INTRODUCTION: This is a story that was born out of a persisting daydream, and has evolved so much that the daydream has been lost or left behind probably after the 1000th edit. I first wrote it maybe in 2016, and it was really one of the first stories I’d ever written with all seriousness and with the hope that someone else besides me would read it. It was at first a mess of words, long paragraphs upon long paragraphs of inner monologue, and I don’t think there was any dialogue in it either. I realized I was not writing a story but I was simply putting the chaos of my imagination into words so that I could clear my head, emptying it out for other newer ideas. I liked this idea for a story, and I still do, and it was one of the first ideas that I had any hope for. And since I already had words to page, I began the work of deconstruction and the proverbial killing of darlings. In 2019 (I think) it was published in the first and only issue of the short-lived literary magazine The Inky Cave. And since then, I’ve edited it a few more times, shortening it by about 2000 words until I finally half-settled on this version. A few months ago, still not satisfied, I began a new round of edits, re-outlining again, adding characters to the story and story to characters, but somewhere along the way I realized I had no more energy for it.

In my mind this story is still unfunished, still has a lot of wrinkles to iron out, but I honestly can’t be botherd anymore. So, instead of letting it sit in my drive waiting to be deleted, here it is—a part-sci-fi-character-drama, part-thriller, part-Blade-Runner-fanfic, but entirely my own words.


Part I

All in black, we stand on the platform waiting for the Delhi Metro train. We are going to a funeral, and that has got me thinking a lot about death. I am not suicidal. I don’t wish for death, but I don’t think I would mind it very much if someone were to push me in front of the train just as it pulls into the station. No one would miss me, and I wouldn’t miss life. I imagine I’d smile as life silently slips away.

I never really knew the girl who died. She was just another cog in the machine like everyone else . . . Like me. Everyone else in the office said eulogies and shared memories, but I see through their pretentious facade. I may know nothing about the girl other than her name and the fact that we worked in the same office, but in her death, I feel like I understand her more than anyone ever could.

‘It just feels so wrong,’ someone among the bunch of us says. Their voices all sound the same to me.

‘I just can’t imagine why she’d do it. You know? Why would anyone take their own life?’

Why? There could be a million reasons why she chose to take that fatal leap off the ledge. Or there could be one. In the end, all that matters is that she is no longer living, and the absence of life was the only thing she looked forward to in the moments before her emancipation.

Death comes to us all sooner or later. The world is full of people with an intent to keep on living. They trade half their selfs away, becoming lesser versions of themselves with each transaction. They live longer while they have less of a life. No wonder they can’t imagine why someone would take their own life. I can’t even remember her last name, but I know I’m the only one who sees the blessing in it.

The train arrives and we get on. On alternate screens advertising facial modifications, space holidays, new no-fat diets, and infant auctions, is the news: the debate of the century. I like information, but I abhor the toxicity of the peddlers. I try to steer clear when I can, but something this big is impossible to ignore, especially when it’s more or less being forced down your throat. The passing of the Act will legalize, for lack of a better word, slavery; and it’s for damn sure that it will pass. The debates are just put on for show—They may be synthetic, but they will be sentient; Is it really inhumane if they aren’t human? The only real opposition is a small endangered humanitarian group the government humors, letting them have their little protests and what have you.

I don’t have much of an opinion on the matter, but it fascinates me how fast things move. It was only a couple of years ago that news ‘officially’ broke of the possibility of creation. Now we’re debating whether to mass-produce slaves.

*

I look down into the open casket. There is not a hint of scar on her lifeless face. If she was lying on a bed, there wouldn’t have been a hint of death. I may be living in this ‘age of true advancement’ for the better part of my life, yet it still mystifies me how it’s possible to do some of the things that can be done. A ten-storey building, and she fell headfirst. I cannot begin to imagine what she might’ve looked like on the pavement. The way she looks now, lying cosy in there, anyone might assume she died with poise, perhaps from consuming some kind of poison, maybe with the scent of lilies, that makes you die elegantly. I am disappointed by her beauty, by the perfection. Like everything else, it’s put on.

