Gloop never liked the word UFO. “Unidentified Flying Object.” He could always identify it. It helps that your UFO is a circle.

Gloop was cruising along the roads, just floating that morning. He was not afraid of being noticed as he had affixed a frown on his green face. This was a new survival mechanism, people only interfered if they felt you were happy.

There was a protest going on in the Capital. It seemed to fill every screen except for the big ones. Apparently the big screens were against the protest. The big screens would deride anything shown on the small screens. According to them everything was “proper gand?” Gloop wasn’t sure if he got that right. But still, seems like they are perverts if that’s all they talk about.

As he floated by, he saw the police attacking a school student with a flame thrower. Bit disproportionate to be honest.

Rubber-necking has its consequences. Gloop tried reasoning with the Thar driver. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought such a big car on such a small road. Its literally a one-way.

Gloop booked a dentist appointment.

A tow came and took his now semi-circle to the nearest police station. This would be a great time to have the tool kit the big screens talk about.

“You’ll have to leave your car here if you’re filing an FIR.”

Gloop can do that. Its fine.

“When will Gloop get it back?”

“Once the case is over.”

Gloop can do that. Its fine.

The UFO was unrecognisable now. The glass dome and seats were gone. The SHO had a new suspiciously car-seat shaped chair. The insurance people had delayed the entire process. The Thar man got ten adjournments. Nine for a runny nose and one for a pilgrimage, which he went with the Judge. (“It was a courtesy pilgrimage. Perfectly acceptable.”)

Ten months had passed. The protests were still ongoing. The government had still not interacted with the people Gloop saw. The Prime Minister in a “Monkey Bath(?)” had just announced;

“In light of the protests demanding accountability for exam mishaps and others related to environmental, economic and social disasters, the Cabinet is proud to introduce the NSA or National Song Act. Anyone who does not stand up and salute when the National Song is played will be charged for terrorism. Let me know if you want to make the tone sound more fun or exciting. You have run out of tokens for further queries.

Jai Hind.”

Gloop would face an unexpected delay in today’s hearing. The corridors of the court had become blocked. People moved to the side and prostrated when judges walked past. Today, three judges met at an intersection.

“Shit.” Said the Daffedar. There was a traffic jam at the junction.

Which judge could move first? Would it go by seniority? Would it go by who had most public appeal? Would the judge who put the turn signal on have the right of way?

“There needs to be a round-about at courts” Gloop thought, nose to the floor.

Finally, the matter was resolved. The judge who upheld some new legislation about the national song moved first confidently.

Gloop went to the court hall. Gloop had received scoldings at the last hearing for drinking water in the court. The Bar Council had specifically prohibited it along with breathing loud and breathing too shallow. This time he was prepared. When he passed in front of the bench, he bent over backwards just as the circulars prescribed. Apparently, you should bend forward when you pass the bench.

A new hiccup in the form of contempt. Agitated with the system, Gloop joined the protests outside. As he saw people being mercilessly beaten, Gloop had a revolutionary idea. He played the national song.

The police stopped. They stood in their places and saluted. They had no other choice. They wanted to arrest those who were lying senseles

s on the ground under the NSA. But that would mean they themselves would be arrested by themselves.

Gloop left his speaker and UFO behind. The police stood saluting as the national song played.

The media reported the next day;

“Camaraderie at its peak! Police salutes demonstrators”
"India stands together to sing national song”

Gloop took the next interplanetary bus out.

“What a sad country.”

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This time I am looking at ‘Flesh’ by David Szalay and ‘Madonna in a fur coat’ by Sabahattin Ali. The commonality is the idea of a ‘second life.’ People becoming strangers to their own lives.

It has been repeatedly stated by reviewers and critics that ‘Flesh’ stands out for its ‘sparse dialogue.’ The main character, István, is depicted as very passive. The book is more of his reaction to life rather than his active actions.

Szalay is not entirely in favour of this idea. In a conversation with Dua Lipa, he states that he does not want the focus of the reader’s attention to be on his perceived passiveness.

