by Samit Basu
“Who is he? You know everyone on the list.”
“Not really. I didn’t even know everyone at the house. I’m guessing it’s some British guy Jai couldn’t kill. But I really don’t know where to look. So I’m going to do my own thing and let someone else — maybe Vir, if he wants to — take care of it. I thought that was what you wanted.”
“I don’t know. Jai’s in London. My family lives there. I don’t think I can just go out auditioning yet.”
“You’ve spoken to your parents?”
“Yeah, I got through this morning. They’re fine. But the city’s shutting down. The Police Commissioner’s asked people not to come to London, they’re thinking of closing the Tube, it’s worse than the bombings four years ago. My parents said everyone’s terrified. My brothers have come to stay with them. The scariest thing is, I think Jai knows where I live. People came looking for me, remember? What if he decides to take things out on my family?”
“They should move. I can fix it.”
“They asked me if I had superpowers.”
“What did you say?”
“I said everyone liked me. They laughed. They asked me what I’d been up to. Bollywood, I said. They said to stay here, London’s so unsafe. Weird, huh.”
Aman turns and starts feeling the air again, searching for the invisible armour. He finds it by accident in the end, scattered on the floor in pieces. Sher had probably knocked it over while bouncing around the room, horror-movie Tigger style.
“What does that number mean?” Uzma asks. She points at the wall where the digits 75348 are scrawled.
“Sundar wrote that before he left,” Aman says, his fingers gliding over one invisible piece after another. He searches his memory, trying to remember exactly what Sundar had done before disappearing in a white flash. He finds a large chunk of the armour, the approximate shape of a human torso, and starts feeling for a central panel.
“Yes, but what does it mean?” Uzma asks. “Is it supposed to be some kind of clue?”
“Not a clue.” Aman finds the panel in the middle of the breastplate. He presses down, and there’s a clicking sound. Feeling the same spot again, he finds a square panel filled with a grid of softened round spots: four rows, three columns. Hoping that an incorrect guess will not lead to a decimating explosion, or anything similar, he enters the digits one by one: 75348.
Five soft beeps, a click, a hum.
Red lines form on the breastplate, defining edges, sparkling contours meant to correspond to muscles Aman wishes he had. Around him, other scattered pieces of Sundar’s armour glow with red lines, an insane neon-pencil 3-D diagram of a broken block figure: legs, arms, head, abdomen. The torso section stays where it is; the other pieces flow smoothly across the floor, and Aman moves away swiftly as they align themselves to the torso one by one and slide smoothly into place. The head adds itself last. Twin red points appear in eye sockets. The armour shines silver for a brief instant, and then becomes wholly visible, a sleek, gleaming, beautiful black and silver body, all smooth lines and ridges lying on the floor, more Japanese mech-bot than Iron Man.
Aman reaches out and touches a hand, it’s a light material, some kind of organic/metal alloy, strangely warm. The head is black, with a silver mask covering the eyes, nose and mouth, vaguely like a sombre Mexican wrestler’s mask with long, slender triangular eye slits covered by dark reflector shades.
“When I grow up I want a car like that,” Uzma says.
On either side of the zero on the breastplate panels are two silver buttons, each of which is marked with an arrow, one pointing up and the other down. Aman presses the button with the upwards-looking arrow, and the armour stands up on its own. Aman and Uzma both spring back, startled.
Once it’s on its feet, there’s another click, and the armour swings open neatly, like an iron maiden. The interior is grey, some kind of foam with thousands of silver lines, millimetres apart, running across it.
“Go ahead,” Uzma says. “Put it on.”
“Hell no,” Aman says.
He steps forward and swings the front half of the armour back into place. It snaps shut gently. Aman and Uzma stare at each other.
“Well, if you’re not going to put it on, why were you looking for it in the first place?” Uzma asks.
“I don’t know,” Aman replies. “I guess I was hoping it would bring Sundar back.”
Uzma examines the armour closely, her gaze stopping at the downwards-pointing arrow on the central panel.