The sound of shuffling feet, the sniffles and coughs, echoes with just a handful of mourners in the cold parlour. Half of them were the people I came here with. I try to read the faces of the strangers as I take my seat. There is no one here who looks old enough to be her parents. That doesn’t surprise me. Few people in our line of work have close families. Surveillance and analytics. Highly classified work, rigorous vetting, a myriad of NDAs and other forms, monthly interrogative assessments, and, depending on the offence, penalties range from imprisonment to a death sentence. We are owned. It makes sense that they would recruit people with little to no ties.

I was an ideal candidate. Came from an orphanage. Exceptional in academics. An abiding loner. They came for me a year after I got my bachelor’s degree. Never looked back since.

I rather love my work—peering into the lives of the masses unbeknownst to them, judging them, evaluating them, and sending some of them to detention centres. I see the truth, plain and simple, and it’s opened my eyes to the toxicity of the media and the distortion of the images they show. Maybe that’s where my distaste for humans come from. I could go on and on about the pettiness of human beings, their superficiality, and not to mention the monstrosity of some of them out there, but they don’t matter to me beyond the fact that they are my job. And I’m good at it. I’ve risen through the ranks in the three years that I’ve been working at the conspiratorial department of the Intelligence Bureau. Now, just twenty-five and by far the youngest in the department, I get to peer into the lives of lawmakers and leaders. Most of them are just as perverted as the people they make laws for and the people they lead. And I get a front row seat to the passing of the Act. It’s fascinating how fast things move and change after the revolution. I was just eight or nine, but I can clearly remember a time—

‘You knew her well?’ the man sitting next to me asks, derailing my train of thought.

‘We worked together,’ I say brusquely, irritated by his intrusion. But it lasts only for a second as I notice him and my heart skips a beat. He nods and keeps silent. A few seconds later, I ask, ‘You know her well?’

‘Maybe just well enough to be here.’ He turns to me and smiles sympathetically. I nod and try to think of what to say that might make me seem more engaging. Before I can come up with anything, he, leaning in a little closer, and in almost a whisper, says, ‘It’s a little fascinating, don’t you think?’

‘What is?’ I ask. I lean in a little closer too and try to catch a whiff of his scent. I smell nothing.

‘We’re both here because of a loss in our lives,’ he says, leaning in even closer until his shoulder touches mine and our heads are inches apart. He holds me captive with his eyes as he goes on, ‘Now it looks like we stand to gain something greater than our loss.’

Part II

I finally get up and throw the crusted towel onto the piling laundry at the foot of my bed. Still naked, I walk to the kitchen at the other end of my one-windowed studio, sit on my lonely chair, and light my e-cig, looking out at the faceless facade of the next building through the grills. He said he’d call. I want him to, more than all the wants I’ve ever had. I’ve shared my bed with a number of easy men and women, but once the deed is done, I was always eager for them to leave me in peace. And I always hated the after smell. Why is this any different? Or does he remind me of someone? I try to keep myself from thinking about my past. Especially the people. And for the most part, I succeed. Some memories of the orphanage are now completely gone, some are hazy, and some still fresh as leaves after a long hard rain. But it isn’t memories of the orphanage that I try to suppress the hardest. Sometimes I succeed. Most of the time they always have a way of coming back round.

I turn off my cigarette, throw some clothes on, and head out into the night.

Fifteen years ago, the city was a boiling pit. Heat had been rising for the last fifty to a hundred years. We were taught that the blatant disregard for climate by the leaders then was one of the many reasons that stirred the brewing revolution. Immediate changes after the violent but successful coup were drastic, and change is still happening. It has been just a decade and a half, but now, summer temperatures have been brought back down to an average of thirty-eight degrees. In the final year of the revolution, the summer temperature reached a record high of fifty-nine degrees. Eight kids at the orphanage died that week. It’s hard to imagine now that kind of heat, even as I walk along Connaught Circuit, the busiest and most crowded place in Delhi and maybe the whole country.

I shuffle along with the crowd down the stairs to the underground Palika Plaza—a whole other, grittier, milieu. The air is even cooler here, but all thoughts of the revolution and the pleasant weather dims. I am looking for someone I am afraid to find.

* * *

After my first couple of weeks at the Intelligence Bureau, I accepted an invitation from a colleague to one of those notorious Palika nightclubs. I’d never been down there, and I thought it was a good way for me to confirm my place in the clique. Ever since I was out of that damned orphanage, I did everything in my power to remould, to extinguish any trace of the place in me. I changed the way I looked, the way I talked, and forced myself to spend as much time as I could out of my comfort zone until I became comfortable.

