123 Tomorrows

by Vaibhav Thakur

  The Superior came to the point straightaway. “Congratulations on completing your second mission successfully, agent. You performed flawlessly at the police station,” said the Superior, authoritatively. “And yet you look unhappy. Any specific reasons?”

  “As always, you’re right, Superior,” said the Masked Man, trying to hide his impatience. “I understood the purpose behind the first mission. The assassination of a corrupt minister was a justifiable need as you had explained well to me the last time. But this time I am wondering if all that killing at the police station was necessary. There were other ways.”

  “Because that’s part of your training, rookie,” snapped Andrea, chewing on her gum hard.

  Superior shot a stern glance in her direction and she stopped grinning. “Didn’t you just explain it to Iqbal that once he resets, the reality will change. Those policemen and commandos won’t have to die, and no one will remember the alternate reality that you undid,” Superior said.

  “I did Superior, and that was true. Once Iqbal resets, all those people will be alive again. But I still can’t forget the needless mortal pain they went through, even if temporarily. And while they won’t remember it, I will.”

  “You are taking it personally, agent. You’ve to learn to dissociate yourself from the events and the subjects. You cannot be responsible for the realities that never happened. But only for what eventually becomes the final reality, destiny if you may. If that goes wrong, then all of us here are to be blamed. But until then, we are doing what is best for everyone. And Andrea is right, this is indeed part of your training.”

  “With due respect, Superior, can’t I execute it? It’s more direct and we’ll get done with it with lot less… erm… complications. Things will become so much simpler and with lot less blood.”

  “No. They won’t. The Temporal Opus is never wrong. Everything that has happened has happened and everything that will happen will happen. We don’t tamper with consistency unless absolutely needed.”

  “I’m afraid Superior that despite being told about Temporal Opus multiple times, I still don’t understand it,” said the Masked Man. Andrea rolled her eyes.

  “Understandably,” Superior replied, calmly. “You’ve been here for only three months. Great brains have spent lifetimes trying to understand the Temporal Opus and yet no one could claim a complete understanding of the intricacies of its workings.” He put his hand on Masked Man’s shoulder. “For now, just focus on your training, all right? And when you are ready, I’ll personally take you to the Temporal Opus. Things will become lot clearer then. And once you finish your training, you will be able to accompany Andrea and the twins for more complex missions. Understood?”

  Masked Man relaxed. The Superior was right. It was just a beginning for him and there was so much he had to learn and unlearn. The ripples of time were difficult to predict and even a small perturbation, however benign, could lead to a disaster much later in space-time.

  “Yes, Superior,” he replied, his mind at peace now.

  “Your third mission will be critical. For everyone. I hope you’ll be ready.”

  “I will be, Superior. Andrea and the twins are pushing me hard. Yesterday I was able to warp a lab rat by two days.”

  “Good. Step it up. You’ll need all your skills soon.”

  The Masked Man bowed as the Superior turned around to leave. Andrea and the twins followed him. Just before stepping out, one of the twins turned to him. With one hand inside his jean pocket and waving his sunglasses with the other, he said, “You do know that we are not really twins, right?”

  Masked Man nodded with a smile.

  “Kewl!” he said as the door closed to complete the infinity sign once more.

  ###

  “Once: A chance. Twice: The destiny”

  – A Time Traveller’s Diary

  Tomorrow # 3

  Time: 8:00 AM (5 hours to the blast)

  Location: JC Street, Bangalore

  “Wake up, you bastard,” yelled Yusuf bhai followed by my third slap in the last 24 hours. I sprang back to my feet and rushed outside, almost crashing into schoolboys on my way. As I sped off, Yusuf bhai tried to follow me hopping in his obtrusive lungi, but he only managed to shout profanities at me from a distance.

  I didn’t know where I was going but I wanted to be alone for some time. After running for five blocks and turning many corners, I spotted a secluded plot of land where I could stay without being spotted. I looked back to confirm Yusuf bhai wasn’t on my tail, and then finally caught my breath. First, I checked my body for injuries. There weren't any. Like the bullet wound from my first day, everything that I had suffered at the police station had been undone as if it never happened.

  It was almost surreal, and yet it was not my imagination. If I hadn’t gone completely mad, I’ve been waking up to the day of 20th June for three times, watching the events play out in exactly the same way every time. It was not a dream or a precognition, it was real. I had lived through the same day, every moment ticking by me like an old memory unfolding in front of my eyes.

  My mind exploded with a sudden realization of what this power was capable of. I could travel back in time and change it the way I want. ‘Past’ was always thought as something that had already happened, something that was absolute and carved in stone for all eternity. Well, not anymore. For I am a time traveller.

  That’d take some time to sink in. I repeated it to myself aloud: I AM A TIME TRAVELLER.

  My heart pounded loudly on my rib-cage at those words. I felt adrenaline rushing through my body, my muscles flexed, and my hair stood up with excitement. I had never felt so much power in my entire life. Everything was within my grasp and nothing seemed impossible. I could save Shazia and Rahim chacha and Chotu in a cinch. We could go far away from the city before the curfew and the riots. They will not be caught in the mayhem. They won’t have to die.

