Heroes R Us

by Mainak Dhar

  'Khan chacha, I really want to learn the best way to hit someone.'

  Khan chuckled at that, 'Boxing isn't just about hitting, it is as much about balance, conditioning and learning to block.'

  Arnab couldn't tell Khan what his real agenda and needs were, and that with his speed, blocking wasn't much of a concern, so he asked Khan to at least start teaching him the basic stances and punches.

  Khan said that before he learnt to throw a single punch, he would need to learn how to face one. Confident of his speed, Arnab agreed, and began watching the old man's hands, trying to see where the punch would come from. Khan's right hand twitched and Arnab began moving to his left, thinking he would dodge the punch with ease. Just then, the old man's left hand shot out with surprising speed. Arnab was facing the wrong way, still waiting for the right hand that never came, and when he did see the left fist streak out at his chest, he tried turning the other way. Speed was not his undoing, since despite the speed at which the old boxer had shot his fist out Arnab's reflexes would have allowed him to dodge it with ease. What did him in was his lack of balance, as he tripped over his own foot and stumbled onto his back, falling in an ungainly mess to the ground.

  Khan held out his hand to help Arnab up.

  'You can't guess where a punch is coming from by watching the hands. You need to watch the eyes and the shoulders.'

  Suitably chastened, Arnab agreed to learn the way Khan would teach him, and his training began that night. The training session went on late into the night, the old man relishing a return to an art he had once loved and Arnab soaking up his teacher's encyclopaedic experience. He promised to come every night and learn more from the old man.

  That Friday, Arnab set out on his next mission, carrying his sweatshirt and gloves in a plastic bag. Soon enough he realized that in a city as vast as Delhi, just setting out randomly in search of crime or people in need of assistance was a stupid strategy. After loitering about for an hour or so, he realized it was pointless, and his enthusiasm deflated, returned home. The lessons with Khan continued every evening, and that Sunday, Arnab met Chintu on the stairwell.

  'Hi Chintu, tell me, how do your superheroes know when people need their help.'

  Chintu looked up at him as if he were retarded.

  'Superman has super-hearing. He flies over the world and hears people. Didn't you know that?'

  He didn't, but he did know that possessing neither the power of flight nor super-hearing that was a strategy he couldn't afford to try. Monday morning and he was back in college, and as he entered the library, Jayantada called him over.

  'Arnab, is everything all right?'

  Arnab didn't know how to react so just nodded in response, but Jayantada wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily.

  'You come late to work almost every day, look sleepy and tired all day-I worry about you, my boy. Tell me if I can help in any way.'

  Arnab realized that he had been so caught up in his night-time activities that he had totally neglected the rest of his life. He may not have loved his job, but certainly couldn't afford to lose it, so he tried to do some damage control.

  'Jayantada, I've been preparing for my exams. I'm sorry; I won't let you down again.'

  Jayantada shrugged it off and got back to his newspaper.

  'You know, Arnab, this city is going to the dogs. So much crime every single day. There's this new 'Stoneman' they're all writing about. Six people killed in a month and nothing yet, because the dead are all poor pavement dwellers.'

  Arnab suddenly got an idea and asked Jayantada for the newspaper. Why hadn't he thought of this earlier? Sitting in the library, newspapers and books surrounded him, and all he had to do to find high-profile cases was to scan the crime pages. He decided to take on the case Jayantada had mentioned. As he looked through the day's papers and scanned old copies, the basics were clear. Someone had been killing pavement dwellers in the Mathura Road area by smashing their heads in with large stones. All the attacks had been late at night, and there had been no progress in the case so far. It was just the kind of opportunity Arnab had been looking for.

  That night, Arnab set out to look for this elusive 'Stoneman'.

