ANJU SHOWS THE WAY…

Political Science Fiction: The government’s Mahasamadhi Bill as forced Euthanasia for millions of the jobless and poor. Only the rich could live and flourish. The advertising blitz that accompanied it was persistent. ‘Death is not Elimination; It’s an Elevation’ -- was the official slogan that literally haunted citizens 24/7.

By Ajith Pillai

Future historians will record the 21^st century as the one in which science and technology drastically downsized the role of the individual in society. In fact, thanks to automation and robotics, it had diminished to such a degree that, towards the end of the last decade, the government even launched a campaign to make citizens aware of their irrelevance.

The subtext of the message sent out was that sustaining ‘an unproductive population’ was becoming increasingly untenable and ran counter to prevailing ‘best practices’ in governance. Under the circumstances, it was pointed out, it may soon become necessary for a sizeable majority to voluntarily secede space in the mainstream to those who have a more significant contribution to make towards the well-being of the state.

Such a dramatic population reduction, achieved by “deleting and relocating” excess populations from cities to remote areas near new coal, uranium and rare mineral mines in central India, was inevitable in a world of consistently shrinking natural resources and living space.  

Relentless propaganda underlined that submitting to what was called “voluntary deletion” must become the dharma of every responsible citizen. “The cosmic law of righteous behaviour must be respected.”

“The noble realisation that one’s duty and obligation to society has concluded should be the signal to offer one’s body to the state before finally embracing the end peacefully and in comfort,” was the message that emanated from the Ministry of Philosophy and Culture. It was looped between news bulletins and variety entertainment programmes across all multi-media platforms.   

The advertising blitz that accompanied it was persistent. “Deletion is not Elimination; It’s an Elevation” was the official slogan that literally haunted citizens 24/7.

As if that was not enough, the stereotypical image of a sagely man with a greying beard and flowing hair towered over passers-by from billboards at street corners, extolling the virtues of embracing a consciously scripted, state-approved, and calibrated ending.   

Spiritual discourses focused on the virtues of achieving Mahasamadhi – a state in which human beings transcend the physical realm to achieve God-realisation and free themselves from the mortal body. In the past, a yogi or yogini reached this liberated plane by first attaining nirvikalpa samadhi (complete enlightenment) after a lifetime of meditation. However, thanks to modern medical science and Ayurveda, such a state can now be achieved quickly through fasting, selfless labour, and medically assisted speed-meditation.    

Shorn of its spiritual and pseudo-scientific coating, Mahasamadhi meant voluntarily disrupting one’s life and accepting an early death. This, even as a concept, was preposterous and ran counter to the basic survival instinct inherent in all beings. And yet, very few dared to question the government’s promotion of deletion as a “liberating force”.

This was not surprising since anti-people policies were no longer subjected to any opposition. Ever since protests “either through action, words or other unspecified means” were declared unconstitutional, no one dared raise his or her voice.

Moreover, the government, through a Presidential Edict, had conveniently placed itself above the law by redefining itself as an “agency beyond judicial audit and scrutiny”. The same decree also ordained it mandatory for all citizens to “repose complete faith in the State as the sole guarantor of the well-being of the nation”.

There were, of course, those who dared to question the establishment.  But their voices were muted. It was only on the Darknet that they aired their views. One anonymous statement from a citizens’ group on Vox Populi--an underground platform for dissent—warned: “Some hidden agenda is behind the sustained eulogising of death and the official promotion of the practice of so-called Mahasamadhi. There are fears that the government may have launched the campaign as part of a new population control programme that has been in the works.” 

The statement further revealed that insider information had it that “deletion and relocation” meant the poor and the non-tax-paying class would be struck off the voter list and transported to remote and distant locations, where living quarters were being set up for them.

“We understand that these settlements are modeled on the Nazi concentration camps, complete with labs conducting medical research, gas chambers and electric crematoriums. Those who enter will never come back alive. So, we request the common citizenry not to be carried away by the propaganda.”               

The apprehensions proved prophetic when details of a proposed law—the Mahasamadhi Bill -- were revealed. The prime minister, in a special address to the nation at 8:30 pm, elaborated that the law, once legislated, would prove liberating and unifying, as it would make nirvikalpa samadhi accessible to all.

“The new law will add a fresh, revolutionary and empowering dimension to the concept of meaningful and happy endings. Those relocated will be sent far away from our crowded and polluted urban environs to salubrious surroundings where they will work, meditate and be well cared for.,” the PM said to canned applause.

However, the operative part of the Mahasamadhi Bill was not as sugar-coated as his speech. It read: “The new legislation, when enacted, will leave it to the jurisdiction of the State to draw up a roster of lucky citizens to be deleted and relocated and those who will have to continue to serve the country in towns and cities.”         

Predictably, the Bill spread panic in cities throughout the country. However, the rich toasted the new law as one that would systematically remove poverty from their eyesight.  