“What does this button do?” she asks, grins, and presses it.
They step back yet again, startled. The armour implodes without a sound, plates sliding over other plates, the whole structure changing shape, collapsing like a fast-forward film of rotting fruit. Bright red lines appear again, and the armour’s body snaps into the grid it creates, filling in corners. Seconds later, a black briefcase sits innocently on the floor, its surfaces completely smooth except for a small panel near its handle, which when pressed pops up to reveal a familiar grid of buttons.
Uzma picks the briefcase up.
“Can I try it on?” she asks.
“Do you want to put on the armour of the future?” Aman asks. “You could use it to, I don’t know, fight Jai? Maybe that’s what future-Sundar left it for. Go ahead, put it on. Be the champion of the planet or something.”
“You’re being mean,” Uzma says. “But I’m really surprised you don’t want it. You were so excited about the whole superhero thing.”
“Well, you showed me the error of my ways. I’m a support act at best,” Aman says. “In any case, I never wanted to be an action hero. The things I wanted to do — and failed at, I know — you can’t do with a shiny suit.”
“But maybe this is your moment. You’re the hero who wants to save the world, but other people are stronger and faster — this armour could be the sword you pull out of the stone to save the day.”
“Given how I operate, I’d probably end up killing innocent bystanders.”
“But don’t you even want to find out what it does?”
“What’s got into you?”
“I don’t know. Too much hanging out with superheroes and monsters. I’m getting a little inspired.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Got it,” Uzma says. She raises the briefcase higher; it’s very light. “Should we give it to Vir?”
“Give what to Vir?” Vir asks from the door.
“Advice,” Aman says, turning quickly as Uzma sets the briefcase down.
She dazzles Vir with a wide smile.
“We’re super thrilled that you’ve shown up to save the day,” she says.
“Not alone,” he says, smiling. “Aman is the one who brought as all together, and his strategic skills outshine mine. I am just a soldier. Aman is our real leader, Uzma, and he’s the one who will win the battle with the terror that Jai has allowed himself to become. Tia, too, is a marvel, as are you, I am sure.”
So earnest is Vir’s expression and so honest his eyes that Uzma simpers instead of scoffing. Vir is transfixed by her loveliness, Aman has never felt so unnecessary in a room before.
“Because of Jai, there is no need for us to hide any longer,” Vir says, a martial light in his eye. “We will fight him, and destroy him. And not just us — I think we can persuade many of his followers to switch sides as well. They were only following him out of fear and a lack of alternatives.”
“That’s all very well, Vir, except for one thing,” Aman says. “I’m not leading anything. I know getting together was my plan, but I messed up. Big time. I’ll help, of course. But the most important thing here is not beating Jai up — and that’s assuming you can. The real issue is this: our existence is public knowledge now and it couldn’t have happened in a scarier way, at least as far as the Western world is concerned. There were detectives and journalists sniffing around before, but now there will be spies and mercenaries. Armies, if things get bad.”
“Do we have to go into hiding?�
� Uzma asks.
“If we want. Fake IDs are obviously not a problem. For us, our families, friends, anyone who needs them. New addresses, new neighbours, new jobs.”
“All those are administrative details. In any case, I have no intention of hiding,” Vir says. “I don’t want a secret identity. I am ready to show my face to the world, be its champion and defender. I’m not really ready, of course, but it’s the only reason I came back. Someone has to do it.”
“Which sounds good, except the world has already seen one Indian Superman, and he’s left people lying around in pieces. So, those of us who want to be known as superheroes — and that would have included me, yesterday — need serious PR to happen if people are to accept our existence. Right now, we’re everybody’s worst nightmare.”
“But you can change that, can’t you?” Vir asks. “You can control the world’s media. Just tell them that we are to be loved, trusted and admired. People will listen.”
Aman shakes his head.
“Could do that. But it’s not right.”
“Maybe so, but it is what we need,” Vir says.
“Won’t do it,” Aman says. “People have to choose to like us.”