  ***

  Superman swooped down from the skies faster than a speeding bullet, Batman rode into action in his armoured Batmobile and Spiderman swung down from the nearest building spinning his web. Our superhero rode into battle in a battered old Delhi Transport Corporation bus. He had carried his sweatshirt and gloves in a plastic bag and was still wearing his glasses, as it was still quite bright outside and as far as he had ascertained, his night vision kicked in only when he took off his glasses in darkness. As he sat on the bus, he replayed in his mind all that he knew about the case. The papers had said that all the attacks had happened under flyovers. All the killings had been committed with blocks of stone located near the crime scene, usually left over from construction work. As Arnab reached the area, he walked around looking for a spot where pavement dwellers had gathered. He spotted two groups, about a kilometre apart, one of which seemed to have heavy construction work nearby. He put on his sweatshirt and waited patiently near that group, hiding behind a bus stand. It was a gamble, but he couldn't be in two places at once. As the darkness of night intensified, Arnab took off his glasses, and instantly, he could see everything around him clearly, once again tinged with the shades of green he had started to get accustomed to. With no more than one functioning streetlight within view, he hoped it would give him an edge over whoever this Stoneman might turn out to be. At about midnight, when all the pavement dwellers were fast asleep, he spotted some movement out of the corner of his eye. He watched with bated breath as a small man walked towards the group. He moved quietly in the dark and was largely covered in a dark shawl. To any observer, he could have seemed like just another one of the pavement dwellers. For all Arnab knew, that's what he was, but he decided to watch and wait. As the man neared the group, something totally unexpected happened. He signalled to someone across the road, and two police constables appeared, carrying a large bag. As Arnab watched in horror, they took out a dead body from the bag and placed it on the pavement. The man in the shawl picked up a large stone and brought it down on the corpse's face. Arnab gasped out loud and then realized the men had heard him. One of the constables shouted out, 'Who is there?' Not comprehending what was going on, and not knowing what to do, Arnab raced from the scene at top speed.

  The next morning, Arnab picked up the paper to read that the 'Stoneman' had claimed yet another victim. He was perplexed at what was going on, and also frustrated by the fact that his mission had been a failure. He resolved to get to the bottom of the 'Stoneman' mystery, but for that night, he had an idea of someone who could guide him to some action closer to home. Khan had lived in the area for at least two decades, and there was little he didn't know about what was happening in the locality. That evening when he met Khan for his training, Khan told him they would spar to see what he had learnt. As the two of them circled each other and threw punches at each other, Arnab consciously tried to hold back, but even then when his gloved fist connected with Khan's shoulder, the old man winced and laughed.

  'You are much stronger than you look, my friend, and you are learning fast.'

  Over hot cups of tea, Arnab asked him what was happening in the neighbourhood.

  'Times are bad. Ordinary folk have to struggle to just get by, and then you have the crime. Take Chilla village for example. A gang of thugs has been terrorizing people there, attacking shops at night, extorting money and robbing people. The police do nothing because they say the group is led by someone with political connections.'

  Arnab considered whether he really wanted to get involved. Part of him told him that it was the right thing to do, and if he could help some people with his newfound powers, he should. There was also a part of him that told him to get involved to demonstrate to the media and others that he was no scam.

  That night, he made his way to the neig
hbouring Chilla village, and waited in a sweet shop in the main market, waiting for the action to begin. Sure enough, at about ten at night, a jeep roared into the market, carrying five men armed with rods and hockey sticks. The crowd in the market scattered and some shopkeepers started lowering their shutters and turning off their lights, but it was too late. As the men began their rampage, assaulting the nearest shopkeeper and asking him to pay up, Arnab made his move. He slipped behind the shop and put on his sweatshirt and then emerged from the shadows. In the darkness, nobody saw him coming.

