The Accidental Apprentice by Vikas Swarup Read Free Book Online Page B

bizarre combination of elation and trepidation. I can already sense the shadowy hand of fate tapping my shoulder, as if warning me that I have made a Faustian pact, and now I must be prepared for the consequences.
    *   *   *
    The first thing I do after leaving Acharya’s office is proceed to Hanuman Mandir to express my gratitude to Goddess Durga. She alone can help me navigate the treacherous currents of life that lie ahead.
    After visiting the temple, I take a short detour to a shop in G-Block, before catching the metro. Tonight I don’t go all the way to Rithala. I get down at Pitampura, and take an auto-rickshaw to Deenu Uncle’s residence. Despite being a wealthy restaurateur, he still lives in a rundown, two-storey house adjacent to a fetid, refuse-clogged canal.
    My aunt Manju Chachi, a lazy, overweight woman with a puzzling fondness for sleeveless blouses, opens the door. ‘Hello, Sapna,’ she greets me sleepily. Deenu Uncle is lounging in the living room, clad in just a vest and pyjamas, thanks to an electric heater going full blast. He has a chubby face, broad shoulders and a nonexistent neck, giving him the mien of a washed-up wrestler. I glance around the room, at the garish red sofa seats, lumpy and fraying at the edges, the haphazard collection of family photos on the mantel, the cobwebs in the corners. The room smells of dust and neglect. Having always seen Deenu Uncle through the tinted lens of a family member, I hadn’t realised how cheap and tawdry he really is.
    â€˜If you have come to beg me to allow you to stay in the Rohini flat, you are wasting your time,’ he begins the moment I sit down. ‘Unless you can come up with the money, be prepared to move in two weeks.’
    For all his faults, my father was a man of uncompromising principles. His younger brother has none. Deenu is a fast-talking, opportunistic shyster without scruples of any kind. He routinely cheats on his taxes, and probably on his fat wife as well.
    â€˜I have brought the full amount,’ I inform him, and count out ₹168,000.
    He seems more shocked than pleased. ‘How did you manage to raise so much money so quickly?’ he says and flashes me a sly grin. ‘Did you rob a bank?’
    â€˜None of your business, landlord,’ I respond tartly, shutting him up. ‘And, since we are now paying tenants, we expect you to draw up a proper rental agreement, repair the seepage in the bathroom wall, fix the leaking sink in the kitchen, and give the apartment a fresh coat of paint.’
    He gapes at me like a startled monkey. I have never ever spoken to him like this. But, then, it is not I speaking. It is the power of all that money in my hand, giving me a voice, giving me a spine. With a smug smirk of triumph I swagger out of Deenu’s house and hail another auto-rickshaw.
    *   *   *
    By the time I reach home, it is past 7.30 p.m. Mother is in the kitchen, preparing dinner, and Neha is sprawled on the sofa, watching a musical talent contest on Zee TV.
    â€˜How much did the jeweller give you?’ Ma wants to know at once. ‘Was it enough?’
    â€˜Enough to pay off our shameless uncle,’ I reply. ‘We can now stay here safely for a year.’
    â€˜And what will happen after one year?’
    â€˜We’ll deal with it when the time comes.’ I drop my handbag on the dining table and flop down next to Neha.
    She is so engrossed in the show, she hardly notices me or the shopping bag at my feet. On screen, a willowy contestant is belting out a popular song from the film Dabangg. ‘I can sing much better than you,’ Neha mocks her, ‘and I certainly look much better.’
    â€˜Stop talking to the TV and see what I’ve got for you,’ I instruct her.
    Neha turns around and her eyes open wide when she sees what I have withdrawn from the shopping bag: a brand-new Acer laptop.
    â€˜Didi!’ she squeals