View Like Comment and Repeat
Ratna Prabha
The inspiration for this story came from the everyday social media (SM) madness I see and participate in. We are so caught up in it, I felt that day would not be far when SM would dictate our lives more than anything. It can become the currency of human life.
T
he post’s headline on my InstaNook wall screamed!
THE UGLY DUCKLING - CAN THIS B**** PLEASE STOP ACTING OR MODELLING?
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I clicked on it and read the story of a model who was being trolled. It didn't matter that I didn't follow this lady. I was seeing her for the first time. But I needed a sensational response, one that could garner a million likes and more than 50,000 responses, and a chance to win a prize, a prize that would be more than regular food pills. And so I wrote:
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“YEAH, THE B****! SHE MAKES THE UGLY DUCKLING LOOK BEAUTIFUL. AND SHE COULDN’T EVEN BLINK AN EYE WITHOUT MAKING A MISTAKE! I HOPE SHE DIES!”
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“You’re the b****!” - The model’s caricatured angry face protruded from my monitor. An auto-response to negative comments. That was a good sign for me. A direct response from the main subject was a bonus! Doesn't matter, good or bad!
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As content creators, we were all required by the Law of Opinions to mandatorily view, like, and comment on at least 50 pieces of content daily, including blogs, vlogs, videos, and reels. Anything was allowed as long as the government was not touched.
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I got paid based on the number of likes I gave and the number of likes I received, receiving likes being more valuable than giving. The more likes I garner, the better my chances are of moving up the ladder of social media content creators. So, low-level creators like me (I’m somewhere in the middle, closer to the lower end of the ladder with half a million subscribers) survived thanks to this very Law of Opinions.
My payment was in the form of food pills and a few pennies, just enough to buy an occasional bottle of flavoured water. Accommodation, food pills, clothes, and water were included in my benefits, provided I met the Daily 50. The government also provided smartwatches to make calls to approved government authorities. All other communication was virtual, utilising the 60-inch ultra-thin monitor embedded in my eastern wall, which was connected to the government-controlled server.
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By the way, entertainment in any form of books, fictional stories, and cinema was not included for the likes of me. That was a niche segment reserved exclusively for high-end content creators with over 3 million followers. We could read and watch (if we had the money for them), but were not allowed to give an opinion or comment. Similarly, creating auto-responses was a privilege of the upper-class content writers.
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GET BACK TO WORK!
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My AI alarm screamed into my ears, another government mandate to ensure I don't slack around. It pings loudly if my fingers remain unmoving for more than a minute, detection of eyes on the screen notwithstanding. I’ve heard that hacking the alarm was easy. But who had the coding resources for it? And anyway, what’s the point of hacking it? I had to finish my daily commission of 50 if I wanted to get paid. I’ve realised the screeching alarm is there just to keep us on our feet, metaphorically speaking of course!
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I looked at the next trending post on my wall. It was a reel of a high-end influencer eating off a plate of real food, not nourishment pills, ‘ooh’ing and ‘aah’ing at every mouthful. It was 30 seconds of utter torture, my mouth salivating. I vividly remember the taste of real food, the last of which I had more than six months ago. I had won a “Quickest likes” contest, and the prize was a choice between a real meal and two months of food tablets.
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I chose the meal on impulse. A plate of cheese and veggie sandwiches was delivered to my tiny, fifty-square-foot home in a community of one million such apartments. I don't regret my choice because the crunch of the fresh veggies, my teeth digging into the soft bread and the salty, sweet, sour taste of the cheese still lingers.
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“WHAT I’D DO FOR THIS PLATE OF FOOD!”
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I wrote on the post and immediately got 10,000 likes. I was happy. Maybe I will win again, as the user with the fastest number of likes. A surprise plate of food, perhaps? I dreamt of biting into a plate of rice, crunchy veggies, or perhaps even a juicy piece of meat.
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GET BACK TO WORK!
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Damn! Never got used to that blighted voice!
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A government bulletin flashed in one corner of my monitor. A reforestation effort in some unknown corner of the world was declared successful after the sighting of wild animals, the bulletin said. I was mandated to view, like, and comment on all government posts, and it was not part of my Daily 50. I would get about 2-3 government posts and bulletins a day. This bulletin further added, with this success a million more new homes would be commissioned, providing hope for the homeless. I read, liked, and made a simple comment, and moved on.