He says to Dua Lipa, “but I wouldn’t want to overemphasise it. The agency that he shows happens between the chapters.” These gaps between chapters – during which István moves cities, changes jobs, even signs up to fight in the Iraq War – are where much of his inner life and decisive action occur. [Link]

Active agency on the part of István is rare. Anomalies include his business interests, the rest is between the chapters.

In contrast, Raif, the main character of Madonna in a fur coat, is in control of his life, atleast when he was young. There is a stark contrast between the specious details of ‘Flesh’ and the lush descriptions in Madonna. The thought process of Raif is clear to us; his emotions and, the motives guiding his actions. Raif’s motives are love and infatuation. István’s is left to our imagination.

Regardless, by the end of their respective stories their lives are unrecognisable.

Second lives

Peripeteia, according to Aristotle, is the change of fortune of a hero in a tragedy.

What is the reader’s expectation for István? Once he marries Helen, the rich widow of his former employer, one expects him to lead a grand life. He does for a short while. In accordance with Peripeteia, Helen passes away in a tragic accident. The life he built in England became nothing.

What is the reader’s expectation for Raif? Due to the non-linear nature of the story, one can predict that all will not end well. The Raif the reader encounters in the beginning of the story is a withered, sad personality. It is clear that a tragedy will strike when reading the love affair that bloomed between Raif and Maria Puder. Sure enough, she passes away while waiting for him to come back. Leaving Raif to live in a house he built for her. He is forced to die in close physical proximity to her memories, surrounded by those who do not care for him.

Flesh ends with István on a bench, around fifty years old, with nothing to his name. He recounts his memories of England to a lover;

This feeling is not new for István. In the second act, when he comes back from the war, he has to leave behind the psychological remnants of his time in the war;

István is unexpectedly brought to a life in high society. His intentions with Helen were genuine. He is forcibly and suddenly removed from it and forced to live a second one.

Raif tried everything, yet failed. As he observes, “Our lives are governed by trivial details.” Raif is introduced to us as a timid, listless yet hardworking man. His youth showed his passion. The timid Raif we see is his second life unrecognizable from his real, passionate one with Maria Puder.

Raif observes;

Both Raif and Istvan have been removed so far from their real lives, they remain a stranger to themselves. But, they have to keep going. As Istvan observes;

I believe this is a common characteristic of tragic stories. The character’s life is changed irretrievably and the reader must digest this hopelessness. If there is a specific name for this, do let me know.

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When the fuel was being synthesised in the plant, there was a by-product; a rotten and pungent smelling ‘slurry.’ Close contact with this liquid made anyone want to vomit. A tube running from the plant discarded this slurry in a bucket. We used it as fertilizer for the thinning plants around the perimeter.

My father and I were walking around the house one evening when we noticed a rummaging in the bucket. We quickly realised that there was something in the slurry. It was a big black rat. There was a vermin problem at the time; every now and then we used to fill burrows in the backyard with cement. For some time we were amused by the novelty of it. Here was a fugitive caught in a trap we never even set. What an ill fate.

We did not have much sympathy for the rat. It was, after all, a big, malignant, obnoxious vermin. We discussed what to do. Should we take it out and kill it?

“We’ll leave it here. It’s drowning anyway, we’ll bury it tomorrow morning when we fertilize the plants.”

The next morning we went to take the slurry and was greeted by an unexpected sight. The rat was hanging near the edge of the bucket, keeping only its nose above the surface of the slurry. It’s entire body was submerged in the liquid, twitching.

“Is it still actually alive?”

“I think so.”

For around twelve hours, this creature had kept its tiny nostrils above the surface just to stay alive. Its nose had to take in this sulphurous odour throughout the cold night. It’s body was pulled down with the weight of the horrible liquid. Yet it somehow fought to stay afloat.

We had an air of smugness the previous evening. About how stupid the rat was and how fate played its wicked game. This smugness evaporated in front of the guilt. We became nothing in front of this small, sad creature.

There was no discussion between us. Somehow, wordlessly, we understood what was to be done. We took a stick and kept it near the rat’s nose for it to climb on. Two tiny paws scrambled and held on to it with a pathetic speed. We lifted it up and kept it on the ground.