I succeeded. Exceptionally.

As we walked through the motley tunnels, surrounded by graffitied walls and incongruous noises that reverberated around the claustrophobia-inducing setting, I felt my sensibilities being invaded by the multitude of people in rags that lined the corners of the tunnel streets.

I wasn’t shocked. Maybe, in a way, I always knew something like this was there, and has been there all along. But I’d never really seen it in all the years since I was out of the orphanage, so I didn’t put much weight on it. The world out there with all its lights and colours did its job. A whole society has been kept hidden like a badly kept secret. But it was out of sight, thus, out of mind. Seeing it with my own two eyes, walking around in it, breathing it, I was only mildly surprised. But more than that, I was disappointed. Disappointed that this existed. The delight I had with the idea that I was living in the age of true advancement, a utopia, has been besmirched.

A guy, his clothes filthy and torn, his hair long and unkempt, stinking of piss and sweat, bumped into me. In a split second I realized I was angry. I was angry at the vagrants, the people in rags, gaping at me, shaking their cans at me, angry because their very existence has deconstructed my ideal society. I shoved the man in rags. A reflex. He went sprawling across the pavement. The people walking around him sidestepped and kept on walking. For a second, as I watched him trying to right himself, sinister thoughts flooded my mind. My companions were catching up on what just happened. I decided, with the witnesses I had, that having anything to do with the filth was beneath me.

I already had my back turned when I heard the tramp shout: ‘Hey!’

I was itching for it, waiting for an excuse. I turned and was upon him in the blink of an eye. Whatever I might have done, I was pretty damn sure nothing would come back to haunt me, not from down here, so I was ready to play judge, jury, and executioner. But before I did anything, I saw his face, and I recognized him. Behind all the soot and dirt, behind the long unkempt and matted hair that waved like wet black rags, behind the thin dirty beard, was a face I’d last seen half a decade ago. It was a face, and all the memories that came with it, that I had worked so hard to forget. It all came rushing back right then.

In the span of that brief moment, I tried to think of all the impossibilities, but with the truth staring right at my face literally, there was no denying it, especially not after he whispered my name.

I had to get out of there. The feebleness of my excuse hardly mattered.

I stayed holed up for the next two days, then I forced myself back to work the next week. Everything felt different. Superficial. The people—conceited, narcissistic, and despotic. I said the things I was expected to say, did the things I was expected to do. I faked it. I blended in. And before long, I was functioning on autopilot. What else was I supposed to do? Go back down there?

What am I supposed to do? is a question I have been asking myself for the next few years.

* * *

What the fuck am I doing here? is the question on my mind now as I wander the ever-busy streets of Palika late into the night, peeling filthy rags off of angry vagrants, heaping curses and verbal abuses, looking for the forgotten face that I know I will remember if I ever see again.

But I don’t see him. I wonder if I really hoped I would.

After more than an hour of retracing my steps from all those years ago, I walk back out into the night.

I cannot say if I am disappointed or relieved. The only thing I am sure of, is that the guilt remains resolute.

Part III

A day later, he calls. And then we meet. Infrequently at first, but regularly in the weeks that follow. Memories of my past and the accompanying guilt curtails. And when they threaten to intensify, I have this new trick that I do. I focus on him, on the minutest details of his features—his ever so slightly crooked teeth, his uneven eyebrows, his beautiful ordinary brown eyes, the tiny moles on his face, the faint scar on his clean-shaven chin, his thick woolen black hair. For the first time in a long time, I begin to hope that I can finally climb out of the dark colourless pit I am stranded in.

* * *

The train doors slide open and I exit. It’s seven on a Sunday morning, so there is no overwhelming crowd on the platform, a rare sight in a country with over two billion people, a city with a hundred million. In the week of the girl’s death, I was transferred to the night shift. And whenever I get back, I always had to push my way through a hoard of people ferociously intent on getting to work. Sundays are a godsent.

I head out of the station with one other person. I slow my pace so she passes me. I don’t dare take any

chances. The woman pays me no heed as she walks ahead and turns a corner. I walk straight on.

