Hero

 

It was around 6:30 AM when Anirban rose from the chair. “Should I call in sick today?” He thought as he lit the last cigarette from his pack. The panic stricken animated figures were still running helter skelter on his computer screen. He chuckled looking at them and picked up his phone to message his boss.

“Anirban, bahut chhutti ho raha hai aaj kal. Better watch out.” the bald jerk had said to him just 2 days back. “How come you are always sick on the days we have to meet clients?”

“because I hate seeing their smug faces” Anirban said out loud to his phone as he sent the message. Stretching up his back, he went to the mirror to wash his weary eyes. He saw his own face. The already worn out face was looking even more grim in the dirty mirror. Unkempt beard, messy hair, sunken eyes. “You look like a fucking beggar” someone in his head said.

But the spark was still there. Deep in the eyes. When he focussed hard, he could recognize it. The same charm that he had in college days. Just that it had sunken deeper with layers and layers of unslept nights quoting over it. He washed his face again and again with water, but it hardly did any good to clean it up. He turned around to take a look at his surroundings.

The room was nothing short of a shanty. Creaky wooden bed, unwashed bedsheets, empty packs of chips, empty bottes of cola with cigarette stubs in them, just loitering around the floor. The stuffy smell of stale smoke permeating through every object. “What a waste!” Anirban imagined his father’s disappointed face looking down at him.  

“Is this how you live?” his mother had said on one of her surprise visits. “I raised you better than this Dinku” she had said as she started cleaning away his PG room. Why bother to clean this temporary existence. He thought. It’s not like I ‘live’ here. It’s a temporary arrangement. Just like this job, this city, this place, none of it is mine. Why bother to keep up appearances?

The door bell rang. He opened the door to a small slit, just enough to be able to see who was out there. “Saab, abhi aa jaun?” it was the maid. “She just turns up at any time!” he thought. “nahin, aaj chhutti hai” he said to her and shut the door. The bell rang again. “Saab, Meara pagar?” “hmm” he said and went inside to look for his wallet. The drawer, the shelf, the bed, it wasn’t there anywhere.

“Aaj nahi hai, kal aa jao” he said to the maid. He was about to shut the door again before she said “saab, bachche ka fees bharna hai mereko. Apna 20 tarikh ka waada hai. Abhi 6 din ho gaya. Abhi de dete to achha hota”

“Kya fayda hai school bhej kar?” He retorted to her, agitated. What was the point? Working away, earning money to send kids to school? They would just grow up to be zombies like the other millions and millions of zombies lurking around in this city. But she persisted. He went back in to look for the wallet again. Must be in the jeans pocket. And sure enough, it was there.

He took out whatever notes he could find and went back to the door. He thrust the money in her hands and was about to tell her off, but she smiled. She said “thank you saab!”

“OK OK” he said and went back inside.

“We ought to get you married” his mother had said. “You need a woman in your life to get you anchored.”

Another liability. Another cling on. Why would I want yet another zombie in my world? he thought and turned to the only refuge he had. His gaming chair, and the computer with ‘ZombieKiller Ultra’ playing on it.

He sat back in the chair, fired up the game and put on his earphones. The Hero geared up. The Zombies started congregating. Dressed in office formals, tattered rags, uniforms. All walking ominously at him. Hungry for his flesh. Anirban raised his gun and began firing at them indiscriminately. Zombies started running away. As limbs shattered and blood flew, the gory screams of dying zombies was the most satisfying noise that he could ever imagine. As the blood stained the insides of his screen, he began to feel relaxed and normal again.

Suddenly the phone rang into action, breaking his killing streak. “What’s wrong with this moron?” he thought. “Didn’t I tell him I was sick? How insensitive!” he thought as he picked up the phone. He took a second to calm down and mustering up his most sick voice, he said

“Hhh ellooo”

“Anirban!”

“Yes Sir!”

“What’s the date today?”

“Don’t you have a calendar you prick?” Anirban thought. But took his phone off the ear to see the date. “26^th November, 2008 sir” he said out loud.