The rat looked much smaller than what it seemed yesterday. Its black hair covered in slurry, it slowly started moving. It trembled to a nearby burrow we hadn’t noticed before.

I remember thinking slightly proudly; “Good we didn’t kill it.” But seeing it faintly tremble away made my heart sink. My father averted his gaze. I knew he felt it.

There was a serving of quiet shame that morning with breakfast. Eventually the topic came up. We started extolling the rat. It’s perseverance. We were so sure it would die. Words analogous to “hardwork” were thrown around. “It deserved to live.” It saw something in its tiny life to live for. For the life of me I could not figure out what. I wish I could rationalise why it stayed alive the whole night, half drowning.

We talked about how fatigued it was. We quickly avoided thinking about whether it would survive now. “Nice sambar.”

It has been ten years now and I still cannot forget this rat that lived. If it had just died the way it was supposed to, I would have forgotten it the same day. I could have been spared of the guilt. What it went through haunts me now the same as when it did that morning during breakfast.

Why did it deserve to live? Did it deserve to live only because it went through what it did? It was already living. We made it suffer through the night. It probably could not even understand why it was going through what we made it go through. When it survived, we praised its perseverance.

Who were we to ever test it.

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My first memory of the Moon was when I travelled in my parents’ car as a child. I remember seeing the Moon from the car window and how it seemed to be keeping pace with the car. Every now and then it would be covered by the tree tops, playing some sort of cosmic kaa-koo-kande (peekaboo). But after the car ride, it was over.

As I rack my brain to find any other vague relationship, all I can think of is some Tintin book and a short story I read as a child. The latter described a time when the Moon was close enough to the Earth to be reached using a ladder. Maybe if that was the case I could justify myself more. No one would ask me ‘why?’ They would feel the same way.

As I grew older, my attention was only drawn to the Moon when some event happened; a solar eclipse or a blood moon. My mother always told me not to look at it directly. In hurried glances I could make out the light of a giant, enraged star being diminished by a rock five hundred times smaller.

It is absurd to think about now. A serene rock that has been floating peacefully as a neighbour for billions of years, had to disrupt the Earth for it to be noticed. It must take the flames and light of the solar system’s furnace upon its back. Unable to bear the heat any longer, within a few hours, it removes the shadow it painstakingly drops on us. Yet, our first instinct is to look away. When the Moon dripped crimson, it was easier on the eyes. People would gather and watch the violent blood moon. Either way, everyone forgot about it soon. The Moon would retire to embrace a familiar indifference.

I would write the phase of the Moon in my diary when I made an entry for the day. I hoped that the imaginary reader of my diary would see me as intelligent and interesting.

I have to remind myself why there is this sudden narcissistic rant about my relationship with the Moon. My relationship. What do I have to do with it. These became important questions.

The most unexpected thing happened last year. The Moon fell apart. What had held on to nothing for so long had finally let go.

Like most things in my life on this Earth, I was not a witness. Scientists say that in the darkness of space, the Moon mysteriously crumbled. What was earlier a solid, glowing structure remains now as a hazy cloud of fine dust. The cloud has gradually been dispersing throughout the year.

At the time there was much discussion among the scientific community on the disastrous consequences of the Moon’s destruction. Discussions on waves, tides and seasons. The consequences have indeed been disastrous. The climate is unpredictable now. The waves do not have the vivre they used to have. Many species used to the mediation of the Moon have since passed. There were a few man-made structures on the Moon; flags, pods, rovers and other machinery. The fate of these were unknown and the cost of its destruction was lamented.

Interviews were taken from the few lucky astronauts who had been to the Moon. They described how different the experience of first sinking their soles on the dust was from the Earth. They described how it felt seeing the Earth from the Moon. Poets and artists wrote and painted about their relationship with the moon. Many came out on the streets.

