by Samit Basu
“You want to try it?” he asks.
She shrugs and yawns.
“Maybe later. Come back to bed. Get some sleep. Have you checked how Vir’s video’s doing, by the way? Is it news yet?”
Aman had uploaded Vir’s superhuman-introduction video to YouTube before going to bed, wanting to see how people responded to it without TV experts telling them what to think. But then he’d forgotten about it completely. As Uzma departs, smirking slightly, Aman goes back online, and finds he’s missed a lot. The comments had started pouring in only a few seconds after he’d uploaded the video. Now there are so many comments that the whole of YouTube is groaning under their weight.
Aman ignores the usual mountains of random hatespeak, links to porn websites and teenaged Americans yelling at everything and everyone around them, and finds several common threads of response. Most people think this is viral marketing for a new movie, and frantic debates have started about whether Bollywood special effects will ever be on a par with Hollywood or Hong Kong. It had taken a while before the conspiracy theorists found the link, but as soon as it became a Featured Video they had arrived in their hordes, and had started talking about UFO sightings in Arkansas and Bolivia that they believed were responsible for everything.
Vir’s appearance has been analysed endlessly. Arguments now rage over whether or not he is Arab, gay and a reincarnation of Michael Jackson. The merits of several TV magicians are discussed. Self-proclaimed video experts examine the film and declare it fake. The overwhelming consensus, however, is that this video is an insensitive stunt to pull so soon after the alleged superhuman terrorist attack on London, and the movie or TV show it intends to promote is doomed to failure because of this — and because of the wooden earnestness of the actor playing the flying man in the video. Vir mentioned an email and a toll-free phone number in the video, asking other superhumans to get in touch, and thousands across the world mail, call or Skype. After dealing with a few irate Belgians, Aman delegates the task of screening calls to his thought-bots.
Aman spends a few seconds muttering angrily at himself, then he stomps into Vir’s room, wakes him up, delivers a few instructions at high speed and leaves before Vir has time to come round properly and agree.
Three minutes later, the door to Sundar’s room rattles as Vir flies past. Aman barely notices, he’s busy putting the video of Vir’s speech up on every news website and TV channel in the world. At the end of the video he’s attached a little text: “You will see me at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at India Gate, New Delhi. Today at noon.”
Other things happen in the world: leaders make promises, football players change clubs for outrageous amounts of money, a few dozen people die in a bomb blast somewhere. All this is ignored as the world has only one thing to talk about: Vir’s video. It trends on Twitter about two minutes after Aman uploads it, and stays on the tip of the world’s tongue all morning. Every news pundit has an opinion; every junior reporter in the world is sent out to get reactions from the street. And then the phone calls and emails really start pouring in.
Aman reads out the best ones to Tia and Uzma as they lounge in Tia’s room, watching her multiple TV screens. By 11 a.m., they’ve finished sorting the messages into categories, and have a fairly clear idea what the world wants to do with its superheroes.
The Indian government wants to talk to them, to figure out new laws for them. The Pakistan government has started blaming them for everything. Foreign secret services, starting with the CIA, and the world’s most trusted security firms, want to buy them. Armies are already hunting them. Agents, lawyers and publicists want to represent them. Every journalist in the world wants to interview them. TV producers want to feature them, ideally on reality shows. Left-wing parties think they’re some sort of Nazi uber-race experiment and want them destroyed. Right-wing parties think they are left-wing troublemakers and want them destroyed. Regardless of wing, politicians want them to campaign for them. Sportsgear companies want them as brand ambassadors, as do UNICEF, PETA and Amnesty. Bioethicists want to kill them. Transhumanists want to employ them. Lost souls want to worship them. And phone companies want them to try their exciting new free-SMS plans.
But there’s another category of people trying to get in touch with the superheroes, a horde whose numbers exceed those of the institutions, the companies, the sellers, the gossip-mongers, even the pranksters. Ordinary people who want to talk to superheroes. People from all over the world, complaining, demanding favours, begging for help, for money, for attention, sharing stories, simply offering good wishes, declaring support. Aman is humbled and troubled by their faith, by their kindness, by their evident need. He tries, falteringly, to speak of this to Uzma and Tia, who don’t seem particularly interested.
