Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader?
Her name was Meera. Meera Richards if you
wanted to check out her details. Short, fair, and slim with an English officer
for a husband, mentioned the school principal. She was the dance teacher, in a
school for Indian children. In ordinary circumstances I would have asked for
more details, but now was as extraordinary as it could be. She was the one
inside the college auditorium used for dance practise, along with twelve more
children. And of course the Caped Crusader, Aazaad. He was known to be on
time with calculated moves and meticulous plans; all worked out to last details
with alternate plan B’s and C’s to spare. But this time he seemed a little too
early on the would-be crime scene. His arch-nemesis, The Trap had given him a
24-hour deadline to show up and enter his live-trap, a public school for Indian
children. And he had turned up within three hours. It would seem a little off
putting to ask, but would he have turned up so soon if this was a school for
English children? Oh yes, he would have. Children are children, whatever be
their skin’s color.
More
than four hours had passed. It was time for the police to go in. We all prayed
that it would turn out fine and Aazaad would save everyone, but deep down I
knew something serious had happened. “Rajiv!” yelled Buttonface Mike, “Call in
the boys. I want two teams, one going with us and the other coming in from top” he said. I nodded and crackled the same on the walkie. We went by the main entrance,
past the laboratories and the library to the further back of the school where
the auditorium was situated. The school had already been emptied of the
children and other personnel. Padded
though our boots were, there was a thudding echo following us as we went
rushing in. If he had tapped in the security feed, he would be able to see us
coming, the Principal had told us. “Then let him”, Mike had grunted back.
Bracing ourselves on the sidewalls, we signaled the boys. Smash went the ram
and in three powerful knocks the gates were cracked open apart. Mike signaled
me to follow and went in first. I counted till three, strained hearing hard
that there were no cries or gunshots, and followed. At first it looked like a
network or huge tubes, mechanical contraptions filling almost half of the
auditorium and spiraling to an end at the stage situated at the center of the
auditorium. This was one of those rare auditoriums that followed the old stage
design having the stage in centre. Mike let the boys in first in the metal
tubes, as a precaution if there were still any live-traps left. Chains, levers,
switches, gears, motors, shafts and what not were carefully fitted at regular
intervals, and almost all hidden from normal view. I had seen their pictures
from case files and even watched movies made on them while growing up. Here it
was all of it. Thankfully Aazaad had cleared them for us; though we were still
very cautious while making our way across to reach the center stage. I wonder
what this Caped Crusader had done now that he hadn't in past ten years to bring
The Trap from his retirement. If this was the real Trap, he would be over
seventy years now. Maybe all his bounty money for killing the second Aazaad been over, and he was after the five million pounds on this one’s head. As soon
as we came out, a sharp smashing sound of the ventilation shafts announced that
the second team had joined us in too. They would have to come through the tubes
though, so much for the surprise alternate route. I quickly joined Mike who was
standing near the base of the stage staring upwards, mouth gaped. A huge
contraption resembling a beam balance stood towering over, a huge cage with
spikes all around at one end and an equally huge metal box at the other end,
tightly closed shut. And there lay Meera at the base of the balance, on the
stage, all bloodied and unconscious.
Days later Meera would wake up in a
hospital, vaguely remembering what had brought her in such state and then
getting terrified at the thought of it, filling her ward with shrieks and
cries. After much consoling, she would go on to tell us how she was teaching
ballet to a class to the grade fifth students, how she was just done finishing
her second rhythm when a strange smoke started emerging from the exhaust vent
just below the stage enveloping her and her students. She had then woken up to
find herself strapped to a huge metal shaft, some forty feet off the ground,
missing the ceiling by a few feet. She was taken by panic, to find her
entire class mouth gagged, stuffed inside a huge metal cage that had spikes
jutting out all around. Her panic would be multiplied seeing a known figure on
the other end, Aazaad with his limbs pinned down by metal hooks, bleeding
badly from a deep cut to the right of his stomach and a metal shard jutting out
his neck. Before she would start to think about her own condition, a voice in
the speakerphone would start telling her of what she was about to do, or should
do next. She belonged to one of those rich Indian families, who prospered
trading well with the British and bribing them enough to be well protected as
well. Those who are only born in India, but keep their first steps out in
London, knowing not the plights their fellow countrymen have suffered for
centuries at the hand of British. She might not have heard of the first Aazaad’
– the more humane one, but of course of the second, who had a habit of
continually making it to international headlines by his acts of barbaric
violence. If not for both of them, she must have known the third, well who
didn't these days in India. The voice in the speaker phone had told her that
she had a choice - to either save the lives of her students or of the Caped Crusader
and she had sixty seconds to make that choice. Also whichever choice she makes, she would end
up falling from forty feet as she had to dislodge a metal piece from above her
and fix on one of the side of the balance, the one she wanted to save. She
could even have saved herself, by not making a choice. After telling her why
she had been chosen for this task, the voice went silent and the countdown
began. At first she didn't do anything, for the first fifteen seconds she was
too shocked to act. Then she dislodged the metal piece and almost dropped it
once. Looking apologetically towards the unconscious Aazaad she placed the
metal piece in a groove on the side of the children in the cage. She then
covered her face with hot tears rushing down her cheeks. In the last moment she
peeked and saw the Caped Crusader turning a bit, and in a moment of extreme
grief thought of changing her decision. Then it happened, the timer ran off and
the thick metal panel to which Aazaad was pinned started folding, smashing
his bones and flesh to pulp with blood gushing out from everywhere possible.
And then she fell down too.
She had taken to roller skating at a very
early age while studying in London. But then she had been called back home as one
of her brothers had been suspected of participating in an underground
anti-British movement. Her family had been blacklisted and their trading
license suspended indefinitely. Her life had been a downward journey since,
except for her husband. Though an Englishman, he had little family fortune, but
being an officer was able to maintain a fairly well living standard. She had a
lifelong dream to see the world, go backpacking across Europe, on cruises to
islands across the oceans and to lie on Californian beaches. Maybe because of
that she had taken up teaching dancing that was one other thing she learnt
other than skating. And that was what had made all the difference, putting her
in the decisive role, of deciding not only the fate of a Super Hero or a masked
vigilante, but a nation. It was year 2004 when the third Aazaad, the Caped
Vigilante who represented fluttering flame of freedom India yearned for since
centuries, died. Did our dream to be independent from the British rule died
with him too? Or will there be another savior, another Aazaad? How many more Aazaad will it be till we are really aazaad?
- Rajiv Nehru, Senior Detective, Allahabad Police Department, Jan 11th
2004.
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