Turbulence

by Samit Basu

  A sudden movement behind him. Two cold points at his temples. He sees two Tias in the rear seat, each holding a gun to his head.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. “Drive.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Uzma switches through a succession of insane Indian TV channels, marvelling that her head has not yet spontaneously exploded. She is losing her mind — and not because of the stream of mad prophets, telemarketers, reality shows, soap operas and mind-numbing music videos in dozens of languages she doesn’t understand. TVs can be turned off, but the argument between Bob and the Scientist, currently raging around her at possibly illegal decibel levels, is beyond the control of any remote.

  Sundar claims he has found the beginnings of a new social-historical-cultural-scientific-psychological theory, a theory he will come up with a clever name for some time in the near future. The fundamental premise is that heroic myths and legends through the course of human history are all true — possibly exaggerated by enthusiastic re-tellers, especially the bits about gods and monsters, but the demigod heroes in these stories all actually existed. And these heroes, from Hercules to Sherlock Holmes, appeared because of these legends: the legends were not records of their actions, but prophetic texts derived from collective human aspirations that paved the way for their arrival.

  Throughout the history of science, says Sundar, human imagination, human dreams have paved the way for inventions and progress. Asimov led to Asimo the robot, Apollo’s chariot to Apollo 11. It is the same with stories of heroes: humanity’s dreams of a more-than-mortal saviour, expressed through fiction whether oral or printed, led at some point to the manifestation of new cultural heroes — evolutionary forerunners empowered by mysterious agents.

  It is no coincidence, says Sundar, that he and his fellow passengers have been given abilities according to their dreams — which are nothing but a random sample of current global societal desires. Superhero comics, born in the time of the American depression and tempered in the fires of World War Two, fuelled by nuclear nightmares, political upheavals and the struggles of social change, are essentially user manuals humankind has created for the benefit of the superpowered — to acclimatise ordinary people to the idea of their existence, to prepare the world for their presence.

  Now, armed with several gigabytes of superhero comics Aman has helpfully downloaded off torrent sites, Sundar is determined to spend his waking hours reading, removing impurities such as capes and interdimensional alien invaders, and obtaining a distilled superhero sample. The purpose of this: to understand how superheroes function, what problems they face and how they affect the world around them. Sundar now believes that all superhero comics were written for his benefit, and that they will give him the elixir to transmute base humans to heroes.

  Bob, on the other hand, is fixed in his belief that all of this is a giant conspiracy, an evil genetics project funded by mysterious military-industrial-complex types. If Sundar’s theory were true, he argues, the world would get the heroes it really needed. Not random travellers, mostly well-off people on an intercontinental flight complaining about the in-flight entertainment, but people from the darkest corners of the world, oppressed, forgotten, left-to-rot, hopeless places; people who would have torn the world down and rebuilt it from scratch if given a choice. Superhero comics, he argues, are status-quo-ist, adolescent power fantasies from evolved countries, the worst possible instruction guide for people with powers.

  Bob’s parents, both activists who were picked up by the police during the tests, raised him on a diet of books by ferociously bearded European and Indian intellectuals. Now he doesn’t know whether they are dead or alive, and the knowledge that his powers render him completely useless in anything resembling a covert rescue operation has left Bob deeply angry. There are tears in his eyes as he yells at Sundar, and rumbling clouds gather above the house.

  Trapped in the eye of the storm, Uzma makes nervous, placatory noises whenever the combatants ask her for support and glances at her phone every five seconds. A number of directors have promised to call her back and tell her when they start shooting, but Uzma’s phone has not rung in a while. She has heard that Bollywood has the collective attention span of a caffeine-overloaded squirrel, but still, not a single call? Several of her new best friends seem to have forgotten her, and those who work in the movie business are giving her smooth call-you-back-darlings already.

  The lingering suspicion that they had all only appeared to like her because her powers had cast some sort of spell on them does not improve her mood. A part of her still refuses to acknowledge that she has any powers, but it is difficult to sustain this belief surrounded by her housemates. Especially Tia, who is currently engaged in cooking several meals, cleaning all the other floors in the house, occasionally checking to see if anyone wants a second breakfast and exercising furiously all over the place: group aerobics in her bedroom and pilates in the living room.