“Vir is famous now,” Tia says, “Obviously everyone wants a piece.”
It’s almost noon, and Delhi has stopped moving. This is because Rajpath, right in the centre of the city, is flooded with people. Journalists with cameras and OB vans try in vain to clear a space in the crowd, delivering pieces to camera with onlookers piled up and making faces behind them; policemen push everyone around; and teeming masses of concerned bystanders look up at the sky.
A ring of policemen encircles India Gate. Beyond the circle, ice-cream vendors struggle to explain to scorched families that they ran out of supplies a long time ago. The lawns are full, every blade of grass now flattened. The general atmosphere is that of a rock concert, some people are already wading in the pools that flank the India Gate lawns. It’s a bigger crowd than any that’s ever been seen on a Republic Day parade, when tanks and troops and ugly floats from all the Indian states display their skills to assembled dignitaries, trundling past Rashtrapati Bhavan and India Gate.
Pickpockets and gropers make merry, but no one’s even complaining; they’re all looking up at the sky. On Rajpath, Janpath and the sweeping circular road around India Gate, cars stand in the middle of the road, bumper to bumper, mostly empty, though a few contain trapped and enraged Delhiites honking furiously and banging their steering wheels in frustration.
Above the loud roar of excited conversation, a child’s piercing scream is heard: “Up there!”
The crowd bursts into applause as Vir appears, a speck of black zipping effortlessly through the sky. He’s carrying an Indian flag, a touch Aman hadn’t suggested, and it flutters bravely as he swoops towards India Gate. There’s a collective gasp as he flies closer and his body can be seen clearly, as thousands of Delhiites struggle to believe the spectacle before them — they’ve seen it on screen before dozens of times, but here it is, right here in the real world, and it’s too much to take. A flying man. A superhero.
Vir flies low, waving the flag once as he crosses the President’s residence, and then he’s flying down Rajpath, stunned heads turning, bodies bending like rice-stalks as he zooms by. The roar dies down. All over the streets, people climb on cars and benches for a better view. A few crying babies can be heard, but when Vir lands, touching down gently inside the police cordon, a little distance away from India Gate, the silence is deafening.
Shields spring up in a wide circle as the police prepare to push back the crowd, but no one’s trying to break the circle. If anything, as Vir walks proudly under the arch of the war monument, his stride military, his boots clicking, the whole crowd takes a step back. They watch in slack-jawed awe as he strides up to the Amar Jawan Jyoti, the eternal flame that burns for the unknown Indian soldier, and places the flag on top of the black marble shrine. He salutes the flame. He turns and faces the crowd. He smiles. And then he raises an arm and rises into the air. Heads turn like falling dominoes and he’s off again, flying faster this time, a flawless body in fashionable black growing smaller and smaller until he’s lost behind a cloud.
Silence reigns for a few more seconds, and then people start talking again in hushed whispers, a low, rumbling, slowly building murmur that sweeps through the crowd, down the streets and across the city.
Cameramen swing their cameras back to their reporters, and in their homes countless millions wait for a response, an explanation. But for a while, even the reporters have nothing to say. They just stare at the cameras and gulp.
“And that’s a wrap,” Aman says, grinning at the TVs in Tia’s room. “Our boy looks good, doesn’t he?”
“Isn’t the Indian flag going to send the wrong message?” Uzma asks.
“I’m all over that,” Aman assures her. “He’s going to get an official website, and the first message on it is going to be about how he essentially handed his Indianness back to the spirits of the soldiers who died for the country before him. He’s a citizen of the world now.”
“He’s not going to like that,” Tia says.
“I wonder if Jai saw this,” Aman says. “He’s not going to like it.”
Just half an hour later, it’s superhero news time again. It becomes clear that Jai has seen Vir’s performance. His response is more than adequate. CCTV footage from the Tower of London shows Jai, clad in a Big Brother T-shirt and jeans, breaking in and stealing the Koh-i-noor.
