Turbulence E-Book

Samit Basu

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 477

Beschreibung

HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF YOU ACTUALLY GOT WHAT YOU WANTED? AND WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU COULD REALLY CHANGE THE WORLD? Aman Sen is smart, young, ambitious and going nowhere. But then he gets off a plane from London to Delhi and discovers that he has turned into a communications demigod. Indeed, everyone on Aman's flight now has extraordinary abilities Aman wants to heal the planet but with each step he takes, he finds helping some means harming others. will it all end, as eighty years of superhero fiction suggest, in a meaningless, explosive slugfest?

Leseprobe

Coming soon from Titan Books

RESISTANCEBY SAMIT BASU

TURBULENCESAMIT BASU

TITANBOOKS

TURBULENCE

Print edition ISBN: 9781781161197

E-book ISBN: 9781781161210

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: July 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Samit Basu asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

© 2012 by Samit Basu.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group Ltd.

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TURBULENCE

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Acknowledgements

About the Author

CHAPTERONE

In 1984, Group Captain Balwant Singh of the Indian Air Force’s Western Air Command had dangled his then three-year-old son Vir off the edge of the uppermost tier of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, nearly giving his gentle and hirsute wife, Santosh Kaur, a heart attack in the process. With the mixture of casual confidence and lunacy that is the hallmark of every true fighter pilot, Captain Singh had tossed his son up, caught him in mid-air and held him over the railing for a while, before setting him down safely.

His son’s future thus secured, Balwant had turned to shut off his wife’s uncanny impersonation of a police siren with the wise words, “Nonsense, foolish woman. See, my tiger is not afraid at all. He is born for the sky, just like me. Vir, say ‘Nabha Sparsham Deeptam’.”

Vir had not been in the mood for the Indian Air Force motto at that point, his exact words had been, “MAA!”

All these years later, Vir still remembers that first flight with astonishing clarity: the sudden weightlessness, the deafening sound of his own heart beating, the blur of the world tilting around him, the slow-motion appearance of first the white dome of Sacré Coeur and then a wispy white cloud shaped like Indira Gandhi’s hair behind his flailing red Bata Bubble-Gummers shoes. His father had said that moment had shaped his destiny, given him wings.

But his father isn’t here now. Flight Lieutenant Vir Singh is all alone in the sky.

And had Balwant Singh not prepared Vir for flight, this day would probably have been a lot more difficult. As he descends from the clouds, his breath steaming from the cold, Vir looks at his shoes, ready to see a new world reveal itself slowly behind them, zooming slowly into focus from high above. Pakistan. North Pakistan. Rawalpindi District. Kahuta. He looks far beyond his shoes, to the ground, where the sprawl of the AQ Khan Research Laboratories complex lies below him like scattered Lego bricks.

Vir stands several hundred feet up in the air above a highly guarded nuclear research centre, the heart of the Pakistani nuclear weapons programme, named after a man most famous for allegedly selling nuclear tech to North Korea, Libya and Iran. Not really the sort of place where Indian Air Force officers are welcome guests. And he hasn’t brought his fighter jet, his trusty Jaguar, with him. It’s not that he has forgotten it in his hurry to get dressed; he simply doesn’t need it any more.

Vir can fly. He stands tall, legs slightly apart, a wingless angel swaying slightly in the wind, rivulets of icy water running down his body. A young man of great presence, of power and dignity, which is only very slightly diminished by a passing migratory bird’s recent use of his shoulder as a pit-stop.

The sun is harsh above the clouds, Pakistan is sweltering in the grip of summer, from the microwave that is Lahore to the steamer that is Karachi. Vir is grateful for Rawalpindi District’s notoriously unpredictable weather: storm clouds are gathering around him, providing him both a degree of shade and an appropriately dramatic background, given his current circumstances. He’s wearing a light-blue grey costume, the closest approximation of sky camouflage that his commanding officer has been able to procure for him. His squadron leader has asked him to put a mask on as well, like Zorro or Spider-Man, but Vir is flouting orders; men who can fly need to feel wind and sky-ice on their faces.

Storms are gathering everywhere in the region. To the west, Taliban and other tribal warlords hold sway over vast tracts of land, and constantly threaten the stability of the nation. Every day, young men blow themselves up near schools, markets and embassies. In the cities, parents complain about insane vegetable prices and worry about sending their children to school.

Halfway across the world, American leaders shiver at the prospect of mad-eyed Taliban fanatics seizing control of Pakistan’s nuclear weapons. Washington sends billions of dollars to help Pakistan fight its demons; this money is not used, Pakistani leaders swear, never-ever pinkie swear, for the constant expansion of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. And yet this arsenal continues to grow, and the Kahuta project is where uranium is enriched. This is where Pakistan’s first seventy nuclear weapons came from. This is where thousands of centrifuges spin out missile-ready uranium, and hundreds of scientists design missiles to put it in. Clearly a destination of choice for flying Indian Air Force soldiers with destructive ambitions.

One swift, devastating strike, he has been told. The sooner the world’s nuclear weapons are history, the sooner we can all stop living in fear. Vir had wanted to start with North Korea, but understood what his squadron leader had explained: the moment a single attack happened, other nuclear sites would be savagely guarded. Some scientist would figure out how to defend buildings against him. When beginning a noble anti-nuclear mission, where better to start than in your own neighbourhood?

It is his moment to shine, to swoop down like an avenging hawk, but Vir hesitates. He takes another look at the roofs of the Kahuta complex and pretends to consider where a good point of entry would be. Then he pulls a satellite phone out of a large waterproof pouch on his belt and makes a call.

“Squadron Leader?”

“Vir! Is it done? We haven’t heard a word.”

“No. Sir… I think we should reconsider this mission.”

“You have your orders.”

“But sir, the consequences —”

“— have been computed. Your concerns have been noted. Now carry out your mission, Lieutenant. Don’t report until you’re done.”

The line goes dead.

Vir heaves a deep breath and looks down at the factory again. The mission is simple enough. He flexes his muscles, preparing to let go, to drop like a meteorite.

