1984

A taste of the totalitarian.

Dystopian fiction has always been my favourite genre of literature. Books like Anthem, Brave New World, V for Vendetta and of course, 1984, are to thank for my fascination with the fascist. Here follows a short story heavily inspired by the same, and overdosed, sorry, sprinkled with some politics.

New Delhi

March 30, 1987

Ahaan woke up to the sound of the marching feet outside his window. He swore to himself, goddamn the Soch Sena. They were out looking for fresh prey, anyone even remotely anti-HindSoc or associated to the Purani Soch. Like every morning, he reminisced sadly about his life three years back. It had changed so much since.

Following the Emergency in 1975 Indira Gandhi’s assassination and subsequently, the massacre in Delhi in 1984, the Indian middle class seemed to have lost all faith in the democratic system. The people wondered whether it was all a farce, merely a utopian ideal. After all, what use were rules and boundaries when the country was subject to the whims and fancies of its Head of State? The country had just gone through dark times, the unity of a billion souls shattered into tiny fragments, catalyzed by the shallow interests of the powerful, so what more could the public expect?

Then, another pillar came crashing down. The incoming Gandhi-scion, the young and charismatic Rajiv Gandhi, was mysteriously killed just before ascending to his post as Prime Minister. Consequently, the Congress Party dissolved after the death of the family. It was a striking blow to Indian politics and history.

Re-elections and chaos began. Governments appeared and vanished within a span of two short, tumultuous years. Then came the HindSoc, the Hindustani Socialist Party, headed by Shrikant Sharma.

At first, it seemed like a decent choice, like all the previously volatile governments. Sharma promised economic reform and hope and stability to the masses, like all the previous governments. Suddenly, HindSoc was taken over by an inexplicable new entity called Bade Bhai, which thrust India to a newer, darker chapter in history. Sharma never appeared in the public eye again. Later, it became clear that rising out of the grave wasn’t an option for him.

He had been unpersoned.

HindSoc changed everything. Any existing private sector was obliterated. The country went into a state of perpetual Emergency. Any opposition was ruthlessly suppressed by the Soch Sena, the HindSoc equivalent of Hitler’s Gestapo, by means of torture and brainwashing. The Aam Aadmi, consisting of the likes of Ahaan’s parents. had been subjugated, forced to serve the State under unknown conditions, many working long hours in dark factories or capturing people of their own.

And Ahaan?

His life had been turned upside-down. Most schools had been placed directly under the control of the State, responsible for finding new Sipahis for the Soch Sena and molding their ideologies. All of them turned into boarding schools, where they ate, lived and breathed the ideals of the HindSoc. They coldly weeded out those children with thoughts of their own, and mercilessly snapped their independence into two.

The older children like Ahaan, who had seen life pre-HindSoc, despised the new system. They had been separated from their families, only allowed to go back home once a year, during the end-semester holidays. No contact was allowed any time else, in fear of the ‘corrupting influences’ of the outside world. It was sheer propaganda.

Tomorrow, class 12 begins. The final year for inducting new Soch Sipahis and recruiting members for the HindSoc, and exams to determine the social productivity of the individual.

For Ahaan, it merely marked the continuation of his vicious cycle. He brushed his teeth and took a shower. He watched his parents dejectedly leave his house for work. It was home no more.

His little sister was going to enter class 4. He played with her for the last time. She played with a small figurine of a caped superhero, squealing “Bade Bhai zindabad!”. He felt himself seethe with anger, thinking how she had become one of them. They had taken away her sweet innocence and her freedom of thought. He almost reprimanded her for saying that, when he realized that she would instantly complain to her higher-uppers about his Soch Aparadh. It was inviting doom upon his family and himself.

Suddenly, it hit him like a brick in the face. He, only he, could turn his life around. He had nothing more to lose. They had taken away his home, his family and most of all, his freedom.

He packed his bag with a purpose. He wouldn’t be confined to this Orwellian Prison no more. He knew he would be convicted of Soch Aparadh of the highest order, punishable by unpersoning, his very existence and history wiped off the face of this earth. The Soch Sena would vigorously apprehend his parents, but they would know nothing.

He could take this no more. He said goodbye to his sister and hugged her, knowing that he would never meet her again. Someday, he would see her all grown up. She wouldn’t recognize him.

He took masochism by his hand and risk by his side, and ran out the house without looking back, “Bade Bhai zindabad!” reverberating in his ears.