Jai tucks the diamond into his pocket, winks and waves at the camera and then runs through ancient walls and out into the open, interrupting a re-enactment of historical Tower of London scenes. He grabs an iPhone from a squealing American tourist. As Tower visitors run for their lives and a few actors dressed in chainmail stand around uselessly, holding pikes, Jai makes a brief speech into the camera.
“There is an ancient curse on this diamond,” he says, holding the Koh-i-noor aloft. “Whoever owns this diamond owns the world, but will also know great misfortune. Only a god or a woman can wear it without fear. The diamond is mine now, and I am not afraid. I am also not a woman. Do the maths.” He pauses for effect, and then says, “I’d love to stay and chat, but I must be off now, or innocent policemen will die. But you should all know this — I’m not the villain here, I’m a victim. Despite what the media has been telling you, I mean you no harm. What happened at the airport was not my fault — the men I killed were pushed into attacking me, just like that crowd was pushed into murdering my family. The real villain is among you. And will die soon by my hands. You need not fear me — but don’t get in my way. Yes. That’s enough for now. I would tell you more, but I promised my first exclusive interview to Namrata of DNNTV, the only reporter I can trust. Shall we say tomorrow, noon, Millennium Bridge? I’d like to request the London authorities to help Namrata meet me — London’s such a lovely city, and I would hate to have to destroy it.”
He hands the phone to a trembling guard. A pikeman attempts to strike him from behind. Jai turns and kicks him into a stone wall, and then he’s gone. He speeds across the grounds, bursts through Traitor’s Gate, shattering its timbers, and disappears into the Thames.
A police spokesman tells the BBC that a manhunt has been launched, but he says it with the weary air of someone who knows this will yield nothing.
“Is he telling the truth? Did the mob guy make him kill those people at the airport?” Uzma asks.
“I seriously doubt it,” Aman says. “I saw the whole tape, and, yes, they did hit him first, but it didn’t look like the kind of mindless mob attack we saw before. Can’t be sure. Either way, it looks like Vir’s got his work cut out for him. I’d tell him to fly straight to London, but he doesn’t have a phone on him.”
“Good thing Namrata was planning to go anyway,” Tia says. “Aman, I want to go as well. It’s not just Jai that Vir has to fight, the mob guy’s there as well, and he’s going to show up. You, Uzma, me — we’re the only ones who we know can fight him. Last thing we want is Vir gone mob-crazy helping Jai take London apart. Get me there.”
“Flights are cancelled. They’ll have to send Namrata by some sort of special jet. I wish that stupid girl would just turn her phone on,” Aman says.
“I don’t blame her for being terrified,” Uzma says. “Do you think she’ll actually be able to face Jai again? I don’t think I could, in her place.”
“I’m sure we could find a way to get to London,” Tia says. “Maybe Vir could carry us. In a bus or something?”
“Well, Uzma and I aren’t going. We’re done. Hang on,” Aman says. “Phone.” He takes the call and is silent, eyes closed, for a minute. When he disconnects, he’s grinning.
“Namrata?” Uzma asks.
“No, that was my mother,” Aman replies. “She wants to know why her ticket back from New York been changed to next week. Again. And why her credit cards don’t work.”
“How long do you think you can hide all this from her?” Tia asks.
“Well, I’ve given her a Green Card. Let’s see.”
The doorbell rings.
“Vir!” Tia exclaims, and they run downstairs. Other Tias have already opened the door.
But it’s not Vir.
Sher walks in, radiating strength, his massive muscles gleaming in his vest, his eyes now light green even in human form. Beside him is Anima, dressed as a schoolgirl again, a beaming smile almost connecting her pigtails, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. A green yo-yo glows in her hand. Her mouth, fortunately human for now, chews frantically on something pink and bubbly. Premalata the singer shuffles in behind Anima, looking most out of place. With her is the Illusionist, whose name Aman has forgotten again, but knows he has written down somewhere. He quickly searches his brain — it’s Shankar the Great. Zothanpuii follows, quiet, demure, deadly, her eyes meeting Aman’s with the slightest hint of a smile. With her is a Tia.