But there is a statute of repose for everything. Life must go back to normal and you must adapt to the changes that occur around you. This is especially true when the “around” is four lakh kilometers away from you, and the changes did not occur to “you.” Those in charge will deal with it. In a few months, there was teasing of those who still expressed their sadness of the loss of the other common rock we inherited as a species. There were many who questioned the motivations of those who still expressed sadness. The lazy ones want to stop the Earth’s rotation. Most sorrow is useless. There are much more important things to care about and talk about.

The poesy stopped.

Scientists and world leaders coordinated to mitigate the immense environmental and financial cost of the destruction. Their work is now done in silence. Every now and then a small column in the newspaper described an effort that brought life one step closer to normal. Life has indeed gone back to normal. I think there was a six month anniversary of the Moon’s destruction. Candles were lit and people gazed at the fast dispersing cloud.

The Moon did not cross my mind much before the event. It was always just there. I have already written about whatever little memories I have of the Moon. But something about the guilt of caring, or even thinking about something I was not a part of, tugs at me. The physical consequences I faced were faced by others too. Those who worked closely with it had more of a right to face whatever emotional consequences I faced. The hypocrisy of my sadness was not lost on others either. Any emotion expressed to those leading ‘normal lives’ was met with a kind of disdain.

But, I felt like the self righteous remarks about my feelings should at least come from those who did, in fact, have a more meaningful relationship with the Moon. More often than not, it came from just a smug bystander. Who on Earth decides the meaningfulness of the relationship anyway?

I digress.

I still feel how I feel. I am guilty of not caring about the Moon earlier. But now it’s gone. The dust scatters more and more. Does this guilt bar me forever? Is my existence not enough for me to have the “right” to feel about other things in existence?

I was not on the Moon. I once did not care about the Moon. The Moon rarely crossed my mind. But now, the fine dust of the Moon chokes me. This is a fact that I, and the Earth, must accept.

01/04/2026. 9:45 PM EST

Moon Phase: -

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One can.

It doesn’t matter though because Rajeev has been saving up money. He will move out when he’s rich one day. He goes to the train station at 6 AM every morning. The train commute to his office 50 kilometres away, is a bit rough, he has to stand precariously on the edge of the train’s compartment. Rajeev is an upstanding citizen of the country. Beggars boarding the train ask him for money and he refuses; he will not perpetuate a system of exploitation. They could just work for a living. Why not intern somewhere or be an apprentice, get some work experience and join some company? That’s what he did.

“Have some faith in yourself and others. There are enough opportunities for everyone.” As he congratulated himself for his deep thought, the man standing next to him fell off the train with a scream of terror. An avoidable death. He should not have been standing too close to the edge. Like Rajeev, others quickly relaxed their shoulders and stomachs to fill the new void.

But in the back of his mind Rajeev wished he could sit for once. After all, he paid for his First Class ticket. He suspected whether the kid in front of him had a ticket. He has red hair and chains. The hair does not work with his complexion. There is nothing wrong with being dark skinned. Rajeev himself likes to think he looks like coffee. With enough milk added, not the super dark kind. But he dresses appropriately, the muted earth tones he wears compliments his skin tone. ‘Old money’ they call it. Nothing flashy, very subtle.

He likes the Instagram posts which showed collages of beautiful dark skinned Indians. High cheekbones and small noses. If the faces were not conventionally attractive they usually had some sort of cool jewellery or traditional tattoos. Very edgy. Rajeev would love to have those on a T-Shirt. Plain looking dark skinned people did not come up so much. Whatever. Point is, one should groom themselves appropriately. Unlike whatever he saw in front of him. His curly hair is too frizzy to be coloured, unlike Rajeev’s elegant curls. The boy pulls out an iPhone and talks to who seems to be his girlfriend. Probably an EMI.

He got off at his station with a quiet sigh of relief. He grabs a much needed coffee after this tiring one hour journey. An emaciated woman walks by and holds a hand out. Rajeev felt generous.

“I’ll get you something from this tea stall, anything you want just point it out”

“Bun packet”

Rajeev proudly held out the packet to her. He couldn’t wait to tell his roommates.

“Sir, 50 rupees?”

Give a mouse a cookie, it’ll ask for milk. Rajeev pretended not to hear her. He does not earn his money so her husband can smoke it away. Outside the station he adds some change to the plate in front of an idol. The incense sticks exhaled a sweet pleasant fragrance.