The phone beeps. Vir takes the call.

“Vir Singh?”

“Sir.”

“Can I interest you in buying a new credit card?”

“What?”

“Kidding. Listen. Abort your mission. Fly home.”

“Who is this?” It’s not the voice of anyone Vir knows. Young, male, Indian, from the accent. Vir hears seventies rock music faintly in the background.

“So, what’s the plan, Vir? Bust into the nuke factory, kill a few people, fly out with some uranium? Does that sound smart to you?”

“How did you get this number?”

“On a toilet cubicle wall with ‘Call For Good Time’ written beside it. What are you, stupid? You’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life. Your father was sent to a needless death in an obsolete MiG-21 and now you’re about to throw your own life away and start a war in the process. Abort!”

Vir disconnects the call, struggles to process the enormity of the security breach that has clearly happened, and then gives up. He tilts his body and stretches, like a diver getting ready to plunge.

The phone beeps again. Vir ignores it for a few seconds, then takes it out and throws it away.

And then flies down a little, catches it, and takes the call.

“You want to take out Pakistan’s nuclear weapons, right?” his mystery caller continues as if there had been no interruption in their conversation. “You want to make things better one step at a time? Make the world a safer place for one and all? Well, going down there and re-enacting King Kong isn’t going to achieve that. It looks smart — one tiny flying man going in, smashing things, and getting out — but it’s not possible. Not in this world, not even with your powers. Not even Chuck Norris could have pulled this off in his prime.”

“Bruce Lee?” a woman’s voice asks in the background.

“Lee’s dead. Jesus, don’t be ridiculous. Sorry, Vir. But listen, man, this won’t cause any real damage. I can tell you where to go. I know where all the nukes are. But now is not the time.”

“Pakistan’s nuclear weapons are a threat to the entire region,” Vir says, distracted by a memory of the day his uncle Kulbhushan had suddenly run out into the streets of Chandigarh wearing nothing but a pair of Argyll socks, loudly proclaiming that insanity ran deep in their family. He shakes his head. Focus. “And the Pakistan government might lose control to the Taliban soon. This is a necessary step. I am acting as an independent individual and not as a representative of any country or army.”

“Yes, and you just like to hang out at Indian Air Force secret bases. The booze discount is awesome. The problem, Vir, is that you haven’t thought this through. You’ve been following orders, not using your head.”

“I must know who I’m speaking with. Who do you represent?”

“No one. Everyone. Look at you. You’re the finest, most powerful human being India’s ever produced. A born leader. You’re a — and I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud — superhero. Meta-human, science hero, post-human, fly-guy, deadly post-nuclear weapon, whatever. Someone who should be setting an example. Who’s the greatest Indian leader ever?”

“Gandhi?”

“Our survey says… Gandhi. Ask yourself this. If Gandhi had your powers, would he be flying around above a Pakistani nuclear site wiping his foggy glasses and trying to start World War Three, or would he be doing something slightly more productive?”

“I’m not —”

“Thinking. I know. The game’s changed, Vir. The world’s changed. I’m not saying throwing some uranium at Uranus is a bad thing. But some people might not be pleased when they find out. And they will find out. You’re currently potentially visible to about seventeen satellites, including the Spacecraft Control guys in Bangalore. Bengaluru. Whatever. No one’s really noticed you yet, but that’s because they’re not looking for you, and mostly they’re looking for Taliban soldiers leaping from rock to rock.”

“They can’t possibly get clear images of me with current technology — sorry, who are you?”

“But there’ll be footage of your flight lying around that no one’s seen as yet. Not only was doing this by day monumentally dumb, you made the mistake of flying to Kahuta directly from that secret base you’ve got in Kashmir. People in between will have seen you as well. Bad move. It’s not going to take a genius to figure out where you came from.”

“You can’t be sure that anyone’s observed me.”

“I’ve observed you, haven’t I? And it’s not even my job. You know what things are like. If a pimple explodes unexpectedly in Islamabad, the Pakistani government says an Indian hand squeezed it. We do the same. You want to give them actual evidence of an attack on a nuclear site? You’ll go down in history as a prize moron.”

“Why should I believe any of this?”

“Don’t if you don’t want to. Maybe all this is a dream. What did you dream about on the plane from London, Vir? I dreamt of big shiny spaceships and aliens. Maybe that’s what you should be thinking of, not pig-headed local missions.”

Vir looks at the phone as if it just bit him. When he speaks into it again, his voice is hoarse with rage.

“You don’t know what you’re getting involved with. You must tell me everything you know immediately. If you’re the one who’s been trying to stop us, you’re in more danger than you can imagine. We will find you.”

“You won’t have to try very hard. I want to meet you. But if you go into that factory today, you won’t come out. You’ve been sent on a suicide run.”

“What?”

“No one in the Air Force top brass knows about your mission, Vir. I’ve been listening. No Indian military chief in his right mind would have allowed this mission anyway. Whoever sent you here wants you dead. What do you do with a stray superhero? Send him to the place where your enemy keeps his nukes. Either way, someone powerful dies.”

Vir struggles for a response and finds nothing. He listens, instead, to his caller, whose voice is getting more and more incoherent.

“The world needs you for more than this, Vir. I could use your help, this is bigger than India or Pakistan. No one could have planned for what happened to us on the plane. There were 403 of us when we started. There aren’t now. When this is done, check your mail. Come and meet me in Mumbai. We’re going to have to work together.”

“I don’t believe any of this. I can’t abandon my mission based on what you say.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have stuck around and talked for so long then. You showed up on the KRL motion detection system a while ago. You’re not big enough or giving off a large enough heat signature for them to start throwing missiles at you, but you might want to make a move before they take a much closer look. The Americans will be looking for you by now as well — they’ve probably told their Pakistani friends you’re not one of theirs. Smile and wave, Vir.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because, in case it wasn’t clear enough, I don’t want you to waltz into AQ Khan Labs and start a war. But I don’t want you to die today, either. Now get out before they come for you. We’ll talk later.” The phone went silent.

