123 TOMORROWS
It’s not a story, it’s a puzzle
VAIBHAV THAKUR
Copyright © Vaibhav Thakur 2019
All rights reserved
Cover Design by RebecaCovers
This is a work of fiction. Although many places and organizations referenced in this book are real, the events and incidents are the product of author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-93-5351-106-7
PROLOGUE
TOMORROW #116
Consider this: I am 6,000 feet high up in the air, Delhi’s green belt coming towards me at 200km/hour; freezing sub-zero air is cutting through my skin like an icy knife; I am bleeding from several places courtesy my recent skirmish with fully armed black-cat commandos of the Chief Minister’s Z+ security detail. Right now, I am the most wanted terrorist in India, and top security agencies are searching for me. But this is nothing compared to what is about to happen in an hour – from my right, a mammoth mushroom-cloud will rise, dwarfing any cataclysmic event the humanity had ever seen. That harbinger of death will make WWII look like a walk in the park. It will look serene, like an unchanging and calm mountain extending well above the lower cloud layer. Well it will look serene… till the blast-wave reaches you pulverizing everything in its path. ‘The biggest catastrophe in the history of mankind.’ and ‘Delhi Falls.’ are some of the headlines from tomorrow’s newspapers. How do I know this? I have lived through it. One hundred and sixteen times.
Don’t you get it? There is no hope when you are pitted against thirty-five million Tons of TNT equivalent of a nuclear blast. That is 1000 times more powerful bomb than Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Combined. I repeat: No hope. Except me. This 15-year-old nobody from Bangalore is your only chance.
Would you believe that four hours ago, I was repairing bicycles two thousand kilometres away worrying about my next meal? How did it come to this? Let’s rewind it a bit. Four hours for you. 116 days for me.
To my little “Dude” Vansh,
I am sure you’ll love this story when you grow up
All the organizations, locations and historical references in this story are real.
“All effects have a cause”
– A Time Traveller’s Diary
Tomorrow #1
Time: 8 AM (5 hours to the blast)
Date: 20th June 2020
Place: New Bangalore Bicycle Repair Shop
“Wake up, you bastard,” yelled Yusuf bhai in his grating voice, as a tight slap tumbled me out of my stupor.
His 6’2” hulking figure stood before me and his thick moustache flared with anger, a stained shirt was hanging on his shoulder and worn-out vest showed more than what our customers wished for. His multipurpose chequered lungi sported more grease than cotton, for it was also used as a handy towel. I lifted my gaze just for a second… I knew this look. And it was not good for me.
“Sorry bhai, I somehow—”
Before I could complete my sentence, another slap was on its way, his entire weight behind it. The result was extremely painful. It felt as if my head would detach from my neck, but it was followed by the rest of my body, and I fell a good five feet away from the stool where I was sitting, my face scratching against the gravel ground. Yusuf bhai, still unsure if I got his message, kicked me in the stomach to drive it home.
With difficulty, I pulled myself up, ears ringing, innards revolting and cheeks hurting as though they have been stung by a hundred bees. I am sure any other poor soul would have died on the spot. For me, however, it was just the beginning of yet another day at the New Bangalore Bicycle Repair Shop.
I welled up inside, but I wouldn’t let him have the pleasure of watching me cry. I remained still and tucked my locket back inside my shirt. He measured me from top to bottom.
“Next time I see you dozing off at work, you are going to get a handful of this.” He threateningly pointed at the leather tubes hanging from the roof of the shop. If bhai’s slaps stung like a bee, a swing of those tubes was like a nest of angry hornets. I made another mental note and added ‘never-sleep-at-work’ to a lengthy list of don’ts.
“Now get your ass moving. Customers are waiting for his highness to wake up,” he said, fondling his belly. “If even one of them leaves the shop unattended, you are going to wish that you were never born.” He suffixed the threat with choice words for my mother and sister.
Yusuf bhai handed-out more filth from his mouth than Ramesh bhai sold cut-tea from his tea stall. Still, I preferred verbal abuses than the leather for they couldn’t cut the flesh. Someone wiser had said that words can hurt more than the whip. Well, with a first-hand experience with both, I humbly disagree.
Clenching my stomach, I grabbed the air-pump and sprang towards waiting bicycles right outside the shop. The usual lot of schoolboys, in their white-blue school uniforms and black shoes, carrying their disproportionate bags, buzzed their ringers non-stop.
“All right, all right, I am here,” I announced.
“What happened to your face?” one asked, pointing at me. Others chuckled.
Brat.
“Looks like you were flattened by the road roller,” mocked another. This comment invoked laughter from the group, much to the appeasement of the speaker.
I looked back into the lone, broken piece of mirror hanging on the makeshift tin wall of the garage. They were right; my face was a weird painting of bloodshot red and greasy black, overlaid with Yusuf bhai’s hand imprints. ‘It’s an improvement,’ he had remarked on an earlier such occasion.
I hated those mean rascals. “Hey, listen. The first customer today gets free service for a year. Boss’s orders.” I eyed them. Prospect of pocketing their allowance for ice-creams and chocolates was enticing. “So, which one of you arrived first?”