Rajeev was always the first to reach his office. He had interned there, worked very hard and converted it to an offer. He had a great rapport with his boss. He had recently too asked about Rajeev’s father, an old, school friend. A promotion might be in the works.

A heated discussion was happening near the water cooler. His colleagues huddled their heads and talked about everything under the sun, but never anything that concerned them. Two months back it was some war, last month it was refugees. He wondered what it would be today.

“Don’t you think they are overreaching? Why can I not be with whoever I want?”

“I don’t like the wording either, its like a police state.”

“I think it’s fine. Look at the state of this nation, so many people get converted. Next thing you know they are shooting up a market.”

The last statement made everyone nod. Earlier detractors changed their stance.

Violence in all forms must be condemned, they agreed solemnly.

They were talking about the new ‘Morality Of Religion, Organising New Indian Conversions’ Act 2030. That the new MoRONIC laws had that acronym was an unfortunate misstep. The matter was about to be discussed but around the same time a dastardly terrorist attack had taken place. Unpatriotic attempts to discuss the bill, including its acronym, were swept aside and berated. Even liberal stalwarts supported the Bill, name and all - “It can be interpreted to be ‘against’ moronic activities, if you really think about it.”

This seemed to happen a lot recently. When the new Anti-Horse Bill to prevent mass breeding of horses was about to be introduced, a group of horses had inexplicably barged into schools and overturned desks and computers. This matter reached the Court which immediately ordered the castration of all horses and observed the necessity of such a legislation.

The MoRONIC law was omnibus. It prevented converting to other religions without getting the permission of the Chief Inspector of Religious Faith, Romantic Interest, Live-In Relationships and Marriage. The CIRFRILRM was incidentally the District Collector. These District Collectors have many new roles now, Rajeev thought wistfully. The District Collector had also been designated as the Chief Commissioner of Genitalia, Gender Identity and the Human Psyche under the new Gender Identity Act.

He heard from his coworkers that many new processes had been added. There was a hearing before an expert committee before your conversion was allowed. Good. Rajeev was rational. He knew that religion should remain personal. Promises of marriage, food or better jobs should not influence such a personal decision.

“I bet you can do the whole thing online.” Rajeev said hopefully. His colleagues looked it up. It was true. The application for registration could be done online. Fee payment could also be done online, a QR code would appear and an acknowledgement would be processed immediately. “Actually so convenient” quipped a voice. Rajeev nodded approvingly. What a relief. Mild inconveniences for everyone’s safety, but they could resolve things from the comfort of their homes. If he had to keep going to government offices all the time he would have to move abroad, like other middle class, general category youth. What a brain drain that would be.

Many things could be done online now, it truly was very convenient. Earlier Rajeev used to get fleeced by everyone. Everything used to cost so much and shopkeepers, restaurants, plumbers, electricians- all cheated him. They quoted such high prices. Now on the press of a button they come to his building, take the service lift up to his room, speak and work politely and leave silently. He doesn’t even have to know their names.

Sometimes they would sit on the steps of the apartment after doing some service or after delivering something. Rajeev got the Home Owners Association to stop this immediately. There were women and children in the building. He was also not particularly fond of the smell of sweat they carried. Perfumes were available for such cheap prices now.

The ping of a team email snapped him out of his trance. His boss was giving a motivational talk at 7.

He took a seat at the back of the meeting hall. The talk was again about improving work performance.

“The more hours you put in, the faster you climb the corporate ladder and become a billionaire. Our CEO used to work 200 hours a week when he was just starting out at his father’s company.”

Rajeev pulled out his phone to calculate how many more hours he needs to work in a week to become like their CEO.

“Wait-”

“Rajeev, please keep your phone away.”

Rajeev got distracted by a Google Meet link. “Meet with Jolene (SF). 11:30 PM.” He had hoped to go home early that day.