After about five minutes of chanting plain-white-tees, sun-glass-es, read-ing-book in rhythm to my steps, I stop in front of the frosted glass doors below the unlit neon sign that simply says VICKY’S. I take a deep breath before I push the doors open and walk in, trying my best to look nonchalant.

She’s sitting at the far end of the cafe behind a steaming mug; her shirt plain white, sunglasses on the table, and she’s reading a book. She doesn’t notice me until I get to her table. I imagined someone in their late thirties or early forties with a world-weary look lining her wrinkles, someone who’s lived a life, and maybe even taken one. But this woman . . . No. This girl looks barely more than a teenager. The fringes of her hair are purple and blends upward into black. There are no wrinkles on her face, and she looks like someone who’s barely lived a life. For a second, I think she might not be it, but the only other people in the place are two older men who look like they’re at the conclusion of a rare all-nighter.

She looks up at me and offers a polite smile.

‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ she says, like I was told she will, but she sold me with her delivery. ‘How was your night, hm?’

‘It was a night,’ I say, like I was told to. I try to reciprocate the smile, but flounder and flush. She smiles and nods at the empty chair opposite her, and I comply.

‘Order,’ she says, closing her book with a bookmark neatly placed in between. ‘It’s on me.’

I am hungry. I had to sacrifice my two breaks for the little espionage last night, not succeeding in the first, so I’ve had nothing to eat for more than ten hours. I look at the menu on the table screen and order the best-looking combo.

We make small talk. My breakfast arrives on the belt within minutes. We talk about the climate, about the African migration, the newly formed polar seas, the deep-space race, subtly keeping the subject that has brought us together here this morning just a few words away. I don’t know much about the subjects we talk about, or rather, she talks about, so I try to keep my focus on my breakfast, chiming in only when prompted. Whatever assumptions I had about her slowly dissipates with every new sentence she says. And with my plate now half empty, the food turns bland. Despite the air conditioning, I begin to perspire, and maintaining eye contact becomes a struggle. It isn’t her encyclopaedic knowledge that intimidates me. I knew she’s one of them from the start, but I never stopped to question my place in it all until now, with all that is being left unsaid. Until now, I never wondered if I’d come out okay of what I’d gotten myself into.

I can’t swallow another bite. All I want to do is get this over with and get out of here. She notices the change in my reaction and stops speaking. Before the silence could turn more awkward, she asks, ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-five next month,’ I say, a little confused and a little apprehensive.

‘You must have been eight . . . nine? Do you remember? What was your experience?’

It takes me a moment to realize what she means. ‘I was in an orphanage in the city,’ I say. “Born there. Not much happened there during, or before, except the things that happen in any orphanage. It was after, that things did happen. The revolution was a success, but it was also a death sentence for those relying on the charity of a religious government. Priorities changed with dissociation. We were not the priority.’

‘You survived,’ she tries to reassure me, keeping her eyes on me. I do not look away.

‘When I was fourteen, I had a best friend,’ I continue, lowering my voice so it doesn’t shake. I don’t know why I keep going, but it feels good to finally let it out. ‘Life was hard, but yeah, we were still alive. There’s no guarantee of that on the outside. So, my friend decides we run away together. Look out for each other. Partners in crime, and all that. He was adamant, but I was too dumb to see why at the time. I was just scared. Three months, he waited for me to change my mind. But I didn’t have the guts, and he wouldn’t abandon me. One night, a commotion woke everybody up. One of the older boys was dead with his pants down to his ankles, and his throat open from ear to ear. My friend stood over him, covered in red with a knife in his hand.

‘They took him away. He didn’t resist. I didn’t do anything. The next time I saw my friend was almost a decade later. Know where? In Palika. Couldn’t tell him apart from the next hobo.’

I take a deep breath. She reaches for my hand, but I pull it out of her reach.

‘I went back down there a couple weeks ago for the first time after that. Didn’t find him, not that I expected to. So, don’t tell me I survived. I didn’t survive anything. I’m just still breathing.’

‘That is more than the dead can say,’ she says. ‘And that is enough.’

After a beat, I ask, ‘Enough for what?’

She leans back but says nothing.

‘Enough for what?’ I ask again.

