During bewildering times such as the present, the divide between fiction and reality is increasingly blurry and we turn to stories to make sense of our predicament. With our brand-new #DystopianTales series, we bring to you exclusive short pieces on a world that seems to be falling apart.

Mr Pisharody

by Manu Bhattathiri

Mr Pisharody sat clutching the small leather bag on his lap like it contained all his worries, anxieties, doubts, fears, hopes, petitions, pleas, aches, and disappointments. He looked around the large waiting hall. People sat on sterilized steel chairs set visibly apart—some looking restlessly at the door in front, some staring at the sealed windows, some snoozing. For the umpteenth time Mr Pisharody comforted himself that there wasn’t an overwhelming crowd today, so hopefully he’d get enough time at his turn. He nervously fingered the small pack of glucose biscuits he had packed inside his bag. A diabetic, Mr Pisharody feared he might collapse if his turn took too long.

It was a wonder how some people could snooze in here, he thought. Why, they did not wake up even when the needle-like red light from the instrument overhead dropped to scan their body temperatures. Through the masks, Mr Pisharody could make out these were younger people—the ones who hadn’t spent as much time in the old world to hold its painful memories in their young hearts.

Every four minutes or so a young woman would open the door in front and call out the next name in a trained sweet voice: ‘Mr Dileep’ or ‘Mrs Iyengar’ or ‘Master Kiran’, like they were characters in a nursery rhyme. And the person would scurry over for his or her turn. Your turn came in the order in which you had registered—there was no preference based on one’s class, caste, or gender—and everyone was allotted the same amount of time. The system was as sterilized as the waiting room: no bugs, no loopholes. Those who had finished exited through the door at the back. Past the rows of seats walked the health police—uniformed men and women monitoring if anyone was suppressing a sneeze or sneaking out a handkerchief.

For such times when he couldn’t decide if he was feeling depressed, Mr Pisharody had devised a simple test. He would repeat the word ‘forever’ in his head over and over again like a mantra, without any inter-linking thought. If, after that, he could call to mind visions of butterflies and rainbows, he was alright. But if he felt his stomach churning, like after coming down a swing, he was depressed. At this moment, feeling on his forearm the cold steel of the chair, he couldn’t place his thoughts. So, he began chanting with his eyes closed, ‘forever, forever, forever, forever…’

‘Mr Pisharody…’ came the girl’s voice.

He stood up clumsily and walked through the door, checking one final time if his phone was on silent mode. The girl held the door open for him. He noticed that she smelled of an aromatic sanitizer. Stepping into the inner sanctum, Mr Pisharody stood quietly and cupped his hands. He kneeled before the idol and prayed, hoping they would give him a little extra time today though he knew how perfectly impartial the system was.

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Manu Bhattathiri is the author of The Town That Laughed.

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