“Are you planning to beat us up again?” Aman enquires.
“No, Aman,” Anima says. “We want to be good. Like you and Uzma didi. We want to fight Jai Uncle. I didn’t know that he was bad.”
“We didn’t know you’d left her behind,” Sher says, pointing at the Tia beside him. “She spent all of yesterday talking us into it. But, yes, we’ve decided to go to London and bring Jai down. Fix the mess we helped make. And she said you would want to come with us.”
“We want to be heroes!” Anima squeals.
Aman turns to Tia.
“Did you plan this?” he asks, and his voice is sharp.
“No, she didn’t,” says Tia-near-Sher. “She didn’t even know I’d stayed in Goa. I wanted to call you and tell you, but Anima said we should surprise you. So we just drove down.”
Aman shrugs. “Go to London, if you want,” he says. “Have your big superhero fight. It won’t fix anything.”
“Oh save it, Aman,” says Tia beside him, her eyes aglow. “This is it, our big moment. Like we wanted. The heroes have assembled. Don’t spoil it.”
“Yes, don’t spoil it,” says a voice from the door. It’s Vir, dressed in a pizza delivery boy’s uniform and wearing a ridiculous false moustache. He strides in, ripping off his disguise to reveal his costume underneath, and there’s something different about his walk, something regal, something larger than life. Even Aman feels a shiver run up his spine. Vir stands in the middle of the group and looks at everyone in turn. As his eyes meet theirs, they stand up straighter, try to look better, like worthy teammates to this dashing superhuman.
“I felt something when I was at the war monument today,” Vir says. “Some of you might not understand this, but all my doubts are gone now — the soldier’s flame burned them away. The way ahead is clear to me. I know now I have a duty to the world. And we all know the world needs saving, and who we have to fight to save it. I am going, alone if necessary, to battle Jai and stop his reign of terror. But if any of you should choose to share my burden, I would be honoured. If we fight together, our bonds will be unbreakable, and our victory inevitable. Who’s with me?”
Aman looks wearily at Anima and Sher, but to his surprise, it’s Uzma who steps forward.
“We’re all with you, Vir,” she says. “We’re all going to help you. I just need a few minutes to pack.”
Aman has many things to say, but somehow all he can manage at this point is an incoherent splutter. Uzma puts her arms ar
ound him.
“Look, I know what I said before, but I’m all inspired now and I want to go home and help out, okay?” she says. “My family’s in danger. I didn’t plan this, or expect it. But we need to go. Vir will fix things. We’ll all help.”
Aman nods. “Go, then,” he says. “I’ll watch over you as much as I can.”
Uzma takes a step back and her smile vanishes.
“But you’re coming with us. You brought us together. We can’t do this without you.”
“If you stop the movie dialogue thing for just a second, you’ll see how crazy this is,” Aman says. “We’re not fighters. I’d be of no use over there — I’d just get killed, or in the way. Don’t you remember Goa? Do you really want to get caught up in the middle of another superhero battle? You don’t even know what your power is!”
Uzma looks him squarely in the eye.
“Don’t be an ass,” she says. “You’re coming, because I’m going, and I’m not going without you. We… I need you, Aman. Please.”
Aman looks at her, and he knows then that he would do anything for her. He looks around the room, at the motley group of misfits and madmen he has assembled in one way or another, the superhero team that he had wanted to create from the very start of all this insanity. Something deep inside him crumbles.
“All right,” he says. “This is crazy, but I’ll come.”
They break out into cheers then, and there is much back-slapping and shaking of hands. But even in the midst of all the merriment Aman cannot help feeling that something is wrong, that Uzma and he and Tia are being manipulated into this, that it’s all happening too fast, that strings are being pulled. And he doesn’t know whether it’s his online alter ego whispering in his ear, or just innate cowardice, but he knows something is going to go terribly wrong in London, and there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Fasten your seatbelts, please,” Vir says, “there’s a storm up ahead.”