“Do you know what date we were supposed to turnaround the wireframes?”

“…”

“24^th Anirban. You are already delayed. I need you in office right now!”

“But Sir, I am not feeling well Sir” Anirban protested.

“Come to office right now, we will take care of your health later. How can you be sick every time there is a client meeting, Anirban? You have exhausted your sick leaves. Put on a good formal shirt and come to office right away. Remember, everyone is replaceable here.”

Anirban was in half a mind to tell him to fuck off with his job. How dare you call me replaceable… But from somewhere inside, the middleclass voice pushed him to say “OK Sir”

“Zombie!” Anirban said. “I am a bloody Zombie too.”

His hand went habitually to the pack of cigarettes but they were over. That spurred him into action. He washed up, wore whatever formal shirt he could find. Crammed his things into the office bag and took off to go to the office.

Once outside the house he was faced with level 1, the first humiliation of the day – looking for an auto-rickshaw. So many times Anirban had walked all the way to the railway station, just to avoid having to talk to these low – life Rickshaw wallas. But today must have been some lucky day. A Rickshaw stopped, and for a change, the driver didn’t refuse to take him to the station.

It was a neat little rickshaw with fresh flowers adorning the small Ganesh idol on the dash board. “God!” Anirban chuckled. “Do Zombies also have a god?” he thought.

“Sir aap kidhar kaam karte hain?” The Rickshaw walla asked him as they drove. “Town” Anirban answered in as reluctant a voice as possible. “Bhi Tee?” the Rickshaw driver persisted. “waah! Toh gate way of India paas mein hi hoga nahin?”

One thing that Anirban hated more than being rejected by random strangers, was having to do small talk with them.

“Haan udhar hi jaate hain hum sab jaan dene!” he said. The stunned driver almost turned around to see Anirban. But realising that he had a disgruntled soul in his backseat, he decided to shut up for the rest of the journey.

Level 2 was the railway station. If Anirban could trace one location as the epicentre of the Zombie pandemic, it would have to be the railway station. There was no other experience in the city that was as dehumanizing as this. People here alternated between being programmed machines and savage animals.

 No matter what one’s personality was in the outside world, here, everyone was a cog in a sinister machine, constantly on the move, and if you missed a step, the rest of the machines would just run over you.

As the train drew nearer, Anirban felt that compulsive pull that he so often felt when he  saw the train speed into the platform. Every hair on his body would stand on its end as he would find himself drawn towards the speeding train, as if wanting to jump in front of it. 

But somehow the crowd always pushed him and carried him inside the train compartment. As he went with the flow he found himself lodged on the barrier behind the seats. 

Who carried me here? It was probably this 50 year old uncle, now resting in a prayer, while hanging from the handle. 

What motivates these people to go through this with every day with such vigour?

The crowd sticks together like a tightly packed sack of potatoes. Heads bang and bodies squish against each other. Even lovers wouldn’t embrace each other so tightly as complete strangers would on a Mumbai local in rush hour. But they are not lovers now, are they? In fact they are competitors at best. Replaceable. If one man dies, that would open up one job for any one of the other middle class bodies hanging by the handles. So it’s not love or care or concern… So what is it that keeps this whole machine together. 

The Mumbai Spirit! 

The city doesn’t stop. The city doesn’t sleep. Just like a zombie, it walks on consuming more and more. Be it  deaths or disasters, these zombies walk over their own dead just so that they can make the minimum to go on living.

This spirit! It’s nothing but a corporate name given to this institutionalized helplessness. It’s the glorified name for apathy that all classes of society have for each other and for themselves. Only thing that matters is the paycheque at the end of the month and all the zombies were willing to tolerate anything at all, to get it. That’s the Mumbai Spirit. Anirban thought. This Spirit is nothing but the very disease that makes them all Zombies.

Like clockwork, the train arrives 7 minutes late on the VT station and crowds jet out of the doors like vomit. All the zombies start walking mechanically towards the exists as if controlled by a hive mind. Not caring for what or who they are stepping on. The foyer is full of people to the last inch. But in the middle of that chaos, a beggar lays flat on his back, fast asleep. People just walk around him, as if he were not a human being, but just some dead meat.

