Heroes R Us Read online

  Heroes R Us

  Mainak Dhar

  First published in paperback as 'Herogiri' by Random House India, 2010.

  What happens when fate chooses an ordinary man for an extraordinary mission?

  Arnab Bannerjee has little excitement in his life other than tracking down missing books as the Assistant Librarian in a small college in Delhi. All that changes one day when he is beaten and left for dead after a robbery. Arnab awakens to discover that he has developed fantastic superhuman powers and he tries to master his new¬found powers and to use them for good. As a hooded superhero he takes to the streets on a one-man crusade against injustice. However he soon realizes that in a society where the only power that matters comes from having money or the right connections, one man, even a superhero, can make little difference.

  When he embarks on a final, desperate mission, he realizes that to succeed, he has to become a part of the very system he loathes by tapping into a motley set of allies such as the Minister who wants to use his powers to rig elections, the corrupt policeman who shot Arnab for exposing him and the corporate tycoon who wants to sign him up as a brand ambassador!

  At one level, Heroes R Us seeks to entertain with a delightfully contemporary take on the superhero genre, and at another level it asks the provocative question of whether in the dark and corrupt times we live in, there is any place left for heroes. Slumdog Millionaire meets Spiderman in this exciting novel that will entertain and make you think at the same time.

  Mainak Dhar

  Heroes R Us

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer. Ralph Waldo Emerson

  This is a novel about heroes, or more accurately about the true nature of heroism in our modern world. So its perhaps appropriate to dedicate this book to the heroes in my life, and what they have taught me about how to find within myself the reserves to become a better person for those five minutes every day, which while certainly not making me a hero, help me keep going and keep hoping that in real life too, the good guys will prevail.

  My wonderful wife, Puja, who I have no shame in calling my personal hero, for showing me every single day how a positive outlook and the willingness to put others before oneself can transform the lives of those around you. Also being the first to read my drafts and put up with my incessant pestering for feedback on plot lines and names requires truly heroic levels of patience!

  Our little son, Aaditya, through whose eyes I am seeing the world in a new light, and learning that the most heroic thing a father can do is sometimes just sit with his son and read the Nemo or Cars comics five times in a row and mean it when he says he wouldn't mind reading it again!

  My late mother, Sunanda, for teaching me that sometimes the most heroic thing a person can do is to keep smiling and help others smile when the going gets tough. I know she's smiling up there as she sees another book of mine see the light of day.

  My father, Maloy, for showing that true heroes need not be infallible, and heroism sometimes lies in learning to pick up the pieces.

  — Mainak Dhar

  ONE

  Arnab Bannerjee wondered if Tolstoy would ever be found guilty of causing his death.

  It may seem like a strange thing to worry about when you're lying bleeding to death from a severe beating to the head, but all Arnab could think about at that moment was to grab the copy of War and Peace lying just out of his reach and to return it to its place on the library's bookshelves. For Arnab it had been nothing short of a coup to track down the only leather-bound copy of the book in the library after it had gone missing two months ago. He was so looking forward to wiping the smirk off his boss's face by showing him that the book had not gone missing due to any negligence on his part, but had in fact been lost by some idiotic student who had left it under a chair in the college Cafe.

  But for now, moving his hands was an effort that seemed totally beyond him. He had read that when people died, their lives flashed before their eyes, or that they saw a bright light beckoning to them. However, all Arnab could think of, Tolstoy aside, was the sheer stupidity of his imminent death. It had seemed like any other Monday afternoon-check the catalogues; see if any outstanding fines needed following up, and then lock the doors to the dusty shelves and corridors that had been his workplace for the last one year. Being the Assistant Librarian at a small college was hardly something he had planned on, but a poor Second Class degree had left him with few short-term career options in the uber-competitive environment that was today's Indian job market. So he had applied for the job, and made the shift from his home in Kolkata to Delhi, the land of hot summers, cold winters and the unpredictable moods of Jayanta Sen aka Jayantada, the Head Librarian at the Balwant Singh College of Arts. The only positive was that the routine was predictable to the point of being mind-numbingly boring to anyone else, but Arnab thrived on order, loved being around books and the decent work hours suited him fine, as they gave him time to prepare for the gaggle of competitive exams he was planning to write that year. He wasn't very clear what he wanted to do, but any of the options he was considering-the state government services for example-seemed to be a far sight better than what he was doing now. He had never considered himself exceptionally bright, but believed that hard work and preparation must count for something. That was precisely what he had planned to do that day, just as he did every day after work-go to the Cafe, buy a cup of tea and then sit and go through the test material.

