The Accidental Apprentice Read online

‘These modern whims of the heart have no place in tradition. Khap is an institution, a very honourable one. Don’t interfere with our traditions. Go and tell Babli that what cannot be changed must be endured.’

  ‘Tell me, Sultan Singh-ji, how many women are members of your khap panchayat?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘So women have no role but to listen to your diktats?’

  ‘Our dictates are based on reason and logic. A marriage between Babli and Sunil amounts to incest. How can we permit such an abomination?’

  ‘But the Hindu Marriage Act recognises such unions.’

  He laughs. ‘This is my village. Here my writ runs, not the government of India’s.’

  Listening to him fills me with utter revulsion. Sometimes I feel that there’s no country in the world with so much wasted love as ours. Instead of uniting lovers who dare to dream across the barriers of caste and class, the forces of orthodoxy and tradition separate them, hurt them, torture them, starve them, murder them, constantly finding new and horrifying ways of squelching love. I have still to fathom which is the greater existential horror: the lost humanity of fathers who dismember their own sons and daughters out of a perverse shame, or the reckless chivalry of star-crossed lovers who prefer death to separation. All I know is that I will not allow Babli’s name to be added to this unfortunate list, come what may.

  I take my leave from Sultan Singh and continue walking past the fields and fallows. The scenery looks quite different from the quaint, peaceful haven depicted in Yash Chopra films. Instead of lush, sunny fields of yellow and green, the landscape is uniformly brown. Instead of cheerful villagers, I see only sullen men and women, working their fields. The old-timers sit on their charpoys, smoking hookahs, while toddlers play in the dirt.

  This part of the village is considerably less prosperous. The houses here are mostly mud huts with thatched roofs. The women glare at me for no apparent reason and no one offers me as much as a glass of water.

  Suddenly I come across Chhotan, the electrician, riding a scooter. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing. Just out for a stroll.’

  He dismounts from his scooter and begins walking with me. It is from him that I learn that the village is a hotbed of communalism and caste warfare. ‘There are thirteen different castes in Chandangarh,’ he tells me. ‘Upper castes, like Kuldip Singh, make up nearly half the village; the rest are Harijans and other lower castes, like mine.’

  ‘And where is the police station located?’

  ‘Why? Do you have to report something?’

  ‘No. I’m just curious.’

  ‘On the eastern side, at the edge of the village, just before the river.’

  ‘I would love to see the river.’

  ‘I am going that side. If you want, I can give you a ride.’

  A minute later, I am riding pillion through the dirt tracks of the village. People watch me curiously, as though they have never seen a woman sitting on a scooter before.

  The bumpy scooter ride takes me past the village school where students are lazing under a neem tree. ‘The teachers in the school are like gods,’ Chhotan says wryly, ‘believed to exist but never seen.’ The village market is a conglomeration of a few kirana shops, some hardware stores, roadside shacks selling vegetables, Maggi noodles and boiled eggs, a video parlour stocking the latest Bollywood blockbusters and even an Internet facility. Slowly, but surely, progress seems to be coming to Chandangarh.

  Swaying and jolting, I finally reach the rugged riverside. Chhotan drops me near a suspension bridge and takes off. The waters of the Yamuna glimmer silver and brown beneath me. This being the dry winter season, the river has contracted, exposing its sandbars.

  It doesn’t take me long to locate the police station. It is just a one-room brick house with a gated courtyard. Sub-Inspector Inder Varma, the officer in charge, looks like one of those cops in Hindi films: paan-chewing, potbellied, probably thoroughly corrupt as well. He hears me out and then laughs. ‘Who are you, some kind of social worker?’

  ‘It’s not important who I am. I am reporting to you a forced marriage.’

  ‘How do I know it is a forced marriage? Where is the girl? Why does she not lodge a complaint personally?’

  ‘I told you, they have kept her imprisoned in the house.’

  ‘Then get her out. Bring her here. Let her show me proof that she is above the age of eighteen. And I will take action.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Look, madam, my duty is to uphold the law. But the law requires me to verify that the girl is an adult. If you can bring Babli here, I promise to get her justice.’

