tightly at them, and then, without as much as a backward glance, head for the door.

*   *   *

My mind is spinning faster than a CD as I hurry towards B-Block. The overwhelming feeling I have is one of relief, as though I had escaped from some grave danger by the skin of my teeth. I look over my shoulder periodically to make sure the duo are not following me. The more I reflect on what has just transpired, the more convinced I am that Acharya is either a devious shark or a raving lunatic. And I want no truck with either category.

I breathe easy only once I return to the safety of the showroom, to my air-conditioned world of plasma TVs, frost-free refrigerators and fuzzy-logic washing machines. Banishing Acharya and his crazy offer from my mind, I change back into my work uniform, and begin the habitual hunt for prospective buyers. Afternoons are generally a sluggish period for sales and there aren't too many customers vying for attention. I try to interest a puzzled-looking shopper with a potbelly in the latest full-HD camcorder from Samsung, but he seems more interested in my legs sticking out of the short red skirt. Whoever designed this risqué costume (and the finger of suspicion has always pointed at Raja Gulati, the owner's wastrel son) meant to make us salesgirls look like air hostesses. Except, as my colleague Prachi says, ‘We get the propositions, but not the pay.'

To be honest, I don't have to contend with as many lecherous advances as the other three salesgirls. They are the ones who look like flight attendants, with their coiffured hair, impeccable makeup and glowing skins. I look like an advertisement for Fair and Lovely cream with my awkward smile and a complexion that is described in matrimonial ads as ‘wheatish', a polite way of saying ‘not fair'. I was always the ugly duckling of the family. My two younger sisters, Alka and Neha, got their milky white complexions from Ma. I inherited my father's darker skin. And, in this part of the world, skin colour is destiny.

Only when I started working at the showroom did I discover that being dark and plain-looking also has its advantages. Wealthy women customers get intimidated by competition and can't stand it when other beautiful women are around. They feel more comfortable with me. And, since most family purchase decisions are made by women, I invariably reach my monthly sales targets faster than everyone else.

Another thing I've learnt is never to judge customers by their appearance. They come in all shapes, sizes and dresses. Like the middle-aged man who walks into the showroom just after 3 p.m. dressed incongruously in a turban and dhoti. He looks like a bodybuilder, with a huge upper body, thick arms and a handlebar moustache he has teased and twirled into a work of art. He wanders through the aisles like a lost child, overwhelmed by the shop's glitter. Finding the other salesgirls sniggering at his rustic dress and manners, he latches onto me. Within ten minutes I have extracted his entire life story. His name is Kuldip Singh and he is the patriarch of a prosperous agricultural family from a village called Chandangarh, located in the Karnal district of Haryana, approximately 140 kilometres from Delhi. His eighteen-year-old daughter Babli is getting married next week and he has come to the capital to buy goods for her dowry.