“Is it just me or is the world getting crazier every day?”
“It’s always been this way.”

The men wearing white spoke in hushed, concerned voices so that their principals would not hear. They were walking down a corridor in Ganga Ram. The halls were not as expected, they were brightly lit, the walls were colored. The halls were not as expected, but also made sense. They had scribbles on them, the patients were allowed, given free rein to express their artistic desires. They were allowed to roam the halls. They were not allowed to do two things. They were not allowed to leave. They needed to heal. And this place, unconventional as it was, seemed to be able to provide the ability to. Besides, for some of them, like elderly Ahmed, their relatives did not want them back, would rat

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Stumps stood where trees had once been, barely recognizable as stumps even, black and charred as they were. A sickening smell came from them. Gray, caked, baked ground stood where grass had once been, hot to the touch, cracking. Steel rods, swaying to the wind, which was still present, just nowhere as strong as it had once been. The only indicator as to what this place had once been stood in the ephemeral humans that had lasted the ravages of nature, and sat in the center of this wasteland, playing chess. A shadow flitted around them, big, hulking, monstrous. Their eyes were red and raged, their movements finicky and fidgety. The shadow was massive now, as if it had been fed by all the destruction around it. The chess game was being played at a speed now, that the human eye could barely follow. The series of chess games, each a battle in the larger war. Each fought for one play in the grand scheme of the End of Times. As they played, the Beings watched from their room above, the Beings watched, and they, these celestials who had controlled the matter, and watched over the universe, these Beings prayed, they hoped, they wished, they prayed. Now six beings watched over the games. The shadow, the two players, the Three Celestials. These were perhaps more important than anything else happening on the planet at the time, more important in their scope and size. 

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It was beautiful. The sky was just lighting up with the colors of dawn, the sun stretching and rays of light showing all its magnificent glory. Red, orange, yellow, all the colors merging, mixing, matching in between. Everything was glorious, beautiful. Everything was one. The light shone on the ground, not too bright, not too harsh, just right. It bounced off the buildings, the magnificent skyscrapers, the glimmering, polished glass windows, glass buildings, the steel shimmering with joy, not the heat of mirages. The sound was the sighing of cars, the humming of engines, fumes, that did not smell, birds that were pecking for food, peckish, fat, wide, calm. The smell of yeasty bagels and dark black ‘caw-fee’. The air tasted of dreams and ambitions.

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The picture of the starving boy was known worldwide. The ribs stretching, as if meaning to escape his body, and escape the hell that served as a town for him, as a country for his people. The swollen stomach, taut, thick, swollen to hunger. He could not be more than two. His hair was thin, brittle. His eyes beautiful, creases lined his face. Lips swollen, dry and parched. Ears sticking out. The world could almost smell the bombs, could taste the enforced starvation. Would see the images of desolation and misery, in a town that had so ancient a history, so vast a culture, all these things. They shuddered as they saw them, held their loved ones closer on those nights, and woke up with a free conscience. Men had stopped being like one body in their mutual love and mercy. When one part of a body is in bad health, the rest of the body should join it in restlessness and lack of sleep, and should be busy with its treatment. Men did not adhere to the old ways. Men had lost their way.

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Daniyal Masood. The name rolled off her tongue with ease. It felt so good there. That would be her last name. She loved him. She would marry him. Fuck the haters.

She kept on crying. She wanted to marry him. Did he? She didn’t know anymore. Her eyes were red, veins showing, vividly. Outside, it was silent. Quiet enough that she could now hear the plants that were dancing in the wind. They were rustling onto one another. Like clothes. Like their clothes when they kissed, right before he tore them off her. Her stomach felt warm. Her sobbing grew louder. There was no one in the courtyard. It was four am. They had all gone to sleep, or drunk to the point of passing out.

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She could feel her eyes swelling, could almost imagine looking in the mirror, and seeing them red and puffy. She could taste the alkaline, salty tears on her tongue, and feel the thick mucus in her nose. The wind calmed down. Outside, the noises were starting to settle, it was starting to get late.

He had always been noticed, but he made her feel invisible. Like she was his shadow. She knew she chased him, she knew she loved him more. But he was worth it. But he made her feel terrible, especially after sex. Not during, especially not at the end. Right after

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The wind tousled her hair. It breathed through the dry, sticky, salty tears on her face. She shivered. She smelled blood in her nose. She heard her heart pounding. She felt her hair whip the fingers that were covering her face.

