Heroes R Us (2 page)

That was of course unless he had died and been condemned to a hell of enduring Jayantada every day. That thought was further reinforced when the first words out of Jayantada's mouth were, 'Why do young people today have to get themselves into so much trouble?'

It always struck Arnab as ironical that Jayantada revelled in flaunting his age and experience, and thus by implication his wisdom, but also tried desperately to not look his age, down to the meticulously dyed hair and faded jeans. Arnab groaned loudly in exasperation, and Jayantada leaned forward with a look of concern, thinking it was because of the pain.

'Arnab, should I call the doctor?'

Before Arnab could reply, the door swung open, and Arnab expected the doctor to walk in. He cringed inwardly, realizing that his face hurt like hell, and he really didn't want to find out just how badly his misadventure at the bank had rearranged his face. With his big glasses, slightly buck-toothed expression and gaunt features, Arnab had never considered himself good-looking, but he was sure that a few stitches and broken teeth would do nothing to enhance his appearance.

'Jayantada, where is this hero of yours?'

The shrill voice belonged not to the doctor, but to a young woman who had walked into the room and stood behind Jayantada. Unsure who she was referring to, Arnab looked around in confusion to check if he was sharing the room with someone else. Seeing his expression, the woman laughed and came forward, extending a hand towards him.

'Hi, I'm Mishti, Jayantada's niece.'

Arnab extended his hand only to find it attached to an IV drip, so he settled for saying hello. In their first five minutes together, he learnt several things about Mishti. First, that she was working for some corporation in Bangalore and was in Delhi on holiday. Second, that she seemed to be struck by the mistaken notion that he was some kind of hero who had single-handedly grappled with three armed robbers, and finally, the fact that he found her big eyes and ready smile pretty attractive. Point Three made certain that he said nothing to contradict Point Two.

He would have loved to just sit there and chat with her, but the next few minutes saw a veritable invasion of his room. The first was the doctor, who informed him that he was lucky to have escaped alive, and had suffered no lasting damage, other than perhaps to his vanity, as he'd have a few scars down the side of his face for some time. The doctor informed him that he had taken most of the blows to his head, and when he had been brought in, they had suspected severe brain haemorrhage. He showed Arnab scans of his brain, saying that it was a miracle that there did not seem to be any internal damage. Just then, more visitors arrived.

The next was a portly nurse who waddled in and stuck a thermometer in his mouth, changed his dressing way too roughly, informed him that dinner was lentil soup, and walked out, leaving him wincing in pain at the disturbed stitches, and dreading the prospect of his first meal in hospital. But it was his final visitor who created the greatest impact. Visitors, to be accurate. First in were two dour faced commandos who barged in, scanning the room from one side to the other, as if expecting an imminent assault by bedpan-wielding terrorists. Next in was a short, skinny man wearing a safari suit who walked up to Arnab, folded his hands in greeting and said,

'I am P.C. Sharma, Personal Assistant to the Honourable Minister. You are very lucky, he has come himself to visit you.'

Before Arnab could mutter 'What Minister?' a policeman walked in. He was a study in contrast to P.C. Sharma, towering over him, and with a khaki uniform that was stretched to its limits with the arduous task of keeping his huge belly contained. He proclaimed that he was Siddharth Upadhyay, the Deputy Commissioner of Police and was there to ensure security for the Minister. Arnab could hear P.C. Sharma mutter 'Very lucky' once again as his final visitor walked in.

Wearing a traditional khadi kurta-pyjama of the sort favoured by so many of India's politicians, and carrying a bouquet of flowers, was the much-awaited Minister.

'Hello, young man, I hope you are being taken care of.'

'Yes, thank you.'

Arnab could see both Sharma and Upadhyay raise their eyebrows in disgust. He wondered what offense his harmless reply could have caused when Sharma whispered into his ears, 'Stand to meet the Honourable Minister.' Before Arnab could point to the IV drip and the fact that it was an absurd suggestion given his current situation, the Minister sat down next to Arnab.