  Uzma is fascinated by Tia’s abilities — not only can she produce new versions of herself, she can also absorb them back, acquiring the skills they’ve learned while separate. For every Tia consuming slabs of dark chocolate like a tractor beam, there are five doing stomach crunches or arguing over whose turn it is on the Wii Fit.

  Tia does more than keep the whole house organised: every morning several copies also go out to collect supplies for Aman and the Scientist. Had they lived in the West, Aman could simply have ordered everything Sundar needed online, using his vast collection of fake identities and credit cards. In India, though, he needs Tia’s help. It is possible to find absolutely anything in the grey markets of India’s largest cities, but only if you know where to look. Tia has solved this problem by looking everywhere. She is now the best-known buyer of strange things in the Mumbai shadow-markets. It is widely rumoured that she works for one of the most powerful gangsters in Dubai, or a shadowy terrorist organisation that makes terrible weapons in an obscure village somewhere in the vast, practically ungoverned stretches of land that swathe this chaotic country.

  Every day merchant ships carry strange machine parts, incredibly expensive raw materials and state-of-the-art gadgets in huge climate-controlled containers from all over the world to Mumbai’s docks. Then through a multi-stage delivery process, tightly sealed packages pass from hand to hand, truck to car to train, until they are piled up messily in the rear seat of whatever car Tia has brought along that day. She pays for them in cash, draining ATMs all over Mumbai using Aman’s many credit cards, withdrawing money he has acquired from the secret bank accounts of whoever he is annoyed with that day. Sometimes it’s criminals, sometimes writers of self-help books for corporations, sometimes celebrities with annoying faces, often telecom companies that give him spam headaches. When the people she pays are obviously criminals, Tia goes with bags full of cash she has generated herself, patiently, from a single banknote. She can duplicate any small object as perfectly as she duplicates herself and in a less hectic world could have made a fortune being the ultimate DVD pirate.

  Sundar and Bob finally finish pleading their cases to Uzma, and ask her to deliver a verdict. Both go off into a huge sulk when Uzma tells them that whoever has read the most superhero comics probably knows best how useful they can be. It turns out that neither has actually read any at all.

  This uncomfortable silence is eventually broken by the return of Aman, who rushes into the room clutching a laptop, a panic-stricken expression on his face.

  “DNNTV,” he says.

  Uzma switches the channel promptly, and several Tias gather, merge and sit as the house’s favourite intrepid reporter, Namrata, beams out of the screen at her expectant audience. Behind her is a scene of chaos: thousands of people mill about on a large dusty field, at the far end of which a dais has been constructed on a sizeable stage. Around the stage, several large cut-outs of crudely painted avatars of the god Vishnu have been arranged. Rama and Krishna, his two greatest hits, have pride of place. “This is the Ram Lila ground in Delhi,” th
e captions tell viewers, “and all of this is LIVE!”

  The leaders of the AKWWEK sit on large thrones arranged in a line behind the stage. Ever since Namrata’s interview, the party has been in the news constantly, its name ruthlessly shortened to Kalki Party by acronym-unfriendly TV pundits. Several religious groups have challenged them publicly, claiming that Vishnu’s tenth avatar has already had his time. About twelve self-proclaimed Hindu leaders, mostly slightly crazy TV evangelists/astrologers/yogis, have declared the Kalki Party’s claims laughable lies because they were Kalki. Besides these, at least two Muslim sects and one Baha’i group claim that their founders were the divine incarnation the Kalki Party now claims to have discovered.

  Other right-wing Hindu parties have offered the Kalki Party wary support — after a thumping defeat in the 2009 elections, India’s Hindu hardliners are no longer sure that spewing venom against Muslims will win them popular support, but who could pass up the chance to be associated with an avatar of Vishnu? The only reason the Kalki Party has not completely changed the face of Indian politics over the last two days is simple. No one has seen the baby yet, and until he is proved genuinely divine in some way, none of the larger Hindu parties are willing to stick their necks out. And that is why the Kalki Party’s leaders have come to the nation’s capital today — they want to show the world its saviour, and Delhi’s the only city for that sort of thing.