Vir tucks his phone into the case on his belt. He stands in mid-air, in mid-thought, and is tempted to laugh. But then he looks up, to the west, towards the flash of light, towards the shining winged metal falcon hurtling towards him, hears that familiar jet-engine scream, and he knows the time for choices is over. The Fiza’ya has arrived.

The phone beeps again. On auto-pilot, Vir picks it up.

“F-16,” his mystery caller says. “Whatever you do, don’t fly back to India.”

Vir hangs up, and tries to get his still-human mind to figure out a course of immediate action. It’s been a month since he discovered he could fly, and he still doesn’t know why. But he does know how to start, and he swirls and streaks off, cutting through the air, still marvelling at the beauty of the landscape gradually turning into a blur beneath him.

After that first exhilarating dash, he swoops up, stopping, surveying the skies. He’s been sighted. The F-16A, specially designed for manoeuvrability, has followed his trajectory and is speeding right at him. Vir wonders at the skill of its pilot: it was no mean feat to have spotted him. His appreciation is lessened, though, when he sees a stabbing point of white light coming from under the Viper’s left wing. The M61 Vulcan cannon, six-barrelled, self-cooling, high-speed spinning Gatling gun of every pilot’s nightmares.

Vir shuts his eyes and speeds north, the world a dull grey roar, the moaning of the jet streaking behind him flattened out, punctuated by the ceaseless hammering of the Vulcan. He hasn’t had the opportunity to time himself; he doesn’t know how fast he can fly. He does know, though, that the F-16 flies fastest at high altitudes, so he dips sharply, lower and lower, feeling the slap of warmer air. His skin tingles and quivers.

His phone beeps.

Vir shuts his eyes and begs his unknown powers for more. His clothes, not tested at this speed, are beginning to rip and tear. A lucky shot from the Vulcan grazes his back. He knows he’s far stronger than normal humans: his squadron leader spent most of one afternoon shooting at him at close range with increasingly heavy firepower to no effect. But he doesn’t know exactly what the limits of his resistance are. And he wouldn’t have chosen this time, this place or this weapon in his quest for greater understanding.

He’s bleeding now, as he takes off again, trailing a thin jet-stream of suspended red droplets.

The phone beeps until Vir reaches a climax of world-ending rage. He slows down, loops, and comes to a shuddering halt, and then drops like a stone. The F-16 slows too, but shoots over his head. Vir takes the call.

“Not a good time,” he says.

“You’re incredibly fast. Do you know where you are now? You’re near Gilgit. That’s about 260 kilometres in just more than a minute.”

Far ahead, the F-16 goes through a sharp turn, its bubble canopy gleaming in the sun.

“Make this quick,” Vir says.

“Just a heads-up. You’ve killed the Viper, right?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, if you don’t, the Pakistanis have evidence of an act of war. Listen, he’s probably seen you and has good pictures of you. You need to take him out. Think like a pilot. Don’t race him. Dance with him. He’s a fatty.”

“Go to hell,” Vir snaps.

The fatty is close now, Vulcan hammering away. Vir flies up, making short, sharp, diagonal dashes, flitting bat-like closer to the F-16 until he can see the pilot, who’s chattering excitedly into his mouthpiece as he tries to steer his wobbling craft into position. A burst of speed, and Vir is directly above the Falcon. He drops gently on it, and hangs on. Panicking, the pilot cuts loose. Vir darts aside as the jet roars away, leaving him wobbling and coughing in its slipstream. When the roar has faded somewhat, he puts the phone to his ear.

“That was good advice,” he says.

“Hey, no problem. Excellent network on these satellite phones, huh? What is it? Thuraya? Globalstar? My phone usually gets cut off when I walk from my bedroom to my kitchen.”

“Focus. What do I do now?”

“Oh, yeah, babbling, sorry. I do that. You should head north. Don’t turn right until you reach Tajikistan. Come back through Nepal or Bhutan. Try not to provoke the Chinese.”

“Has he got pictures of me? Is our secret out?”

“I’ve been trying to jam his communications, but I don’t know — something might have got through. Why don’t you ask him? He’ll probably be back, get him then. He’ll have told them about you, but without pictures everyone will assume flying men are American.”

True enough, the F-16 is back, and this time it’s locked in on Vir. There are two Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles on rail launchers on its wingtips — the pilot launches them both in quick succession and then comes in, cannons blazing.

Vir pauses for a second and looks around, taking in the majesty of the scene. The Karakoram Mountains lie to the north, harsh cliffs and peaks cutting dagger-like shadows. No clouds here: the sun is bright, unrelenting. He breathes in, enjoying the mountain air. And then the missiles reach him. Vir darts aside politely, watches the Sidewinders shoot past, and then races towards the jet.

Afraid now, the pilot swerves sharply. But Vir is faster, he joins the F-16 in flight and together they head for the hills. Ahead of them, the Sidewinders swerve and circle, sensing their target’s trajectory. The pilot now sees Vir’s face clearly for the first time: this is no small robot spy drone, this is another man, their skins are the same colour. His jaw drops; he stares at Vir with religious awe, unable to persuade his hands to move the controls any longer. Time stops; human and superhuman make eye contact.

“Sorry,” Vir says. He streaks upwards as the Sidewinders close in on him and miss, smashing into the F-16’s canopy instead.

The blast hits Vir hard, a flying wing from the shattered F-16 hits him even harder. He rolls and tumbles in mid-air, losing all control, and hurtles flailing towards the mountainside, seeing serious pain await him at rainbow’s end. Burning debris races with him. His mind begins to drift away in a torrent of fire and wind.

Snapping to attention, he spots in the shadow of a rock-face a dark hole in the centre of a ring of flaming debris, a crack in the mountain: a cave. Using the very last of his strength, he aligns his body to the cave-mouth, swims into the right parabola, and manages to rocket into the darkness just as the broken jet smashes thunderously into the mountainside around him.