'I am Balwant Singh, the Minister for Law and Order, and I am much impressed by your bravery.'

The Minister stank of stale cigarette smoke, and his lips were stained red from chewing tobacco, but Arnab put on his best polite face as they exchanged pleasantries and Arnab realized that the walloping he had received at the bank was being misinterpreted as an act of courage on his part.

'Sir, it was nothing, it was actually...'

Before he could complete the sentence, the Minister said, 'Brave and humble. PC, we must reward this young man. Call a press conference at the college as soon as possible.'

As the Minister and his entourage walked out, Arnab saw Mishti standing in a corner, looking at him with scarcely disguised awe. He would have felt guilty about the misunderstanding if Mishti's expression hadn't felt so good.

***

Three days later, Arnab was back at the college, though for a change, he was not toiling away in some dark corner of the library, but up on stage in the auditorium. As he found out later, the Minister he had met was not only a political bigwig but also a key donor to the college, which bore his name as a result. He was sitting at a table on the stage, flanked by Balwant Singh, Upadhyay and the college's Principal. P.C. Sharma was hovering in the background, barking commands to underlings to bring hot tea and snacks for the Honourable Minister. Arnab felt totally out of his depth, being the focus of attention of the more than fifty reporters and cameramen gathered at the Press Conference. His head still hurt a bit from the beating and he realized that every time he took a deep breath, his ribs would scream in protest, but for now, all that lay forgotten before his newly found celebrity status.

Balwant Singh got up to take the mike and began his speech.

'My party has always said that we want law and order and in the short time we have been in power, crime rates have dramatically reduced.'

P.C Sharma and some members of the audience clapped wildly as the Minister took a pause, and Arnab began to suspect how many in the crowd were genuinely reporters and how many were the Minister's cronies.

'When there is crime, we want to bring those responsible to justice as fast as possible, and with the help of this brave young man here, Mr. Amitabh Bannerjee, we have done just that.'

Amidst the applause, Arnab realized that the Minister had gotten his name totally wrong and was wondering how to correct him, when Upadhyay stood up and called out loudly to one of his men in the distance.

'Bring the rascal up on stage.'

Arnab looked on with bewilderment as a reed-thin man was marched onto stage, his hands and legs manacled, and the Minister continued.

'The main culprit in this case is before you- a notorious hooligan who is known to have deep associations with the Opposition. See the kind of ruffians they keep company with, and how they try and destabilize our government. Thanks to our vigilant police force under DCP Upadhyay, we have put an end to this gang.'

The crowd applauded, Upadhyay preened, P.C. Sharma chaperoned the Minister away, a few camera flashes went off, and Arnab was left feeling quite confused.

The man they had produced looked nothing like any of the bank robbers he had encountered that day.

When he reached the library the next day, he found Jayantada sitting in his chair, sipping his usual cup of morning tea. As Arnab wished him good morning, Jayantada pointed to the newspaper by his side and said with a sarcastic smile, 'Just don't let all the fame get to your head.' Arnab picked up the paper to see a small news item.

'The Minister for State, Balwant Singh, accused the Opposition of creating law and order disturbances to undermine the Government at a Press Conference held at a city college last evening. He also announced that the prime accused in the Balwant Singh College bank robbery case had been arrested, and was known to be associated with key Opposition leaders.'

That was it.

No mention of Arnab, nothing about his supposed heroics and certainly nothing about what had happened with the real bank robbers. Above the story was a photograph of the event. As Arnab eagerly scanned it, he realized it was a close up of the Minister. To his right was part of a shoulder, which Arnab recognized as his. With his celebrity aspirations reduced to half a shoulder in the papers, he settled down to his duties with a sigh. Perhaps sensing how he felt, Jayantada walked up to him, and in a rare show of sympathy, put a hand on his shoulder and said, 'The Minister also asked for you to be promoted.'

Arnab wasn't sure he had heard it right, but then Jayantada said, 'Congratulations on becoming the Associate Head Librarian.'