“I did.”
“Hey! It was me. I came first.”
As I had hoped, it led to a little scuffle much to my enjoyment. I grinned as they punched and kicked and held each other’s’ collars. It was amusing to see how easy it was to incite a fight in these brats. I almost forgot my own pain watching them.
However, sooner than I’d hoped, the largest of them, who by now had ruffled hair and a half-untucked shirt that had also lost a button, established firmly that he was indeed the first one in the queue. Others agreed.
“Okay then. All of you get in a line and keep your change handy – a rupee for every bicycle,” I said as I started pumping air into the tires.
Suddenly, a concerned voice rang behind me. “Oh my God, Iqbal! Look at you. Are you ok?”
Shazia!
As always, she looked beautiful in her uniform’s blue salwar-kurta and white dupatta pinned neatly at both the shoulders. A hint of kajal that accentuated her deep and gentle eyes. As she made her way through, her appearance made me aware of my own mess. I tried to wipe my face with my shirt’s sleeve, but to no avail. I sheepishly replied, “Yes yes, everything is fine… I just fell down from that stool.”
She shook her head. “Don’t lie to me. I know that’s Yusuf bhai’s doing,” she said. “Why do you put up with him? If you want, I can talk to my father, he can set him straight.”
“No, please don’t,” I whispered. “That might make it worse. It’s fine really. It’s just a matter of a few months. Then—” I lowered my voice even further “—I will have my own shop.”
Her gentle eyes brightened. “All right, that
is great. But if something like this happens again I am going to tell my father.”
I nodded. Shazia’s father’s tailoring shop was at the farther end of the street and its signature rat-a-tat sound from the sewing machines could be heard even from here. He did a good business and owned four machines, making him one of the better-off families in this area. His two-story house just above the shop was a sign of prestige. I had often seen Shazia peeking out from the first-floor window that opened in the street. I fancied walking upto her house in the evening and to have a nice little chat like any other friend. Maybe one day.
“Oh, I almost forgot... I’ve got something for you.” She opened her school bag and pulled out something wrapped in newspaper. “Here.”
“What is it?” I asked.
She smiled. Two of her front teeth showed more than the others. Somehow, this imperfection made her innocent face even more beautiful.
“It’s a storybook, about a boy who is just like you. He doesn’t have any parents and lives with his abusive Uncle and Aunt. Then one day, he discovers that he is actually a wizard and goes to a magic school. You’ll love it… I’m sure,” she said, excitedly.
“This looks awesome,” I said, unwrapping the book. “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”
She giggled as if I had said something impossible. “Nonsense. But my dad gave it to me on my last birthday, so just keep it safe, all right? Return it when you—”
“You piece of shit,” screamed Yusuf bhai from inside the shop, “how long does it take for you to pump air into two bicycles?”
“I’ll be right there, bhai,” I said, looking at Shazia. Her brows furrowed.
“You should go now.”
“Thank you for the book. I’ll protect it with my life,” I said, tucking it under my shirt as Shazia rode away on her bicycle.
The next couple of hours were largely uneventful, as very few customers came in after the early morning hustle of school kids and office goers. I mostly remained seated (wide awake) on my stool, watching the hubbub of the street and in general avoiding getting thrashed by Yusuf bhai. Thankfully, he spent most of the morning dozing at the back of the shop after a few swigs of his ‘tonic’.
Yusuf bhai wasn’t always like that. When he had found me begging at the railway station, four years ago, I was struggling to get one square meal a day. He took me in and gave me food and a place to live. He taught me how to live on the street. I remember when he showed me his new shop, he had said, ‘Look at this Iqbal. In five years, we’ll turn this shanty into a large store—the biggest on JC street—and you’ll be a big shot manager.’ He’d give me fifty rupees on good days and new clothes on Eid. For a 12-year boy who was a runaway from an orphanage, it was as good life could get.
But those heydays and his compassion didn’t last for long. Something came over him, he was drunk most of the time and skipped shop for days. Even when he came, he stank badly and drove customers away. He blamed me for everything and punished me for smallest mistakes. He’d often wake me up in the middle of the night and make me do fifty laps on the street in chilly winters or scorching summers just to see me collapse from exhaustion. The unintended by-product of his punishing methods was that gradually I became tougher and stronger than most boys of my age.
But he won’t be able to keep me here forever. I had a plan. From whatever Yusuf bhai threw my way, I had saved eight hundred and fifty-seven rupees. It was safely hidden away in a small iron box concealed behind a loose brick in the wall. Just a few more months and I would have enough money to open my own little bicycle shop. I even had a nice spot recced at the chowk under the tree. I dreamt of customers queuing up in the morning and praising my handiwork. I imagined my money box stuffed with notes and coins, and all of it mine. Someday, I will probably gather enough money and courage to visit Abba at Shantiniketan Orphanage. After running away from there five years ago I haven’t even called him… hope he is alive…
A loud honk from an auto rickshaw brought me back from my thoughts. I looked about the street that was my home for the last five years—the unchanging JC street. It was like every other street in Bangalore—the road was narrow and peppered with potholes. Whatever remained of the road, saw competition from bicycles, scooters, cars, and pedestrians for their share. Moreover, a part of the street was permanently occupied by street vendors, shouting their lungs out to draw in the potential customers.