  Three of the goons were inside the shop and two were standing by the jeep. Arnab ran towards the jeep at speed, and flicked his arms out at the two men as he passed them. Travelling at speed, he didn't really connect with anything more than a glancing blow with the palms of his hands, but it was enough. Both men flew several feet, landing in a heap. As Arnab stopped and turned to face the remaining three men, a palpable silence descended on the market. People gathered around to witness the showdown, but all Arnab was focusing on were his adversaries. All three were carrying hockey sticks and one ran towards Arnab, the stick raised over his head. He had barely brought his stick down, when Arnab's right fist connected with his jaw in an upper cut that would have done Khan proud. The man collapsed to the ground and didn't get up. The other two men rushed him at once. Before they could even come close to hitting him, Arnab struck one with a straight jab to the face and the other with a left hook to the side of the head. His balance was still far from perfect, and his punches tended to be off centre, usually connecting with the edge of his hand, but with his speed and strength, technical perfection was not really necessary.

  But that was something only Arnab would ever know. The crowd saw just a blur of movement and the two men being flung off like rag dolls, landing at Arnab's feet. The fight had lasted all of ten seconds. As the astonished crowd looked on, Arnab ran off at high speed, virtually disappearing before their eyes. Once again, the enigmatic hero who emerged at night and moved with super speed had electrified the city.

  The next morning, a Monday, Arnab reached college to see a state of virtual hysteria among all the students. Most were gathered around newspapers, and as Arnab looked at one paper, the headline screamed 'He's for real!' with a photograph that someone in the crowd must have taken in Chilla. Someone had taken it with a camera phone, and in the darkness, the resolution was quite poor. Yet what it revealed was dramatic. It showed two of his attackers being lifted off the ground-between them was a man-sized blur, with little discernible by way of features other than a mass of grey with the letters 'GA' in blue. That night, acting on another tip-off he received from Khan, Arnab reached another neighbouring village, this time encountering a group of thugs who were trying to evict the slum dwellers by force. There were four of them, armed with a motley arsenal of chains and iron rods. They had never expected any resistance, and when Arnab appeared in the darkness, they floundered around, trying to catch a glimpse of their unseen assailant. Arnab took full advantage of his speed and night vision-darting between the men, delivering blows when they were still trying to come to grips with the attacker darting in and out of the darkness to strike them down one by one. Once the melee began, a large crowd began to gather to watch the fight, which turned out to be a rout that lasted less than a minute. Once again Arnab sped away from the scene, leaving the thugs unconscious on the ground.

  The rest of the week turned out to be a blur of nightly missions, and bleary-eyed days at work for Arnab. Conscious of Jayantada's earlier feedback, he made sure he got to work on time and did his work diligently. He managed this balancing act through a combination of catching up on sleep on the bus rides to and from work and by totally neglecting his exam preparations. That Friday evening Arnab sat down at home exhausted and looking forward to a well deserved rest, but before he slept he looked at the newspapers he had collected over the week. He had barely had time to read them through the week and had collected them to read them on the weekend. His nightly adventures had brought forth a hysterical reaction among the press, with every newspaper and news channel covering his exploits and speculating as to his identity. There was a groundswell of popular support and Arnab felt all the pain and effort was worth it when he read the testimonies of many of the people he had saved. The very fact that someone was standing up for those without money and power, those the police would usually ignore, was something that had fast captured the nation's imagination.

  Most papers tried to guess who he was, with some claiming that perhaps he had come from another planet and some religious leaders claiming that perhaps he was the result of divine intervention. Arnab chuckled to himself as he read some of the wilder theories, till he came to an article that pointed out that one constant feature was the attire-the grey sweatshirt with the letters G and A on it. The reporter made that the thrust of the article, wondering what those letters could signify. The next day's paper featured an article by the same reporter titled 'Delhi's Guardian Angel strikes again'. The English language media jumped on the bandwagon and in the next day's edition, all the papers were using that name to describe him.

  As Arnab lay down on his bed, he reflected on the week gone by. He felt like in those five or six days he had made more of a difference than he had in the rest of his life put together. The mere fact that he was able to use the skills he had picked up to help others made him feel less like a freak and more like someone who was making a positive difference. He had never imagined himself as being destined for anything bigger than eking out a salaried middle-class existence, but now for the first time, he began to dare to dream that perhaps he was destined for bigger things.