Zombies. Anirban thought again. “Wake the fuck up!” Anirban thought. If I stood here and fought this mass, would it turn human again? Could one man jolt this crowd back to their senses! It would have to be a suicidal hero to jerk them out of their trance.

If I get up on the bench here on the platform and scream “Look at me, I am about to die!!” would anyone stop for a moment?

What if I said I had a bomb?  

Ah, may be then they would care enough to run.

Run Zombies, Run!

Anirban thought to himself as he actually climbed up on a bench to get a clearer view at this human spiderweb of moving lines.  He could imagine his boss, his colleagues walking in at a steady brisk zombie like pace among the crowd.

As he saw the mindless mass walking in herds, a sense of deep loathing took over him completely.

What if I had my AK47 here to shoot these bloody Zombies. Would the rest still rush to go to their work? Would the godforsaken Mumbai spirit still compel them to walk over the deadbodies of their fellow ants? It would have to be a hero to bring god’s retribution to this abomination they call a city.

Anirban imagined having the Supreme Zombiekiller AK 47 ultra in his hands.

Die Zombies, Die!

Anirban couldn’t imagine going to the office anymore. The idea of seeing more people, exchanging empty pleasantries with more zombies was too much for him. A strange manic energy had taken over him. He had to be the hero now.

He switched off his phone and walked outside to the cybercafe near the municipal office. He gave his last remaining money to buy time at the computer and went straight for the one that had his ZombieKiller Ultra already installed.

“Kya sir, aaj subah se hi?” asked the owner. Anirban gave him the fake smile and fired up his game. The hero geared up. He chose ‘train station’ as his terrain. As the Zombies started gathering, he was transported to VT station of the morning. The menacing crowds looked just the same. But here in the game they were showing their true self. Mindless bloodthirsty apathetic Zombies. They had to be eliminated. He could feel the weight of the gun in his hands. He could feel it recoil in his hands as he shot through the crowd. He shot the ones approaching him and also shot the ones trying to get away. “Die you zombies, Die!” he thought. Nothing could be more fulfilling.

He forgot about his boss, his job. He didn’t care about the future. What he was doing was God’s own work and it was the reward in itself. Getting the world rid of this disease.

Soon a small crowd began to gather around him in the cyber café. His skill at killing zombies was at such a peak that he was breaking all high scores on the trot. The Café owner counted the money and said “3 hours free for you!” People around him were cheering his wins and all Anirban could see around him, inside and outside, were Zombies.

He spent the entire day there, breaking all records but instead of feeling relaxed and calm like he normally did, he felt more and more bloodthirsty and riled up.

It was about 9:30 PM by now and suddenly there was a commotion in the area. The crowd around him dispersed and people were pulling the shutters on all shops.

The café owner rushed to Anirban and said “Sir, save kar lo. Abhi band karneka hai…” Anirban had been playing for almost 9 hours but it didn’t feel like he had had enough.

The café owner explained to him that there had been some gang war. Real life firing is happening around the area and they had to shut shop.

Anirban was dumbstruck. Could it be really happening? His day dream of firing on Mumbai street… Was someone really carrying out his mission? he had a slightly demented smile on his face. The café owner became a bit alarmed at this. He quickly saved the game when suddenly in the distance, they could hear shots being fired. Anirban rushed to the gate. He had to see what was going on, but the café owner pulled him back.

“Sir, this is real life gun fire, not like your game. Don’t try to be a hero here…” “I am not trying to be a hero…” Anirban thought. “I want to see who these real life heroes are! These people who are doing God’s own work” He thought. He only said out loud “I just have to see this for myself.”

Just then there was a really loud round of fire. It came from so close a quarter that the Café owner panicked. He told Anirban to either stay in or leave immediately. Anirban, of course, chose to leave as the café shutter came rumbling down behind him.

