Location: Temporal Opus
Time: Unknown
The Masked Man was elated. There was nothing he couldn’t do.
“Congratulations on completing your very first mission, agent,” said Superior in his usual emotionless tone.
“Thank you, Superior. It was your training that has made me strong.”
“How do you feel?”
“Never been better. I would’ve never thought that the minister was an accomplice in the act. That fear in his eyes in his last moments is something I will cherish for a long time,” the Masked Man said. His unmistakably jovial tone wasn’t lost on the Superior.
“You will have to stop associating with the subjects too closely, agent. As temporal agents, we execute what is needed of us, and not second guess the morality of our actions; last thing you want to do is derive pleasure or pain from your actions.”
“I apologize, Superior. I will try harder to keep my emotions in check.”
“Well, it was your first mission so some of the excitement is obvious. Don’t worry, Andrea can help you with this.”
Masked Man nodded.
“Superior, can I ask you one question before you leave?”
“Go ahead.”
“Now that I think about it more, I don’t understand why this assassination was necessary? Iqbal’s reset would have anyway taken care of it.”
“It wouldn’t have. It might seem counter-intuitive, but it is understandable since you are just beginning.” Superior cleared his throat. “See… Iqbal doesn’t know anything that is happening at the government’s headquarters. His resets are not changing the fact that a crucial information is getting passed onto the enemy and he won’t be able to remedy it. This is where we come in. Minister’s assassination has ensured that ships’ coordinates remain a secret.”
“But how will that matter if Iqbal stops the bomb from going-off? The government wouldn’t go into hiding, there won’t be counter-attack. And there won’t exist any information to get passed on. What I did will simply get undone once Iqbal resets.”
“Good observations, agent. But you’ve interchanged the cause and effect. A common mistake. Of course, you haven’t seen the temporal opus to realize it yet. It gets difficult even for me sometimes but let me try an answer it. When Iqbal stops the bomb, if he stops the bomb, he has to be driven by a certain set of circumstances that are triggered only when the counter-attack succeeds. If it doesn’t, it’ll lead to a very different reality that would take away Iqbal’s drive to stop the bomb, resulting in a paradox,” Superior said, in one breath.
The Masked Man remained in thoughtful silence till Superior’s meaning dawned on him. He let out an audible gasp in surprise.
“Precisely. And this was only simpler of the temporal problems that Temporal Opus solves. As it becomes more intricate, the reasoning behind its solutions borders on super-human. Complexities within complexities within complexities.”
“I can’t wait to see the Temporal Opus and be part of advanced missions, Superior.”
“Well, you’ll have to be patient till your training gets over. Your second mission is to free Iqbal from the police station, remember? This one is going to be difficult. And this time, try not to let the events of the mission impact you.”
“Yes, superior. I will try my best.”
###
“Time is a strange beast. On the surface, it’s a powerful, wild, unpredictable and chaotic animal that cannot be tamed. One can only hope to see it from distance, dancing to mysterious tunes, watching it perform its miracles and connecting the impossible dots.
But even then, you’ll be bruised by the sheer glimpse of its power. Even if you can time-travel to see it again and again, it will seem incomprehensible. But after you’ve been through enough, to the point when all seems destined but unpredictable, something magical happens. The chaos turns into a symphony.”
– A Time Traveller’s Diary
Tomorrow #116
I was invincible. I was prescient. Maybe I wasn’t God, but I wasn’t any less.
I knew everything to the tiniest of details.
I knew tomorrow’s headlines and I knew the little accidents.
I knew how a soft flutter of a butterfly caused roaring storms across the world.
I could see all the dots all the way back and how they connected to culminate in today’s reality.
I could set the dominos the way I wanted and watch them fall. I could create little serendipities that, through an improbable sequence of “coincidences”, would get me whatever I wanted. A tap on someone’s shoulder at the right moment could change the world of tomorrow. Sometimes for better. Sometimes for worse. And I could choose from those tomorrows.