“But those who decide we are a danger to society will not hold themselves back, Aman,” Vir says.
“But we’re superpowered, right? We can take it. I’m not saying we suffer in silence while people hunt us down. We have to figure out a way to sell ourselves, make ourselves look good. But I’m not going to just tell people what to do and expect them to follow us. I’ve already manipulated the media, and I’m sure I’ll do it again. But that was to expose corruption, or to let people know things that were being hidden from them. I suppose what I did there was wrong too, in many ways, but I was okay with it. That’s as far as I’m willing to go.”
“Think of your powers as a weapon,” Vir says. “There will be propaganda against us, and mobs will come looking for us. Yes, some of us will be able to take it — Tia will always have another copy hiding somewhere, I am strong, Uzma is likeable. But think of the people in that house in Goa, the helpless ones, stuck in a sealed corridor while giants and monsters fought outside. They need protection, and you can protect them with your powers.”
“I’d rather help them hide, if they want to hide. Jai wanted to trick the world into believing we are benevolent gods. We’re not. There’s no point even trying to pretend to be.”
“What do you think we should do instead, then?” Uzma asks.
“I think we should go downstairs and get Tia in on this,” Aman says.
Five minutes later, Aman and Uzma are curled up on the rather scarred sofa in front of the new TV. Vir stands in front of them, arms crossed, his feet well above the ground. On hearing that important decisions are to be made, Tia has decided to call her own assembly, and so the others wait as dozens of Tias merge, each joining giving the final Tia a very slightly different shape and hairstyle. When she is done, Tia grins and perches herself on a sofa arm, her legs swinging.
“It’s simple,” she says. “They’re calling us terrorists, right? We should make a video, like terrorists do. Send it to every TV channel in the world. Tell people we’re the good guys. Is that okay with you, Aman?”
“Sure,” he says. “As long as they know it’s coming from us, and not from newspapers they trust. The moment they realise we can control the media, we lose them entirely.”
“Uzma should be in the video,” Tia says. “She’s the easiest to like.”
Uzma smiles, but shakes her head.
“My powers don’t work on video, remember?”
“That doesn’t matter, love,” Tia says. “You’re hot. I’d still listen to you.”
“Yes, but Uzma doesn’t want people to know she has powers. So displaying herself to the world as a superhero isn’t the smartest plan for her,” Aman says. “Vir should do it.”
“Not a problem,” Vir says.
“And you should write the speech, Aman,” Tia says.
“No,” Vir says. “I’ll do it myself. If I am the only one making my face known to the world, the words coming out of my mouth should be mine.”
Tia looks slightly dubious, but when she finds no sign of protest from Aman she says nothing.
“What about his costume?” she asks.
“No costumes,” Aman says. “We want people to take him seriously.”
“Oh, they’ll take me seriously all right,” Vir says. “I don’t mind a costume, actually. I’m more comfortable in uniform, and people will believe in me more easily if they see one. They’ll immediately get half the message from it.”
“I design the costume, and no argument about that,” Tia says. “I’ve been working in three costume design companies in Santacruz for a couple of weeks now, just waiting for the day when we’d all figure out what we wanted to wear while doing our hero thing. I’ve already made about fifteen costumes for myself.”
“That’s fine,” Vir says. “Just make sure it has the Indian flag on it.”
“No flags,” Aman says. “You’re a global hero, not Captain India. Your costume shouldn’t be anything definitely ethnic either — no kurtas, no turban.”
“I understand why you’re saying this, but I still want an Indian flag somewhere,” Vir says. “Your country clearly means nothing to you, but I have spent my whole life worshipping it, and I will carry its colours into battle.”
“We’ll put in a flag somewhere, darling,” Tia says. “What about your superhero name?”
“Vir is fine,” Aman says. “Short, means brave, which fits, good strong name.”
“But he needs a superhero name. Come on,” Tia says.
“He doesn’t. Even pro wrestlers don’t use stage names any more. This is the twenty-first century, you know.”