They had been so good at the start. They were always good. He had a problem with the fact that she had had sex. She could not be his good desi wife. She had had sex, and it had not been with him. He had wanted her to be a virgin, and he used to tell her she was a slut, and not just in bed. She had sex with him, she sucked his cock, she let him fuck her, mostly he

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She sat sobbing, her head throbbing. The wind whistled, the trees rustled. The smell of pizza and alcohol pervaded the air, mingling with the sounds of music from different rooms spread out across the three towers. It was a Saturday night. They were young, and what better place to be young than New York City. Outside, Union Square was still bustling, just with a different crowd and different feel than during the sunlight day. Gone were thoughtfully put up stalls that indicated the greenmarket was in session. Gone were the small plastic chairs and the chess boards that sat around and atop the stone pillars, along with the men who challenged passerby. Up were the skateboards. The wind too was calmer, instead of the bustle of the day there was a calm that pervaded: that blanketed the sky.

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A girl sat in the courtyard of her dorm, crying. Sobbing softly, as the plants around her swayed and danced to the breeze. It was late at night, the courtyard was covered in plants with a concrete place that housed two steel tables, each of which was circled by flat, cold steel benches. It was also home to a wooden bench that doubled as a swing. She sat on the swing bench, tears falling from her eyes. The sound of cars, albeit, was always in the air in this place, horns, dim and dull, idling engines as they waited for their traffic lights to turn green. The smell of pizza and fast food was omnipresent as the few hundred students that lived in this dorm rotated ordering fast food. There was a girl carrying in a pizza box, the thickly layered delivery man just leaving the lobby. The taste of oil always remained in the air. Around her, in the courtyard, she could almost touch the plants as they swayed, left to right, forward, backwards.

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The aspiring young officer smiled at the boy, the thoroughly yellow and crooked teeth doing anything but reassure him. His heart was thumping loudly in his ears. They felt hot. All he could see was the older officer ruffling through his papers, slowly, taking his time, making sure to impress upon the boy who was in charge. Little men and their big egos. A disgust and an overwhelming rage filled him. After this is done, I never have to see any of them ever again, the dog never has to see any of them ever again. We can be free. His fingers twitched, skin turning from red to yellow around where his nails were digging into his palm. He had not cut them. He had been too focused on shaving, always remembered to shave before he went abroad. Anything helped, especially this time. Especially when he was travelling with her. He could feel her anxiety, and his was feeding hers, over and over, in a loop. His head started to tremble. He took a discreet, deep breath in. The officer handed him his papers, he felt a sigh of relief loosen his nervous, twitchy muscles.

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And in through the glass doors they went, the man pushing the trolley, the boy that was leaving, the dog that sensed something big was about to happen, and was whining again, low, sad. The two guards, one old, one young looked curiously at the cage, as it passed them, the people waiting for their passports to get checked waiting impatiently.

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She squirmed a little as the cage moved. The driver hailed a luggage handler, one of the many people who were employed to move the luggage of the people in Western clothing, those were the ones with the money. The smokers kept watching, silence, leers gleaming in their eyes. Children walked up, attracted by the yelps, peering inside the cage obnoxiously, loudly pointing and talking to one another. The dog became more agitated. She was just a baby, she was only three months old. Her yelping intensified, the as the darkness became deeper before the sun was to come up. Blanketing, enveloping, almost comforting, almost, but not quite yet. The stars were starting to yawn into the blankness of night, and were twinkling out. It was becoming darker, right before dawn set in. The man put his hand on the cage again, not wanting to take her out, because the boys were starting to peer. She licked his hand excessively. Her tongue was dry and rough. She was stressed. She kept licking the metal latch long after he had removed his hand from it. His heart was breaking, he was so worried about the long flight. She was just three

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The car gleamed under the dim lights as it pulled up by the sidewalk. There were others idling, in direct violation of the rules, but nobody cared about the rules here anyways. There were people crying, and hugging one another, as they parted, for most of them, for god knows how long. Dressed in shalwaar kameez, off to seek opportunity. There were a select few, looking uninterested, used to the newfangled experience, it was not new to them, there was a family of four, the father striding along, belly slightly grazing his large white shirt, mother looking harried as she hurried her children, herding them to the door, daughter uninterested, headphones in ears, white, thick wires the only thing different from her long black locks of hair, a boy, a head shorter than his sister, eyes glued to his phone screen. They were not dressed in shalwaar kameez. The ends of cigarettes floating under the dim light, glowering red stars, disembodied, held up by chain smokers. A dim murmur, soft sobbing, humming, running engines punctured the silence of the sky. The air tasted of garlands of roses, and felt of dust, which was always here.