I had the power to change the future.
Only I had the power to change the future.
For the first time in my life, everything appeared crystal clear. I played with people like a puppetmaster plays his puppets. I didn’t know if this meant that “free will” was a myth. Perhaps it was. At any rate, I wasn’t changing anyone’s choices or their willingness to make them, all I was doing was giving them a little nudge.
Did I stop the bomb? Not yet. Was I getting closer. Yes.
Even with this power, the challenge I undertook was great, that needed a flawless execution of several connected steps. I would need to go to Delhi, that is two thousand kilometres, find the bomb and stop it from blowing up everything. All of it in within the same five hours.
What happened in my 116th run might seem like incredible luck. It wasn’t. Just a series of carefully engineered steps that I perfected over scores of cycles. Meticulous in design, ingenious in planning and impeccable in execution, the outcome was as predictable as the toss of a coin with identical faces.
###
Time: 8:30 AM
Location: Ahluwalia Estate, Langford Gardens, Bangalore
It was a usual morning for the liquor magnate Jogi Ahluwalia. He woke up next to a beautiful model’s bare back facing him, ruffled satin covers barely reaching her upper thighs. Her hourglass body seemed capable of enchanting even the Gods, and her red velvet mini dress, that had all men drooling over her last night, lay on the rich hardwood floor.
He slithered his hand over his night’s possession. He had forgotten her name, but as was common with the likes of her, she wanted to become a Bollywood actress. He would ask one of his producer friends to get her an audition, but only if she came to him whenever he wanted. She would’ve to become his new favourite toy, and then he might do something for her in return. All of them came around with time. All of them. They knew the price and he was the only man in town with the currency. It was pure business.
And it was business that Jogi’s house parties were famous for. The invites were not only sought after by wannabe actresses and models but also politicians, businessmen, socialites and B-town celebrities alike. It was often said, half seriously, that his address wielded more power than the parliament itself. In the corridors of his mansion, key business deals were struck, portfolios were decided, and future stars were made.
He thought about ravaging her again. But that would have to wait. A ten-billion-dollar business empire required constant vigilance.
He grabbed his vest from beneath her pillow and put it on in front of a life-size mirror. He liked what he saw – a well-toned body and muscles at all the right places. Even at 45, he did not look a day past his prime. He exuded power. He knew, of course, that the real power resided in his money and his connections.
Minutes later, he was jogging on custom-designed polymeric rubber-track around his sprawling 120-acre mansion flanked by his private guards as his PAs scribbled notes while trying to keep up with his pace. He basked in self-adulation as he walked past the landscaped gardens jutted with artificial waterfalls and art-pieces bought in auctions from around the world. His favourite one, though, was a large bronze statue of The Thinking Man made in an original casting from Rodin himself, that he had installed right near the m
ain gate of his expansive mansion. Sitting underneath the statue, his usual pit-stop during his morning jog, and sipping his vitamin water, his attention was drawn to the commotion at the main gate. Usually there always was an ensemble of news channels hounding him for a news-bite that he ignored, but today, it was something different.
He walked up to the gate where the guards surrounded a small boy who was gutsily fighting them off with a tea holder. One of the guards caught him from behind with difficulty.
“Let me go! This is urgent!” He shouted as he twisted and twitched his body to break free from the grip, giving a tough time to the guard.
“What is this ruckus?” Jogi asked, curtly.
All the guards stood in attention at once and gave a sharp salute. The boy finally freeing himself, straightened and did his shirt’s buttons. “I have an important message for Jogi Ahluwalia,” he said, breathlessly.
One of the guards, who looked more ruffled than the boy, bore a guilty face. “I’m so sorry for the disturbance, sir. I’ll get rid of—”
Jogi cut him off. “What’s your name, boy? I am Jogi Ahluwalia” he asked.
“My name is Chotu... sir,” he said nervously, his eyes darting at the gunmen. “I have an urgent letter for you.”