“I wouldn’t mind a superhero name,” Vir says. “It adds to the image, like the costume.”
“Yes, but all the good ones are taken. Trust me — I’ve looked,” Aman says. Tia nods ruefully.
“All the good English names are taken, you mean,” Vir says. “I could have a Hindi name.”
“You already do, Vir. And I look forward to watching the world’s interviewers mangle it in the years to come. Look, your name is easy — thank the gods you’re not Chinese or Sri Lankan. People around the world will be able to say ‘Vir’ without much trouble. We’re changing their world as it is — expecting them to learn new words is too much.”
“What about Paramvir?” Vir asks. “It’s Indian. It’s got my name in it. It stands for something I believe in. And people will know what it is — like Nobel.”
“What is it?” Uzma asks.
“There you go,” Aman says. “There’s an Indian military award for bravery called the Paramvir Chakra.”
“It’s the greatest prize of all,” Vir says. “To fight in its name would be an honour.”
“Just Vir sounds better, I think,” Uzma says. “Come on, go write your speech. We’ll get your costume done.”
Vir floats towards the stairs. He pauses before beginning his ascent.
“A thought I want to share. You showed me the path I must follow, Aman,” he says. “But somewhere I think you have lost your own. Try and find it before we face the world.”
Aman’s face is grave as Vir floats up and away.
Tia sends word to her Bollywood designer avatar, and half an hour later Costume Tia arrives with a suitcase full of potential Bollywood superhero costumes — mostly bodysuits that are clear rip-offs of the costumes of better-known Marvel/DC superheroes with added glitter and inexplicable shiny plastic bits. A few are more forward-looking: themes from Star Wars, The Matrix and many other sci-fi films emerge. All the costumes are scrapped within minutes, and Costume Tia stalks off in a huff, leaving the clothes scattered on the floor.
Aman goes online for inspiration, and is astounded to find that there are several stores in the world that already make costumes for superheroes — capes, masks, bodysuits, even fake armour. He is even
further amazed to learn of the existence of organisations such as RLSH — Real Life Superheroes — consisting mainly of ordinary people who voluntarily wear bright costumes and roam the streets, looking for crimes to prevent. Most of these stores also make costumes for wrestlers, some for fetish parties, but there is actually a market for superhero costumes, which Aman finds, in some strange way, immensely reassuring — a validation of his belief that the world, while undoubtedly crazy, is essentially full of well-intentioned people. Some of whom are well-intentioned people in spandex battlesuits (child or adult, metallic spandex extra) from Hero Gear which, alas, take at least a week to create. None of the designs are in any way superior to the ones Tia brought, but Aman concedes defeat and orders a few dozen in various degrees of ludicrousness just in case.
The problems with finding the right superhero costume are many, they find. Not only must the costume not look utterly laughable, it must also mean something, both in theme and colour. It must be made of suitably stretchy and light materials. It must enhance the superpowers of the hero wearing it in some way. But even with these admirable guidelines and Aman’s dedicated scan of seventy years of comics and science-fiction movies, they are unable to find a costume that is exciting, inspiring and above all, new.
At some point late in the evening, Tia growls in anger and picks up, without looking, a costume from the pile her designer avatar had left behind. It turns out to be a dark-blue and black scuba diving outfit.
“The blue stands for the night sky and the blue bit in the middle of the Indian flag and the skin of Krishna,” she declares. “The black is for coolness and the evil he will spend his life fighting. We’ll cover the brand logo with a little India-flag badge. He can change it later if he likes. But I think he’ll love it. Thankfully he’s got the body for it. I mean, imagine Aman in this.”
Uzma and Tia laugh until they cry, while Aman glares.
“Belt, boots, gloves. Leather,” Uzma says after while, wiping her eyes.
Tia gleams with excitement.
“I’ll go get them from Chor Bazaar. And a chest logo, I think. I’ll sew one on. Silver. Sun? Lightning? Moon? Star?”