  For the first time a ray of hope enters my heart. The dour figure of SI Inder Varma could turn out to be Babli’s unlikely saviour.

  As I leave the police station, I try Sunil’s number once again. My luck seems to be running at the moment, as I do get through this time. ‘Hello?’ a guarded voice responds.

  I introduce myself and then ask him the million-dollar question. ‘Sunil, do you still love Babli?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he says.

  ‘Then why don’t you marry her?’

  ‘Ha!’ He gives a bitter laugh. ‘Don’t you know what the khap did to me? Three months ago, they humiliated me by parading me through the village with a shoe in my mouth. Then they forced me out of the village, threatening to kill not just me but also Babli if I ever return.’

  ‘Well, now they have gone a step further. They are marrying Babli off to Badan Singh tonight.’

  ‘No!’ He lets out a wail which cackles over the line like static.

  ‘Listen, Sunil. If you can come to the village right now, we can still prevent this wedding. I’ve spoken to the police; they will help you and Babli.’

  ‘I wish you had told me this yesterday.’

  ‘I kept trying your number but it was switched off. It’s still not too late. It’ll take you just a couple of hours to get here from Ghaziabad.’

  ‘Yes, but right now I’m in Chennai, two thousand kilometres away.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take a plane. I’ll come as fast as I can. I’ll do anything for Babli.’

  ‘Good. I’ll wait for you. Just call me on this number when you reach Chandangarh.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says and, after a moment’s hesitation, adds ‘didi’, instantly forging a relationship with me.

  Even before I have finished the call, the outline of a plan has begun to take shape in my mind. The first thing I need for the plan to work is a getaway car.

  ‘Is there any place I can rent a car?’ I ask a villager crossing the bridge.

  He looks at me as if I were from outer space. Obviously, the last thing to expect in a village like Chandangarh is a car-rental service.

  ‘Do you know anyone who owns a motorcycle at least?’

  He nods. ‘Babban Sheikh mechanic has a Hero Honda.’

  ‘How do I get in touch with him?’

  ‘Come, I will take you to his garage,’ he says. ‘It’s in Uttar Pradesh, on the other side of the river.’

  We cross the bridge and I find myself in a Muslim colony. There is a small cluster of houses, and a gaggle of shops. A few bearded worshippers are milling around an old mosque.

  The garage is little more than a tin shack. Babban Sheikh is a short, muscular-looking man in his mid-forties, with a pockmarked face and watchful eyes. Dressed in greasy overalls, he is attending to a broken-down Bajaj Pulsar when I arrive. He also has a helper, a boy of fifteen or sixteen, dressed similarly but with his hair dyed a light brown, who is busy tuning a Kawasaki Ninja.

  ‘Er … Babban Bhai, can I have a word with you?’ I address the older man.

  Babban Sheikh puts down the spark plug he is cleaning, wipes his hands on a rag and looks up. ‘Yes, madam, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I am told you own a Hero Honda.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Well, there is this weddin
g tonight and…’

  He hears my plan and then shakes his head. ‘We run an honourable business here. We are not gangsters who spirit away young brides. I cannot help you.’

  ‘A girl’s future depends on this,’ I implore, but he is unmoved.

  The young helper seems more sympathetic. ‘This lady is right, Abbu,’ he intercedes, revealing that he is Babban’s son. ‘We should stop that wedding. I know Salim Ilyasi would. He saved Priya Capoorr just as she was being married off to that scoundrel Prakash Puri in Love in Bangkok.’

  The father would have none of it. ‘So you have started watching films again, eh? Don’t you know Imam sahib has imposed a complete ban on watching Hindi movies and listening to their dirty songs?’

  ‘I know, Abbu, but what to do. I just can’t control myself the moment a new Salim Ilyasi movie is released.’

  ‘These films are the root cause of all the ills in our society. You see one more film and I will report you personally to Imam sahib. Then you will spend the rest of your days cleaning carpets in the mosque,’ Babban admonishes his son before noticing that I am listening in. ‘What are you still doing here?’ He turns on me. ‘You’ve wasted enough of our time. Now be on your way.’