The street was a sight, right out of a video game, people were running helter skelter, cops were all over the place in no time. “What kind of gang war is this!” Anirban thought… A loud noise of rounds of fire went from so close to him that he was about to fall, when suddenly there was a strong pull on his back. It was the Cyber Café owner. He literally dragged Anirban inside and took him in through a narrow back gate. Anirban was shocked and quite furious with this behaviour and quite amazed that someone had almost risked their own life to save him. He was about to say something but the café owner asked him to be quiet as he turned the news on.

They were seeing the VT station area, which was literally 300 meters from them. It was a bloodbath. News was saying that this was not a simple gang war. This was a terrorist attack of a never seen before kind. Terrorists had gotten on the streets and attacked civilians asif in a war.

“This is not a gang war Sir!” the café owner said. “This is a terrorist attack. Many people are dead. At VT station, at Leopold café, don’t dare go out right now. It’s not safe.”

Anirban kept staring at this man. He had seen him many many times. He had never felt any emotion towards this man apart from a mild annoyance at his poor jokes. This man probably had similar emotions for him too. So why was he trying to save him?

The café owner said further “If you are hungry, I have got some bread here. We can share it, but don’t be foolish and go out.”

Anirban kept looking at him…

“Don’t worry about money brother. I saw it earlier in your eyes. You have that craze for thrill. That’s why I am asking you. This is nothing to be thrilled about. We must stick together and be safe”

For the first time in a long long time, Anirban felt something… Care. Concern by another human being for himself.

On the screen he left behind, the game still had panicked Zombies running around, afraid of a gun looming on them.

Like an epiphany, Anirban felt a pang of emotion. How would these people be feeling right now? The bloodstained walls of the station in the game were looking strikingly similar to the ones visible on the TV news.  The sound of rounds of fire was real and it was coming from just outside of their gates.

There were people, real people running, panicking and dying under a gun and somewhere inside, Anirban felt that he was the one holding that gun.

 He had no idea that he could feel… so much guilt. Was he right earlier in wanting this?

he suddenly sprang to his feet and rushed out of the back door. He had to see this for himself. When he stepped out he could see hoards of people running away to save themselves. Many told him to run away too. But like the speeding train, the gun shots were calling him to them. Anirban walked against the direction of the crowd. He had to see this for himself.

And suddenly he heard a bullet ricochet off an electric box right next to him. A man fell to the ground right ahead of him, and in the distance, he saw a young man, just like him, holding a gun and firing mindlessly at a crowd. He was far away but Anirban could see his face clearly. This man was not angry. Nor did he look happy. He was just doing his job. It was like a zombie. It knows nothing, but to kill and destroy. It derives no pleasure from it. It’s just does what it is programmed to do.

A cop pulled Anirban down to the ground “Samajhta nahi hai kya chutiye?” the cop yelled at him. When he fell to the ground, he could see splashes of blood around him. This smell is the smell of blood, he realised. He could see limbs scattered on the floor. There were people wounded and trying to survive. In their pain, he could see what agony meant. These were people. Not zombies. They were hurt. They had feelings. For the first time, he could feel their emotion too. And he was not alone. There were others like him. Unhurt, but still there, not knowing what to do. Some were trying to help the wounded. Anirban too rushed to the spot.

Groups of people had formed to tend to the wounded. Some were bringing water bottles. Others were helping load ambulances. Anirban was standing there dumbstruck when a complete stranger told him “Help me. Pick up his legs. Let’s take him to the ambulance.”

The man on the floor was howling in pain. Anirban got down without any hesitation, but saw that the man had blood flowing out of his shin. He must be in immense pain. Anirban put his hand on the wounded man’s shoulder and said “Uncle, it will pain for a bit, but let me pick you up.” They picked up the wounded old man  and carried him to the ambulance.

Anirban spent the rest of the night helping and volunteering with groups. As the blue winter dawn rose, many more gathered to help out. Many offered food, shelter. This dawn was different. It was nothing like the gloomy dawn in his video games. He had never felt this way. He had never imagined that he could be with so many strangers. For the first time, he felt happy, being just another one of them. For the first time, he felt, he belonged, to this city of human beings.