“Don’t be scared Chotu, they won’t hurt you. Give me the letter.”
Chotu pulled out a folded envelope from his dirty shirt pocket and cautiously walked towards Jogi before handing it to him. There were no markings on the envelope except a handwritten ‘URGENT’.
“Who gave you this?” Jogi checked the envelope from all sides.
“I don’t know, sir” said Chotu with much effort. “He came on a bike to my tea shop this morning and asked me to deliver this to you. He gave me good money too.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t see his face, he had a helmet on – Is that a helicopter!” Chotu exclaimed, pointing at the helipad next to Jogi’s mammoth villa where Jogi’s private helicopter was being fuelled.
“Why? Do you want to buy it?” One of the PAs mocked. Others laughed.
Chotu ignored him, his excitement barely contained at the sight of the helicopter. “I can give you a hundred rupees if you let me sit in it once,” Chotu said innocently, his hand stretching out a crumpled note.
“Just look at this brat,” one of the gunmen stepped towards him. “Your job is done here. Go back to the slum where you came from. Scram!”
Chotu looked offended and turned around, stealing one last glance at the helicopter.
“One day, I will have a helicopter just like this. You all will see.”
PAs, security guards and the gunmen, all laughed derisively. Even Jogi was left bemused by the boy. He opened the envelope and started reading:
“Mr. Ahluwalia,
Apologies for not presenting this letter to you in person. You understand that secrecy is of paramount importance in these matters. However, I assure you that I only have your best interest in mind. With that intent, I want to tell you that the Prime Minister Vikram Dayal is not happy with the current Chief Minister. This afternoon, the party president and the Prime Minister are holding a private discussion about this “situation”.
You are quite aware that Chief Minister Reddy was a temporary arrangement (brilliantly pulled-off by the way) but now he is not exactly the favoured choice at the South Block.
I must also tell you that the next name on the list is SK Krishna. And you know very well what that means for you and your empire.
You might be wondering why I am telling you all this. Let me just say that our interests are aligned in keeping things as they are right now. You may want to know more about me, but if I were you, I’d spend every minute trying to reverse the imminent.
Your Well-wisher”
By the time Jogi reached the end of the letter, his smile had vanished. Visibly shocked, he quickly re-read the letter.
“Is everything okay, sir?” asked one of the PAs with concern.
“It is NOT – where has that boy gone—” he shouted, “—you... you and you... find that boy and search for the man who gave him this letter.”
He turned to his PA. “Cancel all my appointments for this morning and get Chief Minister Reddy on the line. Wake him up if you have to.”
Jogi hurried back to his home office, his mind still racing over the contents of the letter again and again. If there was even an iota of truth in there, he was at a big risk. Despite Jogi’s diverse investments that included a glamorous airline, real estate and hotels, his core business was still alcohol and he controlled 90% of the market. He needed to kill the idea in the crib.
Current CM Reddy didn’t exactly like Jogi Ahluwalia but his love for Jogi Ahluwalia’s money more than compensated for it. In fact, CM Reddy’s business policies that favoured his alcohol related business were virtually written in Jogi’s presence in exchange for an addition of handful of zeros in Reddy’s swiss account. Jogi knew the right nerves to press and right palms to grease.
On the other hand, SK Krishna was a hardliner who openly detested Reddy and his government’s laxity towards questionable businesses. It was almost impossible to “lobby” him. If his anonymous “well-wisher” was not playing a prank on him, and SK Krishna ended up becoming the next CM, Jogi’s game was over. He had always protected his virtual monopoly fiercely and spared no means to mercilessly crush any competitor that tried to challenge him. He had his connections, but SK Krishna had no weak nerves to be pressed. This… situation… this was beyond even his control.
If only I had more power, he thought.
He rushed to his villa and soon his PAs had managed to get the Chief Minister Reddy on the phone. The man had not taken well to be woken up early in the morning, especially by the guy who thought himself above the government.