  But I was getting ahead of myself.

  I was given this immense power for a higher purpose. There was a nuclear bomb somewhere in Delhi ticking away. Even if I saved Shazia, Rahim chacha and Chotu, in 5-hours that bomb could trigger a nuclear war that’d eventually consume everything, including them. Saving their lives from the riots was no guarantee of saving them from the war. Moreover, if I used this power for my own, those who gave it to me could also take it back as easily. I had seen at the police station what RAW was capable of. I couldn’t take that risk. I remembered the silhouette of the man in the hat shouting at me: Stop the bomb, Iqbal. Stop the bomb.

  There is no other way. If I want to save Shazia, I must stop the bomb.

  ###

  “Be precise, build on your steps. See everything, hear everything, for nothing is insignificant.”

  – A Time Traveller’s Diary

  Tomorrow #16

  Fifteen times I have lived through this day. Each day spent in observing people and surroundings, for any small detail could be significant. Each time it was like watching a re-run of an old movie and I, well, had the entire script. I knew who would do what and precisely when. I know the honking of horns and chatter of kids, the chirps of the birds and even the shape of the clouds. The only way things could change was when I chose to change them.

  One thing was pretty clear from the get-go—if I were to reach Delhi in five hours, I’d have to take the aerial route. And to get onto an airplane, the first thing I needed was enough money. My initial instinct was to loot the jewellery shop or the nearby bank, but both of those establishments were heavily guarded with a direct alarm system connected to the JC road police station. Not that I didn’t try. Through attempts five to eleven, driven by my immense power and resetting the day whenever needed, I attempted bank robberies, even succeeding a couple of times; but ended up getting Sub-Inspector Rao on my tail for the rest of the day.

  Eventually, I figured that it wasn’t worth it for a few thousand rupees. There had to be an easier, less jeopardizing way to get some money. So, in the last few attempts, I’ve
scouted for the right victim—Banarasi Paan Shop. From his tiny innocuous shop, located near the plaza, Banarasi sold paan, a stimulating betel-leaf preparation with tobacco and lime powder, that was a favourite addiction for his patrons. He did a swift business that week. More importantly, he stowed his cash proceeds in a small safe just beneath his cot and hid the key behind the protection offered by a gold idol of mighty Ganesh.

  At exactly 8:06 AM, I stood at my chosen spot at the chowk, from where I had a clear view of Banarasi, Ramesh’s Tea stall and the traffic policeman.

  “Hello bhaiyya, what are you doing here so early in the morning?” Chotu said, swinging his tea holder.

  “Nothing, Chotu, just hanging around,” I said, turning my attention back to Banarasi. He was cleaning betel leaves and applying pickling lime paste on them.

  “Do you want some tea?” Chotu nudged again.

  “Of course,” I said, picking up a glass. “How was your morning?”

  “Busy like always, bhaiyya,” he said putting the empty glasses one inside another.

  I took out a note and placed on his palm.

  “Bhaiyya, I don’t carry change for five hundred—”

  “It’s for you, Chotu,” I said hurriedly. “You always wanted to buy that remote-controlled toy-helicopter, right?”

  “How do you know that, Bhaiyya?”

  “I just know that, okay—it’s not important. But there is one condition, you must go there right now. Quick… before I change my mind.”

  Chotu hesitated for a moment and then jumped at the five-hundred rupee note. A smile stretched on his face, and then, he ran away as fast as he could, shouting his thank-yous.

  At exactly 8:15 AM, Banarasi got down from his pedestal.

  “Ramesh bhai, look after my shop, will you? I’ll be back in two minutes,” he said holding his pinky finger up.

  “All right,” said Ramesh bhai while handing out tea to the laborers who had gathered there from a nearby construction site. “But you better see a doctor soon, Banarasi.”

  Banarasi ignored his last comment and hurried off to answer nature’s call.

  At the precise moment, I took long steps towards Ramesh bhai’s stall.

  “What? Ramesh bhai, you are still here?” I blared.

  “Huh?” Ramesh bhai was confused.

  “Didn’t you get the message?” I said letting out breathless gasps, “Inspector Murthy is asking for you. He said something about your hafta not being enough—”

  “This Inspector has made my life so difficult,” he said, angrily, “I stuff his greedy mouth with thousand rupees a week and that pig is still not satisfied. And now he is asking for more...” he looked around. “And where is Chotu when you need him -”

  “I can look after your stall Ramesh bhai, don’t worry,” I said, “Chotu must be coming back soon anyway. But you must hurry. Now.”

  Ramesh bhai looked unconvinced but he had no other choice. He gave me some instructions and went off to the police station.

  The last hurdle was the traffic policeman at the chowk who was managing the morning traffic. He spotted a helmetless biker and blew his whistle to stop him. That was my cue. I had exactly 28 seconds while the policeman was distracted and Banarasi returned from his morning escapades.

  I moved in quickly, grabbed the key from beneath the Ganesh idol, flipped open the small pedestal and opened the locker. Within 28 seconds, I was walking away with my pocket bulging with a thick wad of 500-rupee notes. It’d be well past noon when Banarsi would realize that he had been parted with his cash.

