Superheroes are always a reflection of the times in which they are created. More specifically they reflect the fears that dominate people's imaginations at that time. So a whole slew of all-American superheroes like Superman, Captain America and others came to the fore during the Second World War, when the big villains in popular imagination were seemingly alien regimes bent on world domination and destroying the American way of life. Heroes like Batman and Daredevil emerged in response to rising urban crime. I found myself asking-what would an appropriate superhero for today's India be like? The villains the ordinary Indian dreads are not aliens out to destroy our planet or megalomaniacs trying to take over the world. Their villains are of the ilk we encounter every day-the louts on a Delhi street molesting women, the thugs who get away with it because of their 'connections', the apathetic policemen who stand by and watch or demand bribes for performing their duties, the leaders who bother more about garnering power and money and less about the people they supposedly lead. That was what led to the uniquely Indian superhero I set out to create for Herogiri, which was the name for this novel when it was first published in India by Random House.
As a result, the superhero in this novel is not the product of an alien race like Superman. Nor is he a reclusive billionaire like Batman. He is Arnab Bannerjee, a shy Assistant Librarian in a Delhi college, whose primary excitement in life comes from chasing down missing books and whose big ambition is to secure a government job. He does not fly down from the sky like Superman or arrive on missions in a high-tech Batmobile. Our superhero rides into battle in a public bus. While he has some powers, his skills are not honed through a crystal library hidden in the North Pole or a secret lab funded by his billions-he hones them with the help of Khan Chacha, a retired soldier who runs the neighbourhood video parlour. He does have a uniform-but it isn't something exotic or extravagantly expensive like the suit of a recent Bollywood superhero film in the making. It's an old faded sweatshirt with a hood. And no, he does not wear his underwear on the outside. When love does come his way, he does not exactly sweep his lady love off her feet. Coming from a small suburb of Kolkata, he has never even been on a date before. As he embarks on his most critical mission, the biggest danger comes not from alien rocks like Kryptonite or super-villains but the fact that he finds himself being forced to join hands with the very men he fought against-the Minister who wants to use his powers to rig elections, the policeman who tried to kill him in an `encounter' and the business tycoon who wants to cash in on his popularity by signing him on as a brand ambassador.
Most importantly, the catalyst for him discovering his powers is the simple fact that for once he decides not to look the other way when he sees a stranger in distress. He decides to go against what has been drummed into him since childhood-the fact that `decent middle class' people do not get involved when there may be trouble. He shrugs off the same apathy that has made `being a hero' almost a derogatory term in modern India-a term for unwarranted bravado. Perhaps what we really need is not a Superman but an `everyman'- for people like Arnab, for people like you and me to stand up against the villains, large and small, that we see around us every day. For when apathy ends, heroism begins.
And oh yes, the bread pudding was well worth the wait.