“Hey Rajeev, so sorry to keep a meeting at this time” crooned Jolene. He was a bit disgruntled. Meetings seem to happen only during the AM for Jolene. “I just finished some morning yoga, what an amazing culture you guys have!” This calmed him down. True, he really was part of an amazing culture. “No worries Jolene.”

He caught the last train home. Relaxing in a seat, his heart froze. A hijra had entered the train. Looking ridiculous in a saree, the mannish figure clapped in people’s faces. Rajeev felt sweat building up in his hands. He needed to find an excuse. These people would even wake up sleeping commuters, touching and squeezing them. If a conventional man did this to a woman he would be in jail by now. He had no choice but to give the 20 rupees. The blessing made him feel angry at himself. His hard earned money for someone’s disgusting hand to make a swirl around his head. No wonder new laws are made. He wondered if the Gender Identity Act covered such incidents. Someone should take this up with the local CCGGIHP, see if these people are certified.

In his apartment everyone was having dinner. Only Iqbal orders non-vegetarian food. Butter chicken this time. Sneha was taking a bite out of his plate.

“If my parents knew this they would kill me. A brahmin eating non-veg. Lol” Everyone laughed. Rajeev admired her courage and edge. He could never bring himself to do something like this.

She went in for another bite. “Guys I swear to God if my parents found my brahmin ass eating chicken, it’s over for me.” She’s sitting a bit too close to Iqbal. Rajeev wanted to be like her. He was proud to be her friend. She must really be comfortable with him, using words like ‘ass’ and everything. After all, he was quite the feminist. He cleaned the house every now and then. He cooked too sometimes.

A few days later Iqbal hurriedly woke Rajeev up. The police were at the door. Men and women were living together without registering their live-in relationships.

“But we are not-”

The police cut him off.

“This is what everyone says. How do we know what is going on behind closed doors?”

Rajeev could see the neighbouring family snickering behind their front door. He felt a bit bad. He has gone to have tea with them so many times. Every now and then some comments were made about how upstanding families in the building were not entirely happy with the arrangement in their apartment. Especially Iqbal’s presence. Rajeev would argue his modern takes. Eventually the conversation would steer to the unanimous conclusion that reservation is wrong and end on a happy note.

“Tomorrow morning 7:00, Collectorate.” The officer said briskly and left. Before leaving he tried to get a glance at the women inside. Rajeev quickly closed the door behind him.

Rajeev could hear the shouts of the CIRFRILRM inside his office. A couple sat apologetically on the other side of the window. He could hear them speak in what he thought was Tamil as they left. They seemed concerned. Rajeev glanced at the cheap

plastic cover they decided was appropriate for meeting with the District Collector.

“Next!!” screamed the CIRFRILRM. He did not even look up when Rajeev entered. He gestured angrily to the chair. Misreading his action Rajeev asked; “Should I wait outside sir?”

The man looked up on hearing English and his gaze softened.

“See you are saying the same things everyone tells us. Bottom line is the state has the right to know if you are having sex or not. If yes; why, where, how, how much, the works. You know how it is. You have two males and two females in an apartment, unless you register we cannot know for sure.”

“I mean I guess we could just register. There is not a lot of harm in it. We know we are not doing anything weird.”

“Your case is complicated. You have one person named Iqbal with you, correct?”

“Yes.”

“There are a few extra steps. You need to give six months notice to live with him.” Rajeev calculated how much the rent would increase. “Why?”

“See he has to register with one of the women. But then that means he is in a relationship with one of them. Later they might get married. We don’t know how these people operate, later there might be a conversion. So he has to first appear before the committee constituted under the MoRONIC laws and give a written undertaking that there would be no attempted conversion.”

Rajeev was confused about why this would take six months.

“That’s for the public hearing. During that time the parents of the women and the other residents of the building can object or support them staying together. It’s a very democratic process. Only after that will you be able to live with a registered couple. Or else, you will might also be committing an offence.”

“What about mine and Sneha’s status?” Rajeev asked, a bit ashamed at how fast the question came out of his mouth.

“Around two months for the public hearing. Until then you will have to find some other place to live. If you have any grievance during the process you can file a complaint.”

“Can I do it online?”

“Of course.”

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