  Dejected, I slowly trudge back to the bridge, feeling the day’s disappointments press down on me like a giant thumb. The sun is at its peak, but my heart is at its lowest ebb, sinking with remorse at having failed Babli.

  Just as I am crossing the bridge, a motorcycle sputters to a stop near me. It is the Kawasaki Ninja, being driven by the young mechanic. ‘I am sorry for my abbajan’s outburst. I will help you,’ he says with a ready smile.

  ‘And what about your father?’

  ‘He thinks I am out delivering this bike to the customer. You don’t worry about him. I know how to handle him. But how will we handle the girl’s father? What if he chases me?’

  ‘Well, then you will just have to be faster. And I will pay you for your trouble.’

  ‘No, I will not take any money for this,’ he declares, aping the studied nonchalance of Salim Ilyasi. ‘To protect muhabbat – love – Aslam Sheikh will even give his life.’

  The young mechanic offers to drop me back to Kuldip Singh’s house, and I accept gratefully. This time the villagers stare at me with open-jawed astonishment, wondering who this woman is, riding pillion on a scooter one minute, and a motorcycle the next.

  I get dropped off a little distance away from Kuldip Singh’s house, not wanting to arouse his suspicion. But it turns out to be a needless precaution. Word of my indiscretions has already reached the household. The patriarch is in a foul mood and lashes out at me the moment I step in through the door. ‘We called you here to tell us how to operate a washing machine, not wash our dirty linen in public. Sultan Singh has told me everything. Please leave immediately. There is no place in our house for a troublemaker like you.’

  ‘Kuldip Singh-ji, you are misunderstanding me,’ I say, trying to reason with him. ‘Babli will never go through with this marriage. She’ll rather die than accept Badan Singh as her husband.’

  ‘Come what may, she will marry Badan Singh. And, if she wants to die, she’ll die in her husband’s house, not ours.’

  ‘What kind of father are you, willing to sacrifice your daughter for the sake of a regressive custom?’

  ‘Enough!’ he bellows. ‘Get out of my house this very instant or I will have you thrown out.’

  ‘I will leave, but not alone. Babli will also leave with me.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind completely? Babli is my daughter. She will do what I tell her to do.’

  ‘Then why don’t you ask her?’ I challenge him.

  He accepts the challenge readily. ‘Let’s settle this right now,’ he says, and calls out, ‘Babli’s mother! Bring our daughter here.’

  Babli enters the courtyard, trembling like a leaf, held tight by her mother. She stares at her feet, unable even to meet my gaze. Kuldip Singh jerks a thumb at me. ‘Tell me, Babli, do you want to go with this woman?’

  Babli shakes her head slowly. Then, bursting into tears, she covers her eyes and runs back to her room.

  ‘There, you got your answer.’ Kuldip Singh twirls his moustache, smirking like an evil magician. ‘Now get out.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to despise you or pity you,’ I say as a parting shot, and walk out of his house.

  I make my way back to the Amba Temple, my crisis headquarters. The next five hours are the longest of my life. I keep trying Sunil but his cell appears to be switched off once again. Despondency looms over me like a dark shadow across my heart. I wish Karan were here to comfort me, lift my spirits. The temple priest offers me some fruit. I sit with him on the stoop, watching the afternoon fade.

  As the dusk settles in, the air begins to vibrate with the cacophony of a wedding brass band. There are multiple trumpets blaring, and a nasal singer crooning ‘Aaj mere yaar ki shaadi hai’ (‘Today is my friend’s wedding’) to the noisy accompaniment of trombones, tuba, saxophones and dhol. It is Badan Singh’s baraat, on its way to Kuldip Singh’s house, which is lit up with twinkling lights.

  That is when my cell phone beeps with an incoming message. It is from Sunil, informing me he has reached the village. I SMS him back to come straight to the temple.

  Sunil Chaudhary impresses me on first sight. He is a young, presentable man of twenty-four, with a gentle face and soulful eyes. An engineering graduate, currently working for a software firm in Noida, he is a bit shy, a bit awkward and unsure of himself, but there is no mistaking his love for Babli. I know he will do anything to make her happy, anything to keep her safe.