Vir slides toboggan-like through the cave, the sudden coolness strangely relaxing even as his body screams with pain. He dimly hears the sound of men shouting. Turning his head as he slides, he sees bearded, robe-clad, gun-wielding men up ahead, in front of a lantern-lit door. He smashes through the door, taking the men with him, on to a metal platform, through a crude iron gate, and suddenly the world is well lit again, and he’s back in mid-air inside the mountain, the gunmen falling by his side, screaming. And then he crashes into the cavern floor, slides a little more for good measure and, thankfully, stops.

Flat on his back, breathing raggedly, he takes in the scenery. A huge cavern that’s been converted into a bunker. Well-lit, generators humming, crude electrical wiring everywhere. To his right, rows of tables, some covered with guns and ammunition, some with food and supplies, others with computers. Platforms, tunnel openings and ammunition racks line the cavern walls. Sirens wail. Gun-wielding men in boots thunder down metal steps and out of inner caves, shouting.

Vir sighs. To his left, a white-robed man sits unperturbed, typing at a computer. Vir squints and peers at the screen, expecting blueprints, war plans; instead he sees a Facebook homepage. The man rises, turns slowly and looks at Vir. And as Vir sees, through the red and green worms of pain floating across his vision, the man’s face, the long salt-and-pepper beard, the deep, sad eyes, the straight, proud nose, the famous white turban, he closes his own eyes and starts laughing uncontrollably as he drifts into unconsciousness.

When he opens his eyes again, there are about thirty AK-47s pointed at his face, and a man is trying, unsuccessfully but passionately, to stab him in the chest with a Gerber Infantry knife. As Vir looks at him, he leaps backwards, muttering sheepishly. Someone has tied his hands and feet together. He snaps the ropes without effort and rises to his feet slowly, looking for the white-robed man. He has disappeared, though there are several lookalikes among the gunmen around him. On a high platform to his left, a few women who look like belly-dancers squeal, giggle and point. Vir realises, suddenly, that he has been naked for a while. His belt, the only surviving article of his clothing, lies around the smoking ruins of his shoes. A sound comes from it. It’s his phone, beeping.

One of the gunmen picks up the phone and takes the call. Vir doesn’t know whether it’s his mysterious new ally or his squadron leader. He snatches the phone from the gunman and puts it to his ear. Static, mostly. Satellite phones are useless indoors, especially burnt ones.

Seeing their protests ignored, the gunmen begin to shoot him; bullets fly off his skin. He was once caught in a hailstorm, this doesn’t feel very different. His muscles creak to life, one by one. Acupuncture by AK-47. More people scream, howl, fall to their feet in prayer, throw things; he’s not particularly bothered any more.

“We’ll talk later,” he says into the phone, and crushes it with his fist. He heaves a huge and weary sigh, and stretches, looking curiously at the men emptying their guns in his unyielding flesh. Some have gone to get grenade-launchers; others just stand around uselessly. Something in their faces moves him to pity; their fight was a dark one before, but it is hopeless now.

He politely asks a nearby cowering man for his robe, and gets it. And then he flies off, out of the cavern and into the sky.

CHAPTERTWO

“The wonderful thing about Bollywood,” Uzma says, gently twirling a strand of her long black hair, “is that everyone in the industry is so nice.”

All the other actresses sitting or standing in the crowded Daku Samba Entertainment office lobby look at her with identical expressions of incredulity, wondering whether Uzma is joking, mad, drugged or all of the above. Even Uzma’s (current) best friend and Mumbai hostess Saheli feels slightly apprehensive as she nods and smiles beside her.

“You’ve been lucky,” Saheli says. “Most outsiders trying to get a job here have horror stories.”

“I’ve heard a lot of that too,” Uzma says. “But you know what? I think it’s all made up by people to scare newcomers away. Discourage competition. I think if anyone comes in with the right attitude and the right kind of talent Bollywood’s much more warm and welcoming than anything back home. And people who haven’t landed an acting gig after spending years here? They should probably just quit.”

Saheli flinches and scans the room, half expecting all the other actresses there to fly screaming at Uzma and tear her limb from limb in a frenzy of manicured nails and strategically applied stilettos. But no, they’re just sitting there listening to her, and none of the women, several of whom have clearly been auditioning unsuccessfully for at least a decade, even seem angry — though some look extremely depressed.

Uzma does cut a fairly formidable figure: tall, toned, dark, smouldering, impeccably dressed, and a rich Oxford accent to boot — essential for those romantic blockbusters where the hero, in between foiling international terrorist plots in Sydney and dancing in Macau, pauses to play American football for Oxford. But while Saheli has spent most of her life instantly disliking women like Uzma — and, it must be said, Uzma herself, during their days together at St Hilda’s — she’s becoming accustomed, slowly, to the fact that she’s become really fond of Uzma now. Her initial dismay on reading that email about Uzma’s planned visit to Mumbai — Just a week, darling, until I find digs of my own. It is my first time in your city and I haven’t seen you in SO long — disappeared the moment she saw her former classmate step out of the airport.

A pure Bollywood moment: the crowd parted like the Red Sea as Uzma sashayed out, effortlessly performing the Heroine Time-Slowing Effect, her hair unfurling, cascading, shining, a smile of pure delight spreading across her face as she saw Saheli goggling at her. Unmindful of the jaw-dropping eye-popping handbag-flopping effect she had on the crowd, Uzma raced across the tarmac and swept Saheli up in an enthusiastic embrace. Several men in the crowd burst into spontaneous applause. Babies gurgled. Aunties wept joyously. As far as Mumbai was concerned, Uzma Abidi couldn’t have made a better entrance.

“Uzma Abidi?” a dishevelled assistant director calls, entering the lobby. “Come in, please.”

Uzma is ushered through the door. It shuts, and the large Warhol-style portrait of the leering henchman from Bollywood’s most famous epic resumes its gap-toothed observation of the assembled ladies. A disgruntled murmur fills the lobby.

A tiny model-type in a tinier dress taps Saheli on the shoulder and voices everyone’s concern: “Who is that?”