CM Reddy’s voice was furious. “How dare you give me orders like that? Don’t forget that you are talking to a Chief Minister, Mr. Ahluwalia.”
“And you are forgetting who made you one, Mister Chief Minister,” replied Jogi, munching the last three words. Jogi wasn’t going to take it lying down.
There was a heavy breathing from the other side. Reddy was getting angry.
Good, Jogi thought.
“We are in this together Mr. Reddy, but we must act now. You should meet the party president and change his mind before he meets the Prime Minister Vikram Dayal. Whatever concerns he has, make him bury them even if it takes mountains of cash.”
There was silence at the other end.
“I will have my private jet ready within one hour to take us to Delhi. Board that plane or else…”
“Or else what, Mr. Jogi?”
“Or else the opposition will do anything to have my election funds on their side Mr. Reddy. I will wait for you at the airport. One hour.”
Jogi hanged up. After dismissing his PAs, he sat alone in his plush drawing room for some time, thinking. There was nothing else he could do but wait. He tossed blocks of wood in the fireplace and absentmindedly turned them over red-hot coal. Despite having immense amount of money at his disposal, his helplessness gnawed at him. And he hated it. He needed more power. It will happen, someday. He poured himself a glass of his company’s finest whiskey, wishing his address could brandish more power than the Vidhan Saudha.
Little did he know that his wish would come true very soon in the future. But in ways he never imagined even in his wildest dreams.
###
Time: 8:30 AM
Location: JC Street
While Jogi Ahluwalia prepared for his morning walk, I breakfasted at Shanti Sagar restaurant with my new best-friend.
“So, what kind of planes can you fly?” I asked, taking a large bite of my Idli.
“Well I can’t fly anything yet,” Suraj said, adjusting his chair after being jostled by the family at the table behind them. He eyed them with disdain as water almost got spilled on his Rado watch. His discomfort was understandable; for a barely twenty lad, born with a silve
r spoon in his mouth, places like Shanti Sagar were no better than a grisly chicken-pan.
“But I joined this flying school you know. There they’ll teach me all sorts of things.” His face brightened at the thought of flying. “It’ll be so cool when I become a pilot. My buddies will be like...’yo Suraj. A pilot? The guy who flunked college?’ They’ll be so freaked out, man, I can’t imagine the look on their faces. That’d be totally wicked.” he continued. “My old man wants me to join his business, but I am not ready you know. I told him to his face, ’Yo Pops, I don’t want to waste my time in your factory. I won’t get this time of my life again... after all, you only live once, YOLO, you know.’”
I nodded. “Of course, you are absolutely right, Suraj. Your life is your own to live. And there’s enough money to last you for three generations.”
He flashed a cheeky grin, leaned a bit towards me and whispered, “Seven generations.”
I laughed at his blatant admission of wealth. It was quite amusing to listen to him even for the twentieth time.
A harried waiter arrived and wiped the table with a sponge cloth. “Anything else, sir?”
“No, I think I am good.” He raised his hand slightly with a royal cadence. “Unless, of course, mister Iqbal wants something.”
“Just one coffee please,” I said, finishing off the Idlis. In distance, I saw Yusuf bhai frantically looking for me. I sank deeper in the chair at the right moment to buck his searching eyes.
“Listen, bro,” Suraj said with a finality and rose. “I won’t be able to give you company for that coffee. My flying classes start today, and I need to be there by ten o’ clock. But thanks again for returning my wallet.” He shook my hand. “Very few honest people left in this world. I doubt it would’ve returned to me if you hadn’t found it. Let me know if you ever need any help, I can give a call to my dad and…”
“Actually,” I poured a glass of water from the jug and gestured him to sit down. “There is something you can do.”
“Anything for you, Iqbal bro... just say the word.”
“I just have one question that you can answer honestly.” I emptied the glass. “What is it that brought a guy like you in this part of town?”
123 Tomorrows Page 9