  The baby has been smuggled from Chennai to Delhi under the kind of secrecy and security normally reserved for Hollywood directors when they visit India to location-scout slums. Not a single photographer has managed to get anything except pictures of the private jet, cars and cradle the Kalki Party inner-circle politicians have used to carry the holy infant across the country for this grand unveiling.

  As Namrata moves towards the stage, breathlessly listing the responses of various fashion designers, TV actors, restaurant owners and other intellectual heavyweights to the arrival of this baby on the celebrity scene, the Ram Lila ground begins to fill up. Hordes of people filter in steadily through flimsy metal detectors at every entrance. The front of the stage, above the police cordon, is a scrum of jostling cameramen, there is a frenzy of excitement as two women in white, surrounded by black-clad commandoes, climb the steps of the stage. They carry a large basket nearly completely covered in white cloth. From it emerges a shrill wail — the Baby Saviour’s first words to his assembled devotees are very open to interpretation.

  “No actual god has appeared on live TV before,” Namrata says as the camera zooms in on the basket. “While it is not confirmed that the baby in the basket you can now see on DNNTV’s camera is divine, this is a landmark moment in the history of the world. This report will be broadcast worldwide, and is brought to you by us.”

  A huge groan goes through the audience as a Kalki Party leader steps towards the dais and fiddles with the microphone in front of it. The world, it turns out, will get to see the divine baby only after it has finished listening to what its future leaders have to say. And they have a lot to say. The leaders lay out the Kalki Party’s multifaceted agenda: they believe that they are the superhumans Kalki is supposed to lead, the guardians he will reward with wealth and continents to govern when he comes of age and starts his eliminating-all-evil-with-big-weapons world tour. Until then, the Kalki Party will fight his battles on his behalf: they promise to destroy terrorism, Communism, the internet, the English language, Pakistan, bikinis, China, Hollywood, the entire Arab world and women’s jeans.

  The crowd cheers good-naturedly at first, but begins to thin after a while. None of these politicians are well known in Delhi, a city used to the biggest names in the world showing up from time to time. After an hour that seems to last several years, several high-profile political correspondents are on the verge of leaving, when Rosy, the AKWWEK’s star speaker, comes to the microphone.

  “Now we display Baby Kalki,” she says simply.

  An iPod hooked up to the sound system blasts out a bhajan that squeals harshly through tinny speakers all over the Ram Lila ground. The ladies in white bring the basket to Rosy. The Kalki Party’s other leaders spring to their feet and crowd around her, not wanting to be left out of this historic photo op. Rosy rubs her hands together like a weight-lifter, and without further ado casts aside the cloth covering the basket and lifts up a squealing Baby Kalki, holding him up in front of her, arms extended.

  The crowd gasps as one.

  The baby is peacock blue. He has four chubby arms, all of which he is waving frantically in an attempt to maul Rosy. And his head is the head of a pony, a big, freaky head, far too heavy for the tiny spine attempting to hold it in place, a head that dips forward and swings gently from side to side as Rosy holds him up. Baby Kalki’s eyes are enormous and liquid black. A little toy sword has been stuck to one of his hands with Sellotape. He opens his mouth and cries, a sad, whinnying wail, and complete silence spreads across the wide field.

  “What we are seeing here is no ordinary child,” says the astute Namrata. “How will people react? Find out live.”

  “Aman,” Tia says, “obviously these idiots don’t know what they’re talking about, but — what if it’s true? He was born with powers. The only one. What if he is some kind of god? What if we’re all supposed to be his world-purifying army?”

  “How would I know?” Aman replies. “If I look on the internet, I’m sure I’ll find an army of complete lunatics who’ve been predicting all this for years.”