“Her name’s Uzma. She’s new in town,” Saheli says, wondering exactly when she had signed up to play a supporting character in Uzma’s biopic. That Uzma is in Mumbai now, looking to become the next Aishwarya Rai, is mostly Saheli’s fault.

Uzma had been exposed to Bollywood a little while growing up in England, mainly videos of blockbusters from the seventies and eighties, a time when Indian men had hairy chests and unrepentant paunches, wore cravats and bell-bottoms and were social chameleons equally at ease in tribal villages surrounded by feather-duster-sporting dancers and in underground lairs full of metal drums, collapsible henchmen and chained virgins.

Saheli had introduced her to the New Bollywood, the in-your-face, slick, Armani-enabled imperial-ambitions, global Bollywood, the dream machine that had spawned hundreds of enterprises like Daku Samba Entertainment. Told her stories of hip, edgy companies with producers flaunting designer eyewear and customised iPhones, swanky offices with intentionally ironic decor and voluptuous receptionists with call-centre New York accents. Of a new generation of actors who had come from nowhere and were currently staring back at the world through giant screens and YouTube windows everywhere, talking about how they would only shed their clothes if the role demanded it. Of girls from Mexico and Germany, and everywhere else, gathering in Mumbai like tinsel-tinged salmon. Of young, ambitious, world-cinema-educated, genre-blending, fast-talking, next-big-thing directors actually interested in making good films. Uzma had fallen hard, and decided that Bollywood was a bandwagon she had to be on top of, making suggestive hip movements with men twice her age.

“She’s fresh, no? And not bad looking,” Tiny Model says, trying to add to her air of casually detached interest by pretending to be absorbed in a tabloid whose front page proudly proclaims: MAN-TIGER MONSTER SIGHTED IN KASHMIR: IS THIS THE NEXT MONKEY-MAN? “Does she have, like, connections?”

“No,” Saheli replies, surprised to find how proud she sounds. But, yes, in the face of all logic, she’s thrilled to bits by what Uzma has achieved in two weeks in Bollywood.

Day One: Uzma arrives from Lucknow, where she has spent two weeks with her great-aunt, who had stayed in India when her sister, Uzma’s grandmother, had moved with her husband’s family to Lahore in 1947. Unfortunately Uzma’s great-aunt’s sense of connection with the outside world had also been packed into one of those large aluminium trunks all those years ago, so Uzma is glad to have escaped.

Mumbai takes one quick look at Uzma and clasps her to its sweaty bosom. On their journey from the airport to the nearest local train station, the auto-rickshaw driver bursts into song in Uzma’s honour and insists that, as a token of India’s generosity, her ride with him costs nothing. He does take half the fare from Saheli, though. On the long three-stage journey to Saheli’s home, a flat in Navi Mumbai, Uzma is dismayed to find that the fortress from which she intends to launch her assault on Bollywood is at least two hours’ journey away. But her mood is considerably improved when Saheli’s parents — who had spent three long years clucking uncomfortably about the clothes they’d seen Uzma wearing in Saheli’s photos — see her and fall in love. Saheli is too flabbergasted at the miracle she has recently witnessed — a woman in the crowded ladies’ compartment on their local train actually getting up to offer Uzma her seat — to notice that she has been cast as Uzma’s sidekick in her own home.

Day Two: Uzma ventures forth to conquer the big, bad world of Bollywood. Her first stop: a coffee shop where she meets Chrisann, a film-journalist friend of Saheli’s. Within ten minutes Chrisann, widely known as the snootiest woman in the greater Mumbai area, offers Uzma her complete list of film-people phone numbers and an invitation to the premiere of the new blockbuster Khatra: Luv In The Time of The Dangerrr where she will have the opportunity to meet “industry insiders”. An hour into this five-minute meeting Chrisann’s brother Bruno, a TV producer, turns up, is instantly smitten and asks Uzma if she’s interested in becoming a cricket presenter — one of a fast-growing breed of glamorous young women called upon to provide in-depth cricket analysis in skimpy clothing for India’s never-ending slew of cricket shows.

Uzma, whose interest in cricket is nonexistent, turns this offer down, but accepts a lift to Bandra for a small, intimate evening at Toto’s which turns, in several stages, into a pool party at a B-list Bollywood star’s house, several phone numbers and one inebriated proposal of marriage from a society photographer. Uzma stumbles into Saheli’s house at four in the morning smelling of Mumbai, and Saheli’s parents laugh nervously but fondly as they let her in.

Days Three to Eight: Saheli and her parents mope forlornly around the house, missing Uzma desperately. Uzma’s memories of these days are blurred at best, but from extensive reconstruction Saheli has deduced the following: Uzma drifts from party to meeting to launch to premiere to party, making friends, influencing people. Before she has faced the camera even once, she is featured in two human-interest pieces about the most promising newcomers in the film industry, and in three tabloids as the secret new girlfriend of three separate stars. Seven industry big-wigs “discover” her at various nightspots. She is offered dozens of reality shows and contests, most of which involve singing or speaking in Hindi, neither of which Uzma is really capable of.

She runs out of money on Day Four, and graciously begins to accept film offers. She finds out soon, though, that the enthusiasm that producers, directors and actors feel when they meet her at parties doesn’t extend as far as their chequebooks. Using the acumen genetically acquired from her mother, a leading corporate lawyer in London, she soon figures out that the contracts she is being asked to sign involve her a) never working for anyone else and b) sitting and waiting for films that, thanks to the global economic recession, might never be made. She signs up for a few ad shoots instead, becomes the first outsider in the history of the Mumbai entertainment industry to turn a profit within their first week, and spends all her newly acquired riches getting a Sapna Bhavnani haircut.

She makes exciting new friends: Capoeira dancers from Brazil who have come to Bollywood to be instructors, Zen Buddhist monks who moonlight as DJs, Formula One glamour girls from Australia. An A-list star invites her over to his sea-view flat to give her advice, gives her advice all night, and his wife returns from a bag-buying trip to Mauritius and gives her Ethiopian coffee in the morning.