  ‘I flew down from Chennai and took a taxi all the way from Delhi. I just saw a wedding procession enter Babli’s house. Am I too late?’ he blurts out, his face a mask of worry and fear.

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough. Come with me.’

  I explain my plan to Sunil as we hurry towards our destination. We stop in our tracks on seeing uniformed men patrolling outside Kuldip Singh’s house, before realising that they are not armed guards but members of the brass band. Their work over, they are now relaxing, waiting for the dinner to commence. We peep in through the open door. Babli and Badan Singh are seated under the mandap with a priest lighting the sacred fire in the centre. The wedding is about to commence. In Hindi films this is the moment when the hero enters and declares, ‘Yeh shaadi nahin ho sakti’ (‘This wedding cannot be solemnised’). He can do so because he has the full protection of the director. In real life, if Sunil were to try this stunt, he would be instantly lynched.

  Aslam Sheikh is lurking in the shadows of the nearby alley, his motorcycle growling softly, primed for flight. He smiles and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I introduce him to Sunil and then make my way stealthily towards the back of the house.

  I reach the cowsheds without any difficulty. The cows and buffaloes are busy chewing cud, supremely unmindful of the noisy wedding celebrations going on next door.

  The storage hut is in darkness when I enter it. I hit the light switch and bright white light floods the room, reflecting off the glazed surfaces of the appliances that are exactly where I had left them. I plug in the TV and turn it on. Then I do the same for the DVD player, the music system and the fridge. The tube light begins flickering alarmingly, unable to withstand the load. The moment I switch on the washing machine, it emits a soft pop and shuts off. Simultaneously the entire house is plunged into pitch darkness, just as I anticipated.

  I leave the hut and race back to the alley, where Aslam is waiting on his motorcycle.

  Moments later, the drowsing band members are startled into wakefulness by the Kawasaki Ninja that zooms past them down the road with four people on it, including a runaway bride. We can hear voices shouting behind us and some people giving chase, but they are on foot and we are on a 250cc bike.

  Sunil, Babli and I hold on to each other and to dear life as Aslam expertly navigates the rutted lanes of the village. The cold winter air bi
tes and whips my face like a studded glove. Mercifully, we reach the police station in just five minutes. Aslam drops us off, makes a theatrical bow, and zooms away, his mission accomplished.

  Babli and Sunil embrace each other like there is no tomorrow. ‘The moment the lights went out and someone grabbed my arm, I knew it was you,’ Babli says, tears streaming down her face, smudging her makeup. But she still looks radiant in her flaming red lehenga and brocade blouse. Sunil gently wipes her tears with his fingers. I expect them to break into a filmy love song any second.

  However, when we enter the police station, we find SI Inder Varma singing a different tune entirely. ‘What you have done is very wrong. I will book you for unlawful confinement. You have spirited away a girl,’ he threatens Sunil.

  ‘You said bring the girl. Well, I have brought the girl,’ I interject, before turning to the bride. ‘Babli, why don’t you tell him?’

  ‘Yes. Didi and Sunil have saved me from a forced marriage,’ Babli says defiantly. Sunil’s presence has infused her with a new boldness. ‘I don’t want to marry Badan Singh. I only want to marry Sunil.’

  ‘Listen, this is not a marriage registrar’s office. This is a police station,’ Varma admonishes, wagging a finger in her face. ‘First of all, show me proof that you are above eighteen years of age.’

  ‘Proof? You can see my high school mark sheet. It lists my date of birth.’

  ‘Then produce it. Do you have it with you?’

  ‘How can I have it with me? I am coming straight from a mandap, not a school.’

  ‘Then there is nothing I can do. I am going to treat this as a case of kidnapping of a minor girl. Ram Kumar,’ he calls out to his head constable. ‘Take this boy into custody. Call the girl’s father. Tell him to come and take away his daughter. And also inform Sultan Singh-ji.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ I cry. ‘This is gross injustice. We trusted you.’

  He grins through his paan-stained teeth. ‘Never trust a policeman.’

  ‘If you call my father, God will not spare you,’ Babli says, tears streaming down her face again.

  ‘Inside this police station I am God.’