  The camera pans across the ground. The divine manifestation has not exactly set off wild celebrations among the people of Delhi. In fact, the crowd seems most upset. A ripple of anger spreads from those closest to the stage to the edges of the ground: fists rise shaking at the sky, a chorus of wails lifts to the heavens.

  The Kalki Party members huddle together on stage with the baby, clearly completely flabbergasted at this strange behaviour. Policemen move towards the stage from all over the ground.

  “It’s possible that the people here believe this is a trick of some kind,” Namrata ventures. “The Indian youth has often felt cheated by its politicians — is this a step too far?”

  Fights break out in the crowd, but end quickly as combatants all over the ground are smothered by a mass of people pushing them forwards, towards the stage and the rapidly retreating Kalki Party members. The baby is crying loudly now, his huge head tossing, his many arms flailing. The police cordon in front of the stage and the bamboo barricades between them and the crowd all suddenly look very fragile.

  “What are they angry about?” Uzma asks. “Shouldn’t they be going into religious raptures or something?”

  The camera zooms in on a group of people in the crowd, their faces are suffused with fury, hair on end, chests heaving, eyes bulging, glaring. There’s something about this crowd that sets it apart from your standard angry mob. Their movements are strangely synchronised. Slowly, steadily, they move towards the front of the Ram Lila ground in waves; some yell wordlessly, screams of rage that find echoing throats across the ground swirl and blow towards the stage like a vicious desert wind.

  “The crowd is not reacting well to the sight of the Baby Kalki,” Namrata points out helpfully. “Is this another example of the nation refusing to be divided along communal lines? Watch our exclusive panel of experts debate this at primetime tonight, only on DNNTV!”

  “Put her on mute, please,” Uzma says. No one responds. Namrata’s cameraman has caught a good shot of the baby, and everyone in the room stares in fascination at the four-armed horse-headed little monster. Then the camera jumps back to the crowd; people are moaning, shaking, quivering as they push forward.

  “Aman, what’s happening here? I’ve never seen people behave like this at a rally,” Tia says. “Is this a powers thing?”

  “I’ll look it up,” Aman says, and shuts his eyes. “Mass hysteria. No known cause. Symptoms vary. Women more likely to succumb — go figure. Anyway. Spreads fast. Often when symbols of authority can be seen. Convergenc
e theory says certain individuals cause crowds to act in certain ways. Contagion theory states the opposite. Turner-Killian Emergent-norm theory of crowd dynamics tells us this sort of behaviour is never irrational, but governed by common interests.”

  “In other words, no one really knows anything, but this could be happening on its own without any powers involved,” Sundar says.

  On the screen, the crowd pushes forward again and the bamboo barricade in front of the stage bends, creaks and finally gives way. Hundreds of bodies surge forward. A line of policemen, their cane shields side by side, struggle to push them back. A few policemen use their sticks, and screams and wails form a solid wall of sound.

  “Distinct behaviour patterns emerge,” Aman says. His eyelids drift open, and his pupils cannot be seen. “There are no rules, it’s a chain of individual responses leading to collective action. Someone in the audience always claps first.”

  A second line of policemen runs into position behind the first. They carry tear-gas shells. And guns.

  “This is useless. Look for similar events, and what caused them,” Tia says.

  “Tanganyika laughter epidemic, 1962. Dancing plague of Strasbourg, 1518. No verified causes.”

  “What if this baby is causing it?” Uzma says. “If he’s really this incarnation of your god, ending this age of the world or whatever? Maybe it’s his fault people are going crazy.”

  Ignoring the threats of the beleaguered policemen, the crowd pushes on. A large Sikh punches a constable on the nose, and the policeman staggers back, dropping his shield. Behind him, another policeman raises his ancient rifle…

  Something snaps. The crowd halts. Shouts die in gulping throats.

  Hundreds of people, both rioters and policemen, look at one another in a confused sort of way, as if they had just woken from a long, deep slumber. It’s as if a rage switch has been turned off somewhere.

  And then the police advance, batons smacking into unprotected bodies. A mad scramble for the exit begins. But a full-blown stampede is averted: somewhere in the police line, sanity prevails and they step back.