‘I cannot tell you even if I want to,’ she says. ‘Nobody knows more than they are needed to. I am also just a pawn in this complicated game of life, and information is . . . It is to kill for. You of all people should know that.’

‘I know that.’ I lean in and continue in a forceful whisper: ‘They ever find out what I did, they’ll kill me. And they will find out. Those are some pretty important people. People associated with the Act.’

‘Is that what it is?’ she says, unfazed, her voice the same tone.

‘I can’t tell if you’re pretending,’ I say.

‘I am not,’ she says.

‘Look, I just . . .’ I pause for a second, trying to form my words clearly in my head because I sense we are nearing the end of this conversation. ‘I don’t need details. I’m not even sure I wanna know what you intend to do with this information, although I’ve got a pretty good guess. I just . . . I don’t know. If my life’s gonna get fucked up either way, I guess I just wanna know why. What’s the endgame?’

‘You really do not know a thing,’ she says. Not a question. She doesn’t try to hide the faint smile that subtly spreads across her face, seemingly impressed by my ignorance.

I don’t know if it’s out of embarrassment or anger, but I can’t think of a word to say. She reads the emotion on my face and her smile fades. She reaches across the table again. This time I let her hand rest on top of mine. ‘Listen. You have the right to know, but I am sorry, it is not my place to tell you. Ask your handler. He should tell you what you want to know. You deserve it.’

She lets go and turns her hand over, palm facing up. ‘Don’t worry. No cameras in here. That is why they picked this place.’

I reach into my bag and hand her the pen drive, which actually functions as a pen.

She checks to make sure it is the same pen and has all the information asked for. She smiles, and as she pockets it, says, ‘Let us hope the pen is really mightier than the sword.’

She pulls a ten-rupee note and leaves it on the table, puts on her sunglasses, grabs her book, and stands. She looks down at me as if to say something but remains silent. As she walks by, she places a hand on my shoulder, and then disappears out the door.

Her drink remains untouched and all the steam has gone.

Part IV

He sees it on my face the moment he enters. I am not trying to hide it. I’m not sure I’d be able to hide fifteen hours of fretful contemplation and fruitless formulation of plans for this eventual confrontation even if I tried. Saying nothing, he puts the bag of takeout on the kitchen counter. He stands there, palms on the marble; I sit five paces away from him on the bed; both of us poised for whatever happens the moment this palpable tension breaks.

‘Am I gullible?’ I finally say. ‘How naive I might seem to you, how . . . how desperate, how sad. I never even questioned you because I was scared to lose you. I just went along with whatever you said. You didn’t even have to do anything. I convinced myself in whatever way I needed convincing. I thought I was a part of something.’ He looks up. I can read it on his face he wants to say something, but he is holding himself back. I go on. ‘It seems, at least, you’re good at your job; the way you’ve handled me.’

It is his turn to speak, so I wait. A moment later, he looks away and begins: ‘It took a while, finding the right person. Not everyone could’ve done it. And obviously not everyone would’ve. We kept watch on a number of people, tried to learn everything about them, and assess them, if they might be willing to help us, sympathize with our cause. We look out for people who keep to themselves, travels alone, isn’t preoccupied with . . . whatever the general public is preoccupied with. People who might be looking for a sense of purpose.’

He turns to me. ‘We made contact with only one other person: your co-worker. But we made the wrong assessment. She . . . She was unwilling to help us, and we can’t have loose ends. Time is running short, but with you we took our time. You were promising, especially with your background. We didn’t want to leave anything to chance. We found . . .’

‘Found what?’ I say when he didn’t continue.

‘We found your friend. We were supposed to use him as leverage, in case we needed it. I didn’t think we would, and we didn’t. The whole—’

‘My friend?’ I know exactly who he means, but this simply feels all too surreal. I stare at him, hoping he will clarify, but he doesn’t need to, and he doesn’t. He knows that I know who he means. ‘Where is he? How is he?’

‘His condition wasn’t great when he was found, but he’s being taken care of, and getting better.’

I can’t even imagine what he might look like now, or imagine seeing him again. What could I say or do to undo what I did to him? It can’t be undone. I can’t be forgiven. Even if I see him again and he does somehow forgive me, how could I ever forgive myself?

‘So, what happens to him now?’ I ask. ‘Now that you know you won’t need him anymore.’