“Come, come! Buy fresh potatoes, brinjals, ladyfinger, chilli! Best rate in town! Come, come!!” Shouted one of the vegetable vendors. A bespectacled man, without getting off his scooter, stuffed his hand into various heaps of vegetables to sample the offerings, much to the dismay of the vendor.
On the other side of the road, Ramdhari was busy showing sarees to his first customers. As he unfurled the sarees with one swift motion of his hand, the sarees fluttered through the air like in a television advertisement. The women seemed impressed. He most probably would make that sale.
Suddenly, close to me, a motorist, perhaps oblivious to this part of the town, ended up driving his motorbike into an unexpected pothole. As he lost his balance, a loosely-tied carton on his carrier plopped on the ground, scattering apples all over. I rushed to help him, picked him up, and then helped him gather his apples. Grateful for the help, he offered me an apple. When I returned Yusuf bhai was awake and he was cranky.
“What did I tell you about not moving from your spot?”
“Bhai, l... look what I got for you,” I said shakily before handing him the apple.
He took a greedy bite. “Hmmm... all right...” he said. “Now, take these and make yourself useful.” He handed me a fistful of nails. “Business is slow today and you’ve been twiddling your thumbs since morning… place them right at the chowk. Last time you only got two punctures, today it better be at least five. Move your lazy ass now.”
Though I hated being part of his nefarious schemes, I welcomed the break away from him. I strolled up to the chowk, which was one of the busiest places in Bangalore. Though it had faded from its past glory, it still buzzed with activity due to its assortment of old government offices, traditional small shops, private companies, a bank, and of course, the famous Iyengar bakery that mesmerized its patrons with a smell of freshly baked cakes. Then there was ubiquitous Shanti Sagar around the corner serving South Indian delicacies. Just next to it was Banarasi’s Paan Shop, whose betel leaf preparation was an integral part of the palate. This chowk felt like a world in itself. For me, at any rate, it was the world.
I scanned for the signs of policeman who was often manned there. Once I was doubly sure, I ambled casually towards the centre of the square, chose a nice spot and splattered the nails as sneakily as I could. Well, this ought to make at least half a dozen punctures. I moved to a corner bench from where I could enjoy my few minutes of precious freedom while I waited for our potential victims.
“Hello bhaiyya, want some tea?” Suddenly, Chotu appeared from nowhere with a half-filled tea glass in his little hand and an infectious smile on his face. I returned the smile and took the glass as he put the three rupees that I gave him in his dirty shirt pocket and took a spot next to me.
“Don’t you have work to do Chotu?” I asked, taking a sip of the hot brew.
“Afternoons are little easier, Iqbal bhaiyya,” Chotu replied in his squeaky voice. “That is the only time I get to sit for a few minutes. Otherwise, I am running from shop to shop and office to office giving out tea or collecting empty glasses.”
He was right. I haven’t ever seen him without his tea holder. I felt bad for him. The childhood joys and innocence had given way for survival needs of life. When other eight-year olds were busy counting multiplication tables in comfort of their schools, he was counting coins. In a way, his childhood was worse than mine. At least I grew up with books at Shantiniketan Orphanage.
“What do you want to become once you grow up?” I asked, hoping to cheer him up.
His face brightened. “I want to be a pilot
,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.
“Aaaand what will you do when you become one?” I asked.
“Why, of course, I’ll distribute tea with my helicopter,” he said, earnestly, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
“That’s a great idea, Chotu.” I laughed. “You know what, once I grow up, I will buy that big building – yes that one. That way you can land your helicopter on my roof and we can have a tea together.”
He grinned. “You just see, bhaiyya. One day, I’ll rule this street.”
I stretched myself. “Amen Chotu, amen. For now, I have bicycles to mend and you have tea to sell.”
“Yes, you are right. I suppose,” he yawned. “See you later bhaiyya; the second innings is about to start.”
“Second innings?” I jumped. “The match! I completely forgot about today’s match.”
I could still squeeze a few minutes and blame it on the policeman if Yusuf bhai asked. Waving a quick goodbye to Chotu, I rushed to Rahim Chacha’s electronics shop.
###
As expected on the days of cricket matches, a large crowd had huddled around the TV in the display of Rahim chacha’s electronics shop. I waded through the crowd to reach the front row. The television was blurting at its full volume.
“Welcome, our viewers. This is Ravi Shastri from Firozshah Kotla in New Delhi and what a spectacular morning it was. Misbah’s ton helped Pakistan reach a mammoth total of three hundred and sixty runs. Indian seamers and spinners tried their best, but they were equally punished by Misbah. Whatta’ fine display of batsmanship. Now, India has to pull all the stops to chase this total. As you can see on your screens, Indian openers are now making their way to the field, but it’s going to be an uphill battle for them. What do you think should be India’s strategy, Harsha?”
123 Tomorrows Page 1