Day Nine: A bleary Uzma returns to Navi Mumbai to take stock. Saheli listens, gaping, as Uzma trots out Bollywood-insider stories about treadmills for dogs and secret liaisons among rival domestic help cliques in Pali Hill. Saheli feels a terrible pang of sorrow when Uzma announces her intention of leaving at the end of the week she’d invited herself for. Saheli’s parents are even more stricken: Uzma is the daughter they’ve always wanted, they tell her. Uzma spends her evening with Saheli’s family, turning off her constantly ringing phone after an hour. Saheli’s father gives her Instructions Essential for Single Girls in the City. Uzma is surprised when he warns her not to tell any prospective landlords that her parents are from Pakistan.

At midnight, Uzma’s parents call from London. They are worried: a few plainclothes policemen have come to their house and asked several questions about Uzma. On being assured that the only danger Uzma faces currently is the prospect of exploding from all the food Saheli’s mother is force-feeding her, everyone laughs heartily.

Days Ten to Twelve: Saheli calls in sick and plays trusty sidekick. The dynamic duo’s mission: to find Uzma a place to live. They wander up and down Mumbai and find that all available housing is a) too expensive b) too small c) too remote d) simply not available because Uzma is female, Uzma is Muslim, Uzma is single, Uzma is foreign, Uzma is alone, Uzma is an actress, and you know what they say about struggling actresses. Uzma is dismayed, all the more so because it seems to cause each prospective landlord genuine pain to turn her away. They all assure her of their undying sorrow and regret. They promise to help her find any place but theirs. There are three or four places where they don’t run into categories a) to d) but another problem rises, like Godzilla from an iceberg, in each of these places e) it just doesn’t feel right.

Day Thirteen: Uzma gets on the phone and makes appointments. She travels all over south and central Mumbai, squired by an enthusiastic army of new friends, and as she passes the city stares and sighs in appreciation. She gets several offers, mostly second or third leads in star-studded “musical romantic action comedy thrillers”. Or leads in clearly third-rate movies with leery co-stars and directors.

Saheli expects Uzma to take one of these offers, and is surprised when in the evening she finds Uzma, having spent a certain amount of time thinking intensely, has decided that she doesn’t want any role that she hasn’t earned. She has not come to Bollywood to be an Item Girl; she wants to be an Actress. Uzma wants to work in Meaningful Cinema, Edgy Multiplex Films — at least until she gets to play the lead opposite Shahrukh Khan. And while she has enjoyed the attention and casual offers, she knows she wants to work with Serious Artists. Therefore Uzma has decided to use her contacts to find auditions, not eye-candy roles. Her first port of call: a new, cutting-edge company named Daku Samba, currently auditioning for the female lead in an Indian reworking of The Tempest, a magic-realist noir piece set during the Mumbai floods of 2005.

Day Fourteen:

“Wake up, love. We’re done.”

Saheli shakes herself awake. Uzma towers above her, looking amused.

“How was it?”

The whole lobby leans forward as Uzma’s face clouds over.

“Terrible.”

“You’re not a very good actress. You’re clearly lying.”

Uzma smiles, the sun bursts out of the clouds, and all the other actresses are stunned to find they’re actually happy for this girl.

The Daku Samba door opens, and Anurag Kashyap, Dark Lord of new-age Bollywood, steps out. Uzma’s competitors gasp, quiver in excitement and slip into poses that would fit into Kashyap films, their faces flitting through Moody, Angsty, Tormented, Post-Coital and Wearily Amused, their eyes moist and intense. Kashyap looks at them, shudders imperceptibly and turns to Uzma.

“Well done,” he says. “I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

Uzma and Saheli float out of the building into the streets of Juhu on a pink cloud of excitement.

As they step out, auto-rickshaws queue up for the privilege of taking the new Queen of Bollywood wherever she wants to go.

Saheli’s phone rings. She takes the call, and as she listens the smile slowly fades from her face. When she disconnects and turns to Uzma, she looks worried.

“Your great-aunt called from Lucknow,” she says. “The police were over, looking for you.”

“That’s weird,” Uzma says. “It happened when I was there as well.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They probably check on foreigners all the time. When I was there, a couple of policemen took me to the station one day and asked me all sorts of stuff.”

“What are you saying? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Mostly because I forgot all about it. There was no trouble, they were very sweet. They just asked me whether anything out of the ordinary had happened to me. One of them said they needed to run some physical tests on me, but I told them I’d rather not, I was completely knackered, and my great-aunt would be worried if I wasn’t home soon. The inspector in charge told me not to worry, they’d make up the test results — they were looking for some terrorist who was on my flight from London, but I clearly wasn’t their man. Then he dropped me home on this old noisy bike. He was really fit.”

“Well, they’re looking for you again. Your great-aunt told my mother she gave them a big scolding and told them you’d gone back to England.”

“They’re lucky she didn’t shoot them — there’s an ancient gun in the house. Par-nani’s a crazy old bird, and she’s not scared of anyone. And she’s hated the police since the 1940s. Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know. Is there anything you’ve done that you want to tell me about?”

Uzma’s phone rings. Smiling an apology at Saheli, she takes the call.

“Uzma Abidi?” a young male voice asks.

“Yeah? Who is this?”

“My name is Aman Sen. I’ve heard you’re facing certain difficulties. I believe I have a solution.”

Saheli and the auto driver wait patiently for several minutes as Uzma alternates between the words “Oh?”, “Really?”, “Yeah?” and “Brilliant!” When Uzma hangs up, she’s grinning widely. Silencing with an elegant palm the auto driver’s attempts at introducing himself and his soon-to-take-off career as a stunt driver, Uzma turns to Saheli.

“There’s a place in Versova. Yari Road. Slightly crazy owner just called. Says he’s inherited a big house and doesn’t know what to do with it, so he’s letting people stay there. He’s heard I’m a brilliant actress and wants to help me out, so he’s all right with me paying whatever I can afford.”