 “Those who don’t deserve to live in our metros will finally have Mahasamadhi thrust on them”, was the buzz among the economically privileged. It was widely believed that wealth and employment status would soon become the sole criteria for being counted among the living.

"With AI and robots taking over most tasks, we need to decongest our cities. Those who have no contribution to make must be flushed out,” is how a leading political commentator justified the proposed law. "For far too long have we tolerated those who live a subsidised and cushy life without making any contribution to our society. The slums in which these people eke out a parasitic existence need to be demolished and redeveloped into upper class housing colonies, parks, shopping malls and business centres for the more deserving.  A systematic deletion process must be initiated to ensure that honest tax-paying citizens are not denied their right to a healthy first-class life," he added.

In the poorer quarters, it was rumoured that surveys would soon be conducted to determine those ready for Mahasamadhi or voluntary retirement from life (VRL). The apprehension was that the first to be weeded out would be citizens outside the income-tax bracket and those not registered as “certified government employees” or engaged at the home/establishment of a taxpayer officially entitled to employ staff in the “can exist” category.

The Bill introduced a new dimension not factored in by the Malthusian Theory. It was not just famines, natural disasters, disease, or wars that could downsize populations — a process of elimination through a sustained government programme could also achieve the same result. The added advantage was that, unlike a pandemic or flood, the government could target specific sections of a population that needed to be deleted.

As was their wont, the mainstream media, which applauded every government action as a reflex action, was all praise for the new Bill. No one questioned it or its intent.  By all accounts, it was the best reform that had happened in the last 100 years, and praise was due to the prime minister for formulating such a ‘pathbreaking’ legislation… 

Cut to Ravindran.

He and eight others had just lost their jobs in a factory at Manesar, an industrial suburb of Delhi.  He would soon join the ranks of those destined to be deleted should Parliament clear the new law.

Ravindran knew that unless he got himself certified employment, VRL would soon be his lot. As he lay sleepless on the cot in his pokey one-room tenement, he often wondered why no one had protested the proposed law that threatened to wipe out large sections of the population. Perhaps it was fear. The police and special intelligence squads kept a close watch on dissenters.

Troublemakers also had a habit of disappearing.

In the government refreshment zones, where free liquor laced with a ‘happiness pill’ was distributed to non-tax-paying citizens, no one spoke ill of the new law. On the contrary, many showered it with praise. They also credited the PM for the wisdom and sagacity he had shown by personally pushing the proposed legislation. The liquor served was believed to make those who consumed it happy and docile.

However, could it suppress the fear of death and the will to live?

Despite the overt support and subservience to the government, Ravindran could sense latent panic and frustration all around. Like him, most others at the refreshment zone he frequented worked informal jobs at nearby commercial establishments. That would not protect them against Mahasamadhi once the new law took effect.

Whatever the others had to say, Ravindran did not want to die or be deleted. He was determined to figure out a way to survive.

The only immediate option was to find a certified job which qualified him to remain undeleted. However, since he had not pursued education beyond school — a privilege enjoyed by the rich — his chances of securing non-casual employment were bleak.

And yet he was ready to resist and fight the system. But he did not know how. "I won’t die! I won’t die! There must be a way out," he would reassure himself every night as he passed into fitful sleep. Ever since he lost his job, Ravindran had stopped drinking. He pretended to be suitably inebriated and participated in the patriotic talk that was popularly indulged in at the free watering holes to impress the intelligence officials monitoring the drinkers.

Ravindran was a bachelor. He was not single out of choice. Ever since marriage and raising children became the privilege of upper-end taxpayers, he had shelved all matrimonial plans.

As for sex, like the chemicalised booze, it came free at the ‘official’ brothels. These terrible, exploitative, hellish, dark and dingy hell-holes (ironically, called ‘Amusement Zones’) were set up so that the wretched in the margins could satisfy themselves, and not cast their evil eye on the affluent class undeleted citizens.

The leaf was taken out of World War II history: like what the Emperor’s army in Japan did while forcibly abducting, capturing, brutalising and condemning thousands of young girls and women from China and Korea into dingy ghettos of sex-slavery, while branding them as ‘comfort women’ – violently degrading and brutalising them 24x7.

Ravindran often thought about the women at the Amusement Zones. They had been cheated, trafficked or abducted out from their homes in their early teens to be inducted as “comfort nurses” (a euphemism for sex workers). Officials from the social welfare department surveyed slums and lower-middle-class settlements across the country to identify young, healthy girls who could “work for the government”. They were then bundled into trucks and forcibly flown to unknown locations thousands of kilometres from their homes.

Though sex was rarely on his mind, Ravindran often sought emotional support at the local Amusement Zone.  He found the women there could think clearly since their minds were not clouded by mind-altering substances, brainwashing and alcohol. In fact, the only medication they were administered weekly was an injection that numbed portions of their body to “ease the strain felt by their work”.

It was at Amusement Zone 20 that Ravindran met Anju from a village outside his home town in central Kerala. They immediately hit it off. 