  As he drifted off to sleep, he also realized that his alter ego was no longer anonymous. He had a name.

  SIX

  A week passed and Arnab found himself getting used to the routine of his new life. Jayantada had no clue what he was up to, the nightly missions continued and the papers were abuzz with news of the 'Guardian Angel'. The police remained quiet on the matter, perhaps because they had no real idea of what was going on. As for Arnab, he had never felt better about himself. A part of his mind recognized that he had virtually no hope of competing in the upcoming examinations, but then another part reminded him that being a low-level government employee could never compare with the thrill of his new life. For the first time, he felt that he did not have to take the 'system' for granted, that he could make a difference, even if on a limited scale.

  His only regret was that he was not able to reach out on a broader scale or to those who most needed his help. Scanning the crime pages and relying on the grapevine of Khan and others like him still largely determined his missions. As a result, he did spend the odd night waiting in vain for the criminals to show up, and ending up going home with little to show for his mission other than a night's sleep lost. Also, his missions touched only a tiny portion of the vast swathe of territory that made up Delhi. That was the one criticism many papers levelled against their new hero-if he was indeed endowed with superhuman powers, why did he intervene in only a small fraction of the crime that plagued Delhi, and why did some of the worst crimes go unchallenged? Also Arnab had not yet taken the risk of operating in daylight, so he could do nothing about crimes committed in broad daylight. A couple of papers had reported stories about people getting hurt because they had defied criminals in the hope that their elusive superhero would come to their aid. In his frustration, Arnab wanted to tell them that things weren't that simple in real life-unlike Superman, he couldn't just zip around the skies, taking on missions ranging from saving the planet to rescuing a cat stuck in a tree. True enough, he had some special abilities, but he was not omnipotent or omnipresent.

  He had been so caught up in his daily routine that he had almost forgotten the person on whose account he had set out on his first mission of vengeance. So it came as a total surprise when one day he received a phone call from Mishti.

  'Hi Arnab, it's been ages since we talked. How have you been?'


  'Oh, hi Mishti. I've been busy….with my exam preparations.'

  As they talked, Arnab realized that he should have made some effort to stay in touch with her, and also counted himself lucky that she had called on her own. Arnab had feared that he would not know what to say, but when he looked at his watch, he was shocked to realize that they had already chatted for close to half an hour. They had just talked about what they had done all day, and what their plans for the upcoming weekend were. Arnab did realize that Mishti and he came from very different backgrounds, but when they talked, it felt like he was talking to an old friend, not someone he had met only recently. She made him want to open up, made him want to share what was on his mind, made him want to come out of his shell. Nobody had made him feel that way before.

  Arnab was beginning to wonder if he would get a chance to talk to Mishti again. That was till Mishti said, 'Arnab, why didn't you call me even once?' Arnab was tongue-tied, not knowing quite what to say, so he was grateful when Mishti put him out of his misery by saying, 'Don't worry, it's not as if I called before today. Let's stay in touch, ok?'

  The next day, Arnab kept wondering if he should call Mishti or not and finally decided to do it. His heart in his mouth, he was about to hang up after the first few rings when Mishti's voice greeted him with an effusive 'Hello'. Somehow hearing her made all his nervousness melt away, and to his utter surprise, he found himself chatting freely with her.

  The almost daily calls continued, creating a ritual that soon became an integral part of Arnab's day. He would spend the day forgetting the pressures at work, forgetting the aches and pains from the previous night's mission, forgetting any tension about the upcoming mission that night-all of them crumbling before the anticipation of talking to Mishti again.

  Arnab couldn't put a word to what he was feeling. Was it just friendship, or was it beginning to become something a bit more than that? Ultimately, when something made you feel so good, did it really matter what name you labelled it with?