  ###

  By 8:45 AM, I was speeding on the six-lane Bangalore Airport Expressway in private taxi and brand-new clothes, courtesy Banarasi.

  “Can you please drive faster?” I urged the driver.

  “Sir,” he said looking at me in the rear-view mirror, “this is as fast as I can go.”

  He was right. The speedometer needle was hovering at 120 kmph and corporate billboards, carefully placed amongst the lush landscaped gardens to attract the attention of the affluent class, did seem to jump out in too quick a succession to warrant a read. The greenery was beautifully contrasted by thousands of flowers; it looked as if someone has laid a colourful carpet on the even grass.

  Amidst this nature, the main building of Kempegowda International Airport appeared in the distance. As we speeded towards it, the glass building looked like a giant water bubble slowly rising from the ground. Its crystal white branching pillars, looking not too unlike giant white trees, supported the mammoth structure. Though this was my second time to the airport, I couldn’t help but feel amazed at the modern marvel.

  Just outside the airport, between the vehicle parking and Taj hotel, giant tricolour flag towering thirty feet high, fluttered proudly in the winds from Nandi hills.

  The airport entrance was chequered with memoir shops and food stalls interspersed with palm trees. Overlooking the area were army-posts manned by CRPF’s men who peered above the sandbags. At some distance, dark red BMTCs buses, or Vayu Vajras as they were called, with their attendants in spotless white uniforms stood by their doors, waiting for their next lot of passengers.

  At 9:10 AM I was standing in front of the service-counter of FlyHigh Airlines.

  “Sir, we have a flight departing at 10 AM from Bangalore to Delhi. It is scheduled to reach its destination by 12:30 PM,” said the lady at the counter in a mechanically polite tone, flashing her unnaturally white teeth.

  “Is there any earlier flight?”

  “No, sir. Even for this flight, counters will be closed in next 10 minutes. You’ve got to decide fast if you want to get onto this one,” she said a little impatiently as the queue behind me was getting longer.

  There was no other way. Even as 12:30 was cutting it too close, I knew from my 15th attempt that the flight would never make it in time. This time around, I have a new plan. A lot more dangerous, and it mightn’t succeed. In the worst-case scenario, I’d have to reset the day and try something else altogether. I sighed. “All right, please book me a seat. Business class this time.”

  “This time?” she exclaimed.

  “Uh… never mind,” I said, sheepishly.

  When I entered the airport building, I might’ve as well landed on another planet. The huge dome seemed to go on forever and its walls not even in sight. The ceiling extended so high that it seemed it could absorb the Qutub Minar many times over. The speckless floor shone so much that it reflected like a mirror. The air itself felt different; a better different. People all around me were dressed in clothes that I had only seen on mannequins. For someone like me who had grown up in filth and garbage, it was nothing short of transcendental experience.

  After getting my boarding pass and passing through the security check, I sat in one of the chairs closer to the boarding gate. The terminal area was like a metropolis in itself. Buzzing with thousands of people, driven by their clocks, floated in an orchestrated motion. Businessmen tapped on their laptops and mobile phones, kids pressed their noses on the angled glass-walls facing the airfield, pointing excitedly at the landing planes, and a young couple cozied up in a discrete corner. Only if they knew what was coming at them.

  A stocky man, dressed in a formal black trouser and blue striped shirt, was sitting next to me. Staring at today’s cricket match on the large TV screens which were on mute, he took upon himself to fill-in with his own commentary.

  “I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN. I JUST KNEW IT,” he said loudly. “The moment they took Mohanty in the team I knew they would hammer us. That bugger hasn’t taken a wicket in the last FIVE matches. These selectors must’ve been high selecting him in the squad... and you call this a field placement. ABSOLUTELY HORRIBLE,” he shook his head agitatedly and loosened his jacket.

  The next ball sixer didn’t help his mood.

  “SHORT BALL!” he cried. “Can you believe it? Short ball on this pitch is a suicide.”

  At that point, I realized that he was expecting a response from me. I reluct
antly said, “You are absolutely right, sir.”

  “Of course, I am right. It’s all fixed, you know. There were days when we had the likes of Sachin and Dravid. Those were the real cricketers. ‘The Wall’ they used to call him. THE WALL! That was the era and those were the players who played for the country. Now it’s all about money, money, money. Just look at them – they’ve ceded 92 runs in 12 overs. At this rate, they will cross 300.”

  I made a mental note to avoid sitting next to him in the next attempt. At the same moment, PA systems announced the boarding commencement for the Delhi flight.

  “360,” I replied to him and walked towards the boarding gate and—as I realized it then—towards a nuclear explosion.

  ###

  Time: 10:45 AM (2.15 hours to the blast)

  Location: Airspace between Bangalore and Delhi

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard FlyHigh Airlines Flight 317 from Bangalore to Delhi,” blared the co-pilot’s voice inside the plane. “We are currently cruising at 30,000 feet, flying at 800 kilometers per hour and we expect to reach our destination on schedule. The seat belt sign will soon be turned off and our excellent cabin crew will be serving you refreshments. Sit-back, relax and enjoy our award-winning flight experience.”