‘I don’t know, but if I have to guess, I’d say he’ll be free to choose what he wants to do. Although I suspect he’ll be convinced to stay and work with us. And it’s more than likely that he will.’

‘You are not the bad guys, are you?’ I say pathetically.

‘I could say we’re not, but that won’t be true,’ he says. ‘Some will call us the bad guys; some will call us the good guys. The truth is, there is no good or bad. It’s all a matter of perspective. But as long as you fight for what’s good for you and for your people, then I guess, yeah. We’re not the bad guys.’

We let the silence float for a while as I let it all sink in and he searches for what to say next.

‘I might be able to arrange a meeting,’ he offers. ‘They won’t say no. What you have done for us is no

small task.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No, it’s better this way.’

‘Alright,’ he says.

There are many things I want to say, many things I can think of to say, but I don’t know if I should say them, or if it matters whether I say them or not. I want to ask what’s going to happen to me, but I don’t need to. I know, and he knows that I know. And it isn’t hard to understand why. The Act is still about a week away from passing, and the Bureau is more than likely to find out my act of treason in a day or so. They cannot risk me. But the strangest thing is, I feel okay with it. I feel willing. I can’t help the smile that slowly spreads across my face. Everything suddenly feels so clear, so obvious. It wasn’t in anything he said or anything I said that brought about this clarity. It feels like it’s something slow, and gradual, and inevitable, with all that has been said and done since my humble beginnings, all that has happened to and around me, and now it has finally come to me.

‘You okay?’ He comes and sits down next to me.

‘How old are you?’ I ask.

‘My profile says I’m twenty-three, but technically, I think I might be nine or ten. I’m part of the first

batch after the final prototype. Didn’t see the sun until I was five or six. Nothing was easy.’

‘How does it feel . . . being you?’

‘It feels . . . human.’

‘That’s good,’ I say.

‘It feels good,’ he says.

‘How will you do it?’ I ask, barely keeping my voice from wavering.

‘The food,’ he whispers. ‘You won’t feel a thing. Just like going to sleep.’

‘Good.’

The silence is still. He takes a breath to say something but abandons the thought. Then, as if struck by a spark of idea, he says, ‘You could run. I can give—’

‘No,’ I say. I don’t even need to think about this one. I look at him and smile. ‘I would never get far.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he then says after a moment.

‘Don’t be,’ I say. ‘At least I’ll go knowing I didn’t live for nothing. It’s better than all the endings I have imagined for myself.’

He puts a hand over my shoulder.

There is nothing I want to say, no letter I want to write. It is what it is. And what it is, is perfect.

*

I have my last meal. He tells me it’ll take some time. Won’t be any different from any other night except for waking up. After midnight, he turns the light off. In the darkness of the room, the curtains seem to glow. I think about our time together, those little things he did for me—those little things that hardly seem to matter now. I want to stop thinking. I want to believe he did all those things for me, and not because of some strategy. It’s almost ironic how alive he made me feel in the weeks we’ve been seeing each other.

‘Are you just going to wait?’ I ask, still sitting on the bed, readying myself to sleep.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Maybe I’ll go for a walk.’

‘Can you stay?’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘That’s what I want.’

I lie down and pull the cover over me. I see his silhouette move towards me. My heart flutters. He gets in bed, under the cover, and rests his arm around me.

Knowing who he is now, the artificial warmth emanating from his synthetic body feels different. It feels more comforting, and somehow more genuine.

‘What have I done?’ I say, more to myself.

‘The Act will pass a week from now, and what you did will change everything. When people talk about it years into the future, they’ll say it all began today. That it all began with you.”

I feel my eyes drooping rapidly and the consoling fingers of sleep gently, yet inescapably, taking hold of me. Maybe I’m just tired. I’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours straight. Thinking about it, it certainly is unusual, to be able to go to sleep knowing you won’t wake up. But I’m not thinking anymore. There is nothing more to think about. I’ve lived my life, short though it is. Isn’t all well if it ends well? I can’t think of a better ending for me.

‘I don’t care if it’s the truth or a lie,’ I say, my voice groggy, ‘but tell me our short time together meant something to you too.’

He pulls me tight to his chest and whispers, ‘It means the world to me.’

I believe him. With that belief I close my eyes to sleep.

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