“Sounds like a mass murderer to me,” Saheli says.

“Shut up. Yari Road’s a good place to live, right?”

“Most of the entertainment industry stays there. You’ll be neck-deep in parties.”

The auto sputters forth, weaving snake-like through traffic. Uzma leans back in the seat and looks at the garish stickers of actresses on the auto’s sides.

“Do you think there’ll be some of me one day?”

“Uzma, I need to ask you something.”

“Yes, sorry. Have I done anything illegal? No. It’s just been a really great trip so far. I’ve been really lucky.”

“You were lucky in college. You were popular in college. But these last two weeks — there’s something I’m not getting here. I keep trying to figure it out. Sure, you’re hot. But I’ve lived in this city all my life, and I’ve known you for four years, and something just doesn’t fit. No one has the kind of luck you’ve been having so far.”

“No one you know, you mean. Maybe I’m just… right, I sound like a complete bitch saying this, but maybe I just have a destiny here, yeah? Maybe this was where I was meant to be. Look, I know what you’re saying. It’s been weird. Not just in Mumbai. People in Lucknow kept trying to invite me into their houses and feed me. It’s just been wonderful. You know — you ever have the feeling that you’re part of something bigger?”

“Yes, but it never means anything. What are you talking about?”

Uzma stirs uncomfortably. “See, on the flight from London to Delhi — it’s about thirteen hours, you know, you’ve been on it — I had this dream. A really long dream, because I pretty much slept through the entire flight — don’t remember a thing after getting on that plane.”

“So you slept on the plane. Why are you telling me this?”

“Well, that was really when things got a bit odd. It was this really bizarre dream. I was at a big awards show — like the Oscars, but more Bollywood, you know, lots of dancers and glitter — and I was getting prize after prize after prize, and everyone who was anyone was there and they all loved me and we all went to this smashing party afterwards. And they told me I was the best actress ever and everyone would come see all my films and they would make the world perfect.”

“So you had a good dream. But how is this relevant?”

“I don’t know. But then I landed in India, and ever since I got here people have just been incredibly good to me. Maybe I’m just — meant for this. Maybe everything’s just going to fall into place for once. Maybe this is what happens to some people. You don’t know, right? I know it sounds really stupid and vain, and I’ve been trying not to think about it. But I have this strange feeling that everyone’s going to love me and everything’s going to be all right.”

“Well, I’m happy for you. I suppose this is what it feels like for people when they find out what they’re meant for. I wish I knew what I was meant for.”

“I can’t believe I just told you all this. You must hate me now. I sound like such an ultimate cow.”

“No,” Saheli says. “I don’t hate you. I don’t even feel jealous of you, and I really should. It’s all very strange. I think you’re right. You’re going to be a big star.”

As the auto whines towards Versova, towards Uzma’s next conquest, Saheli looks at her former classmate, now staring out at the sea as the wind caresses her hair, and feels a burst of sadness. That sense of loss every first agent, every first small-time director, every childhood friend, every parent knows. The knowledge that your part in the story is done, that something larger than you is taking place but there’s no real room for you in it any more. The slow realisation that you were part of something once, but it’s gone now, it’s slipped out of your fingers. The star has moved on, and it’s time to take a bow and make your exit as gracefully as you can.

CHAPTERTHREE

Uzma stretches out on her old, creaky four-poster bed and looks out of her window. The sun is setting outside, and her room is bathed in amber light, tiger-striped on her wall through the palm trees just outside her window. The sharp, pungent smell of the sea drifts in; a gentle breeze tinkles through her wind-chime. The breeze is warm and salty but her room stays pleasantly cool. The first thing Uzma noticed about her new home was how pleasant it was for Mumbai, almost as cool as the air-conditioned five-star hotels she has been drifting in and out of for her meetings with the tycoons of Bollywood.

Today is her first day in her Yari Road home. It’s an old, somewhat fusty four-storey building — a very strange house for Versova, where most old buildings have been torn down and replaced by large multi-storied housing complexes with gates and guards and fancy names. Uzma has a whole floor to herself: her new landlord has warned her that she might have to share her floor with another tenant, but there’s plenty of room — there are three large bedrooms on this level alone. And there hasn’t been any talk of rent. To add to this cocktail of delight, her landlord has not shown any definite signs of being a pervert or a werewolf. Only a certain excessive brightness in his eyes and an air of barely concealed amusement at everything around him prevent him from seeming completely ordinary.

Aman Sen is an unremarkable-looking man in his early twenties, medium everything. Most of the men Uzma has had conversations with since arriving in Mumbai have been extremely impressive in one way or another: ambitious, well-groomed, fast-living, ultra-sharp entertainment types in various shades of attractive. There’s certainly nothing unattractive about Aman, it must be said, but he’s the person whose name everyone at a glamorous Mumbai party forgets within two seconds of hearing it. Following the recently delivered commandments of Saheli’s father, Uzma has Not Been Too Friendly with this Spouse-less Landowner, thus cunningly avoiding a Compromising Situation, but she had Aman pegged as eccentric but harmless within two minutes of meeting him. Compared to the sharks she has been swimming with, he is but a goldfish.

Aman shares the first floor of the house with Tia, an effervescent, curvaceous and altogether adorable Bengali woman in her early thirties who swept Uzma up in a huge hug the second they met and has now decided, to Uzma’s slight worry, to be her best friend and constant companion. Tia and the other two inhabitants of the house, whom Uzma has not met yet, have only known Aman for two weeks, but already Tia and he are very close — unless Tia walks around in tiny shorts in front of everyone she knows. Uzma is on the second floor, and on the third are the two mysterious entities described to Uzma as the Scientist and Young Bob.

Tia has taken charge of the house: she runs the kitchen, the errands and most of the conversation. The house was probably not built for renting out. There’s only one kitchen, a vast hall-like room on the ground floor that has seen cooking on a mass scale once, but now lies mostly unused. The rest of the ground floor is divided between a dining room and a huge and draughty living room where a few very modern sofas, a foosball table and a very large flatscreen TV stand uncomfortably, like jugglers at a funeral.