  That was till he found Tolstoy lying under his chair. His first thought was that he could finally shut Jayantada up. True to form, Jayantada had said nothing directly about the missing book, but would lose no opportunity to pass comments dripping in sarcasm, like the previous day when Arnab had overheard him muttering something about how nowadays the young had worse eyesight than the old, and how in his twenty years as a librarian he had never lost a book. So Arnab had rushed to the Staff Office to announce his discovery to Jayantada, but found that he had gone to the nearby Bank of India branch inside the campus.

  And that was how Tolstoy lured Arnab to what seemed to be a sure death.

  When Arnab reached the bank, he expected to see Pandey, the security guard, sitting outside, smoking a cigarette and scratching his amble belly. Pandey did strike a fierce figure from afar with his ancient double-bore gun, but once he had confessed to Arnab that he hadn't loaded his gun for years. At the time, Arnab had shared in his laughter, the thought of crime touching their sleepy campus seeming so far-fetched a prospect.

  Arnab peered into the bank through the grills on the door, and couldn't see Jayantada anywhere. He decided that since he was there, he might as well withdraw some cash. When he entered the bank, the first thing that struck him was just how unnaturally quiet it was. There was none of the usual gossiping among the tellers, none of the off-key singing of the urchin who ferried around cups of over-sweet tea, and no shouting by an irate customer. Instead, everyone seemed to be frozen in place. Arnab wondered what to do, and then walked up to the nearest teller, a plump lady who seemed to be sweating profusely in spite of the air conditioning. With only a handful of staff at the small branch, he had come to know most of them on a first name basis, and he walked up to her with a cheery smile.

  'Excuse me, Uma, I'd like to withdraw some cash.'

  No response. In fact, she didn't even look up at Arnab.

  Arnab cleared his throat to get her attention, and was beginning to get irritated at what he saw as another example of slovenly service at a public sector bank. He was about to ask her if she had had a bad day when a loud voice shattered the silence in the room.

  'Which one of you idiots forgot to lock the door? Do you want the cops to just walk in?'

  Arnab turned around to see a bi
g man swagger out from the bank's vault, carrying a revolver in one hand and a large canvas bag in the other. Two smaller men who seemed to be the target of his abuses followed him. Out of the corner of his eye, Arnab could see the teller trying to tell him something, but before he could turn to face her, the large man had bumped into him, sending him staggering back, his glasses flying into the distance. Arnab had won few awards in school, but one dubious distinction he had earned was being voted 'Most Likely to go Blind' due to his love of reading and the fact that by the time he passed out of school, the power of his glasses was nearly at double digits. Without his glasses, he was as blind as a bat, and in trying to steady himself, Arnab lost his grasp on the heavy book he was carrying.

  Arnab would later reflect that it was the single most irrational act of his life, but a reflex action made him reach out for the book. He didn't quite manage to grab it, but his right hand struck the edge of the book, sending the bulky volume crashing into the bank robber's face.

  The next thing Arnab knew, he was lying flat on the ground, the wind totally knocked out of him. The robber was lying a few feet away from him, bleeding from the nose. So far, in this unexpected contest, round one had gone conclusively to Tolstoy. Arnab could hear several people shouting something, and when he looked to his left, he saw the copy of War and Peace lying face down on the ground. Voices were shouting at him to pick something up. Still a bit disoriented by the fall, he wondered why they'd want him to pick up his book so urgently. As he sat up and picked up the book, two things happened in quick succession. First, he realized what a fatal mistake he had made when he saw the revolver lying under the book, and then the robber's henchmen waded into him with kicks and blows. Before Arnab could react, he was back on the ground, pain shooting through his entire body. He didn't remember much of what happened next, though he did hear the big man's voice abusing him in the chastest Hindi and repeatedly asking,

  'Why the fuck did you have to be a hero?'

  As Arnab passed out, he saw the copy of War and Peace lying by his side, and he wanted to say.

  'It wasn't my fault, it was Tolstoy.'

  ***

  When Arnab woke up, he couldn't see much. For a panicked instant, he thought he had gone blind, but then he calmed himself by remembering that he wasn't wearing his glasses. As someone helpfully handed him his glasses, he put them on and was surprised to see Jayantada sitting at the foot of his hospital bed. Jayantada was hardly the person Arnab was most looking forward to meeting, especially as he had no idea where the book had disappeared in the melee, but his presence at least reassured him that he wasn't dead.

  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 l
ater, 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.'