Arnab felt that perhaps something good had come of this incident after all, and asked whether there would be any increase in his duties.

'Not really.'

He hesitated before asking the next question.

'Err, Jayantada, would I get an increment?'

Jayantada smiled as he said, 'You get a one time bonus of five hundred Rupees.'

It was peanuts, but was better than nothing, and as Arnab thanked Jayantada and got back to work, Jayantada landed the knockout blow.

'By the way, Arnab, I'll have to cut three hundred Rupees from your next pay check.'

'Why?' stammered Arnab.

'Because the copy of
War and Peace
has so many bloodstains on it that it's useless.'

Arnab didn't know whom to curse more, Jayantada or Tolstoy.

TWO

The next morning, Arnab woke up using his time tested three-stage alarm system, which he had perfected in college. Stage One was an alarm set on his bedside clock, which he inevitably turned off within a second of it ringing. Stage Two was an alarm on his mobile phone, which usually woke him up enough to get up and sit on the bed. Stage Three was the loudest, an ear-piercing alarm from an old clock he kept in the bathroom, which forced him to get out of bed and begin the day. Years of living alone had meant that Arnab's routine had evolved into something that worked for him, but would probably be bizarre to anyone else.

His parents had passed away long ago, and his memories of them were a hazy mix of happy afternoons spent playing football with his father, and gulping down sweets made by his mother. His adolescent years had been spent shuttling from one distant relative's house to the other, and he was secretly thrilled to get out of the stifling atmosphere of relatives who tolerated him with scarcely concealed impatience, waiting for the day he would grow up and leave. Now, older and perhaps wiser, he realized that his family had certainly not been well off by any means, and taking on the added responsibility of a young boy would have definitely been a burden. Anyways, that was then, and this was now. Though the one thing Arnab did miss was having a real family of his own.

Perhaps to make up for a lonely childhood, he had long learnt to lose himself in the make-believe world of books, vicariously living a life of fame and adventure in the exploits of fictional heroes such as the adventures of superheroes. It was also a way of creating a bridge to the life he had once had with his parents, as his father, a schoolteacher, always ensured that Arnab's mind was full of stories and the house full of books. As a child, he had zealously hoarded his pocket money, sometimes foregoing meals to save up to buy his favourite comics and novels, and when he moved to Delhi, he brought with him a trunk full of books. Space was at a premium in his one room apartment in Mayur Vihar, but he compensated for it by using the trunk of books as both his dining table and the resting place for the second hand laptop he had bought to surf the Net. He had not read many of the books for years, but having them near him always served to remind him of the life he had left behind. Without too many friends or much of a social life in Delhi, he found the Net a useful diversion and a way to stay connected with some of his friends from Calcutta.

By eight o'clock, he was out of his house and in a bus that would take him to the North Campus where his college was situated. When he had moved to Delhi to take up the job a year ago, he had initially been quite ruffled by the aggressiveness of people on the smallest of matters. For example, jostling for space on a Delhi bus often became a matter of life and death. Arnab, in contrast, had always shied away from confrontation. His slight build and introverted nature had meant that he had suffered many taunts, jibes and bullying in school in silence, reassuring himself with the thought that it wasn't worth getting into trouble over. At home, he would live out a fantasy world of his books- where things were in order, good prevailed and even ordinary people got a chance to do extraordinary things. In his real life, he settled for being pushed into a corner of the bus as more and more people piled on, and mumbling apologetically as he tried to battle his way out when the bus reached his college.

Jayantada seemed to be in a rare good mood when he entered the library and for once, greeted him before he could wish him.

'Arnab, I need you to do something urgent today.'

When Arnab asked what he wanted, Jayantada pointed to the vast expanse of the library and said, 'Can you please clean this place up, and make it look, you know, more professional.'

By way of apology, he added, 'I know it's not your job, but the lazy goddamned cleaner won't get here till noon, and Mishti's coming to see the college today.'