This is the first time since her arrival in India that Uzma has been alone in a large room for any length of time, and now that she has space to breathe she is surprised to find how much she misses her family. Something about Tia reminds her of her eldest brother Yusuf’s wife. Probably the loud and tuneless singing that Uzma can hear drifting upstairs as Tia attacks yet another room somewhere in the house, armed with a duster, a mop, a bucket and a smile.

Uzma’s phone is on silent. She has decided not to go out tonight, to spend time with her new housemates. But her housemates don’t seem to be particularly social: Aman disappeared into his room hours ago and hasn’t emerged yet, and something tells her that the Scientist and Young Bob might not be the most delightful company. Uzma potters around her room for a while, wishing she was better at spending time by herself, when she sees Tia coming down the stairs from the third floor.

“I thought you were downstairs,” Uzma calls. “Who’s singing?”

“What singing?”

Uzma listens again and finds, to her surprise, that there is indeed no singing.

Tia shrugs. “It’s Mumbai, Uzma. There’s always some noise somewhere. You bored? Come with me.”

They head to the living room and plonk themselves down on the sofas, and Tia tells Uzma the story of her life, of her childhood in Assam and her marriage, at the tender age of twenty, to a tea estate manager from Darjeeling. It hadn’t been a very happy marriage: her husband had been handsome but weak-willed, and her in-laws fierce and medieval.

Evening turns slowly into night as Tia speaks lovingly of the green hills near Guwahati and the swift grey waters of the ever-shifting Brahmaputra River, and Uzma listens in wonder, trying very hard to not reveal to Tia that she doesn’t really know where Assam is. As she watches Tia’s eyes shine, sees her laugh uproariously over the smallest things, she realises that no matter how awful Tia’s family had been, for her to abandon that life and come to Mumbai, to live in a house full of strangers younger than her, is a far more difficult journey than any Uzma herself will ever have to make.

“It’s not so bad,” Tia says. “I’m really happy with this house. Aman’s a sweetheart — you’ll love him when he gets a bit more comfortable around you — the other two are hilarious, and I have to say I really like you. I’m glad I came to Mumbai.”

“You should have come years ago, then.”

“I could have — but I couldn’t leave my son, could I?”

“You have a son?”

“Yes. Three years old now. You’ll love him when you meet him.”

“You must miss him terribly.”

Tia’s smile vanishes completely. “I’m with him, always,” she says, rising from the sofa, not meeting Uzma’s eyes. “I’ll never leave him. Dinner?”

Dinner turns out to be a grilled lobster, sitting red and voluptuous in the kitchen, and Uzma is delighted. “Did you make this? When? How?”

“I’m very efficient,” Tia says. “You’ll see.”

They sit in the dining room in happy silence and devour the lobster. Aman doesn’t make an appearance, but as the mighty crustacean’s last white, succulent meaty bits are on the verge of vanishing there’s a shuffling noise at the door.

“Uzma, meet Balaji Bataodekar, also known as Bob,” Tia says as a plump, dark, Elvis-haired boy, not more than fifteen, enters the room warily. He sticks out a pudgy hand, which Uzma shakes with due solemnity. Bob, however, is here on matters far more important than meeting glamorous women from distant lands.

“Can I have some?” he asks, looking meaningfully at the lobster.

Tia glances at him, then at Uzma, and says, “Of course, darling. But not too much, no? It heats up your stomach. There’s lots of ice-cream in the fridge.”

“I’m sick of ice-cream,” Bob says, scooping up the remaining fragments of lobster and shovelling them into his mouth. “Sick of nimbu-pani, sick of mint. I want vada-pav, mutton kolhapuri and pizza. With lots of jalapenos. That’s what I want.”

There’s a huge muffled boom from upstairs.

“The Scientist at work,” Bob says.

“Aman told me the soundproofing was finished,” Tia says.

“It is,” Bob says, and sniggers.

“Can I meet him?” Uzma asks. “Sorry, I’ve been up really late the last few nights and I’m terribly awake. Can we go up?”

“You should definitely meet him,” Bob says.

“I’d rather not,” Tia says, covering a forced yawn with a delicate hand. “He hates being disturbed when he’s working. I think we should all go to sleep.”

Uzma recognises refusals when she sees them, and doesn’t push the matter.

An hour later, Uzma is nowhere near sleep; her body has become accustomed to heading out for the second party at around this hour. The coolness that enveloped the house has vanished: it’s a hot and muggy night, and aspiring queens of Bollywood do not enjoy sweating under creaky fans. The only sounds to be heard in the house are dull clangs from the third floor. Uzma decides it is time to be social again.

After swiftly and silently climbing the stairs, Uzma finds the third floor’s layout is the same as hers. The door of the room directly above hers is open. She sees Bob stretched out on his bed, asleep, his hands clasping his considerable belly. He appears to be in some discomfort; his face is clenched and he’s sweating profusely. Not finding anything in this sight to engage her extensively, Uzma turns and walks down the narrow corridor by the stairs to the door behind which lie the Scientist and his Vulcan-like clangs. She knocks, quietly at first, and then loudly, and then, unused to rejection, starts banging on the door, even before she remembers the room has been soundproofed.

After a few minutes, the door opens and Tia comes out, adjusting her clothes.

“What’s wrong?” Tia asks.

“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come up and hang out with the guys if they were awake. Am I — sorry, I think I’ll just go back to bed. Good night.”

The door to the Scientist’s room is ajar behind Tia, and a bright green light comes out of the room, making Tia’s head glow a vaguely sinister green. Uzma flinches a bit when Tia beams at her and her teeth shine fluorescent.

“No, you’re not interrupting anything,” Tia says with a giggle. “I just like being here and watching him work sometimes. Come in. Make as much noise as you like, you won’t disturb him.”

Uzma wants to point out that Tia had said, just a while ago, that the Scientist hated being disturbed. Instead, she tiptoes in and observes the Scientist’s room with a mixture of awe and incredulity.