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The air tasted of smoke, and smelled of pizza and pretzels, and warm, sticky, lathered in sugar and honey peanuts. The buildings were a drab grey, the cars muted tones, occasionally, around this area, there would be a brightly colored luxury car slowly rushing by, taking it’s time, the owner wanting to make sure his status in this most powerful of nations, appreciated, and seen. The clouds were thin, but opaque, the sun all but blocked. It was a drab day, the sounds were muted too. But for the sound of wind as it whistled by, bringing with it frigid chill and frosted cold.

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It was a great swelling of emotions. He could not place it, could not give it a name. All he knew was that his happened a lot. Especially after he spent time with large crowds of people. They had all been his friends. He was walking, fast, shy of running, feet walking one past the other, stretching out, too fast, if he started leaping, bouncing off the ground, it would be considered running. The air was frigid. They had just left the bowling area. His eyes were stinging. This happened almost all times. They had all been his friends, different degrees of intimacy, and yet, this feeling still came. It was as if all the substance had been sucked out of his chest, it was as if his stomach were hollow. If there were anything in it, he would feel nauseous, sick. The world in front of his was bright, and carried on. Inside his head, a storm raged, a storm that threatened to break out through the corners of his eyes. His feet started to hurt, as they hit the stone pavement far too hard, and far too fast, and far too frequently. The air smelled of pizza and smoke, and sounded of too many people, and too many horns. All inconsequential, no matter how loud they brayed. It tasted cold, almost as if the air were making his taste buds shrivel up, and curl into themselves.

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His stomach hurt. He knew there was something inside of him. He knew it had been the doctor. But they would all call him mad. No one would believe him. Heck, even his own mother had not believed him. After all, he was just a kid. But he knew the doctor had done something. He had not liked the man since he met him, smile too wide, teeth too yellow, eyes a little crazed. Dr Arif Tendu had smelled of cigarette smoke and a little bit of madness. When the man had placed his stethoscope on his chest, he had felt shivers up his spine. Like when he saw snakes or crocodiles at the zoo. As if he were prey, and he had seen the hunter. He shuddered even now, thinking about it.

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The old TV flickered, the colors melding, shifting, forming images, words. The speakers on its sides made sounds. The old box television shuddered as it made noises, the antenna on the top flickering ever so slightly. It was brown and wooden, the sounds were coming from a set of speakers laid into the box on each side, holes peeking out, latticed like a hive of symphony.

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The animals had cowered. They had been cowed. Until they had not. They had smelled the dung and death, they were smart enough to know what the whirring machines had meant. They were not dumb brutes. They were intelligent beings created for this beautiful earth. Until it had not been so. Until the smartest and slyest of the lot, the two legged ones had decided to enslave and use everyone for their nefarious purposes.

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The man stumbled across the road to the small park in the middle. Two benches, some pavement. It was a busy main street divided in the middle, each side going opposite ways. The light turned red. He stumbled forward, pulling his pants up, crack in his wrinkled tanned behind still showing. He stumbled forward, but then thought better of it. His right foot tapped impatiently, his face unmoving and still. Cars thundered past, each one furiously making its way across the road, the power of hundreds of horses harnessed by metal engines burning oxygen.

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The hosts were starting to accept it, he rubbed his hands, eyes sparkling with glee, the monitor in front of him now divided into sixteen screens, fifteen of which showed him views, moving, as if from a camera.

It’s working, the thought kept running through his head, reverberating in the caverns of his mind. It’s working!

He had been obsessed with this for months. Not after the first batch of hosts had rejected his concoctions. No, then it was still a project that interested him, but not enough to obsess over it like he had after the second batch had rejected them. Thirteen batches after that, here we were.

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