Anju seemed to have a mind of her own and was very forthcoming when putting forward her point of view. She also had a very analytical mind and had a lot of things to say about the new bill that was causing so much anxiety and spreading fear.

She said she could sense it in those who came to her with their “one hour of fun” tokens. These days, many of them only wanted to talk to her and share their deepest apprehensions about the future.

Ravindran was her most loyal client. Ever since the proposed bill was made public, he would come every evening with that lost and defeated look in his eyes. He just wished to talk. Give vent to his frustration.

Landing a certified job, he said,  looked almost impossible. “I guess my days are numbered. Very soon, I will be deleted from Delhi’s population register and will be packed off to some camp where I will rot and die. I am scared and I have no one to turn to,” Ravindran confessed to Anju one evening.

“Nothing can be gained by wallowing in your helplessness,” Anju said, in a mildly admonishing tone. “Believe me, there’s no point being in that defeatist mode. Have you ever thought of a way out? In situations like the one we are all encountering, one must think beyond oneself. You must understand that there is no individual solution here. We are fighting against a system that wants to delete us and send us away to some death/slave labour camp. Like the Nazis did with the Jews. We must not allow that. We have to fight.”

“You can afford to talk like that. You are among the lucky ones. You have a certified employment here which protects you from being deleted…”  Ravindran cut in.

“Once all of you go away, we will also be rendered redundant. Who will we be left with to serve? With whom can we have these long conversations in the evening? I guess we will also be packed off to some labour camp or  another. Although if you ask me, this place is no bed of roses. It’s a hell-hole,” Anju said with a wry smile playing on her lips.

“So, what do you want me to do? Do I take on the might of the government? It looks impossible when even raising one’s voice in protest is illegal? A hundred years ago, I might have challenged the Bill in court. But, today, there is no court I can appeal to. There is no justice. We will be no match for the army and police,” Ravindran said meekly.

“I am not suggesting you wage a war. Instead, you must find a peaceful, strategic, intelligent way in which you can fight it out. Obviously, you cannot be a lone warrior. You have to find others who share your views and concerns and bring them on board. That is the first step”.

“But Anju, how do I find like-minded people? How do I get them together when everyone seems cocooned in their fears? How on earth do I get through to them when there is no channel of communication?”          

 “Well, a few of us girls have been discussing with our clients. Some of them have become friends. Many of them are as despondent as you are. They can speak of nothing else but their fears of being deleted. So, I thought it would be good for all of you to meet. Don’t you think it is a bright idea?”  she said, her face brightening up.

Do you seriously think that a bunch of nobodies coming together can achieve anything?”  Ravindran was sceptical.                                         

"What do you mean by a bunch of nobodies? Everybody is somebody so long as they have self-belief and determination. Also, let me tell you, there are plenty of people who will listen if you have something positive to say. Why, I would really want to listen if you have something more sensible to share than your helpless inability to fight the system. I am sure there are others, too, who wish to hear from you, if only you have the courage and are ready to join them in their struggle for justice against this vicious and nasty regime. It’s just that you don’t see them, and they don’t see you." 

Anju was all charged up.

“You just mentioned ‘others’. Who are they?”  Ravindran said, trying to take the focus away from himself.

"Like you, they are people who come here. They are all frustrated. But each thinks they are alone, and their experience is unique. They seem to live in isolation. Things can change once everyone comes together."

"How do I get to meet them?" Ravindran was now interested.

"Why don’t you come by tomorrow evening at six?"

“How many 'others' do you have under your wings?”

“For now, 12. But it is a lot better than being the only one,” Anju said, a spark in her eyes. 

“And who will lead this dozen?” Ravindran wondered.

“I thought you could be the leader…”

 “No, Anju, you must take up the mantle. You have something I lack—the intelligence and confidence, the ideas, the spirit and will to fight back. You must be our leader.”

Ravindran went home with a spring in his step. Somewhere deep within, he knew, tomorrow evening could well be a new dawn…  

Editor’s Note: All characters and contexts in this short story are a work of fiction authored by the writer. The views expressed in this story solely belong to the author, and do not necessarily reflect the editorial opinion of independentink.in.

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A seasoned journalist working in the profession for 40 years, Ajith Pillai has reported out of Delhi, Mumbai, Chennai, Andhra Pradesh and Kashmir on a broad spectrum of events related to politics, crime, conflict and social change. He has worked with leading publications, including The Sunday Observer, Indian Post, Pioneer, The Week and India Today, where he headed the Chennai bureau. He was part of the team under Editor Vinod Mehta that launched Outlook magazine and headed its current affairs section till 2012. Under his watch, Outlook broke several stories that attracted national attention and questioned the government of the day. He has written two books—’Off the Record: Untold Stories from a Reporter’s Diary,’ and a novel, ’Junkland Journeys’. He is currently working on ’Obedient Editor’, a satirical novel on the life and times of a ‘compromised’ journalist. The short story presented here is from a collection that is awaiting publication.