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It was close to 1 pm, and I still had 20 more pieces to comment on. I could feel a headache coming on! Finding 20 pieces was not an issue, but sifting through thousands to find commentable content took a considerable amount of time. Also, I had to create my content and submit it for others’ comments. Yesterday’s piece, a short reel on my new shower gel’s impact on my skin, garnered just under 200,000 likes, which is significantly less even for an average worker like me. Too much to do, very little time and energy!
I had tried changing my career, but I realised, quite pitifully, that I didn't fit in anywhere else. In fact, nearly 90% of the world’s working population had a career in social media, commenting and creating posts.
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Machines had almost entirely taken over other careers, and the few humans who managed these machines were either born into uber-rich families or extremely lucky, constituting about 10% of the world’s population. Food production was limited mostly to pharma companies manufacturing food pills. Agricultural and poultry products were reserved for the ultra-rich. Travel was another ball game, which I will come to later.
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I want to dismiss the content on social media as entirely worthless, but I can’t because it provides me with food, clothing, and shelter. InstaNook, of which I was a part, was a public-private company, the largest social media platform in the world, one that didn't allow any other company to exist.
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I considered myself lucky to at least have a job in social media. There were many more who were homeless and had no income or employment, living on government doles. I’ve heard that the dole is just a couple of food pills a week. The fear of falling to that level is what keeps me doing what I do, no matter how much I hate it or how claustrophobic I feel in my own home. I’ve even heard rumours that the men and women at the lowest level were baby-producing machines.
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Let's not even get into the education of today. Offline schools were prohibitively expensive and reserved for those in the upper echelons of status. Online schools and short diploma courses on social media were the only ones my mother could afford. So I didn't have school friends.
There was no inheritance to speak of, although my parents had more wealth than me during their youth. The money my parents earned was just enough to cover their elder care maintenance. My father died of cancer at a young age, which left more money for my mother’s elder care but not enough to pass on to me.
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Thanks to medical advancements, the average human lifespan has increased to 100 years. So, at 55, I’m in the prime of my youth. My mother is 85 years old and could live for another 15 years. She moved into a government-managed old-age home at 75. Until then, she was a social media content creator, like me, although her daily commission was 20, considering her age. In the asylum, now, her prescription pills, which were enriched with nourishment too, were paid for by the wealth she had given up for the consortium government that began 50 years ago, in 2041.
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The only legacy my mother passed on to me was my grandmother’s social media content, stored on a stand-alone laptop with her posts, blogs, and stories from the early years of the last century. I made sure I never connected the laptop to the central server. What if it gets confiscated and I lose the only source of joy?
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A government bulletin released recently said that it was mulling over introducing a law to pull the plug on people over 90 years old. If that happened, and combined with a partial ban on human reproduction (passed five years ago), the world population was expected to reach a more manageable number, it said.
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By the way, a partial ban on reproduction means only those with power and clout to get government approval can have children, and maybe, according to those rumours, the baby-producing humans whose children were government property as soon as they were born.
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GET BACK TO WORK!
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I work for the next hour. My head hurts from all the imagined comments, none authentic. The worst part is that I had to beat AI tools that kept flashing plagiarism warnings.
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I still had a few more content pieces to work on, just as a migraine raised its ugly head, but I couldn’t afford a break. I have to finish today’s assignment by 4 pm, against the usual 6 pm, which sometimes stretched to 7 or even 8 pm, especially when government bulletins were more frequent.
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Today, the government counsellor was coming on his monthly rounds. It was more of an inspection, really, to check if I was illegally allowing anyone to live with me in my apartment.
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As if more than one human could live in this tiny space, where stretching my legs was a problem! Remember the children I spoke about earlier? Well, anyway, who could have children? When human interaction in the physical world was controlled and monitored? We had an inbuilt chip connected to the government’s central server that tracked unauthorised human interactions. I wondered why they would want baby-producing menial workers if they banned us from having children? Anyway, I didn't have the time and energy to think. My daily life was already fatiguingly difficult.
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So, back to the inspector. His other job was to ensure I finished work sufficiently early, leaving me enough me-time. That’s why the inspection is at 4, which is when I have to finish work daily, a “reasonable” time to finish work and have ample me-time. To demonstrate that InstaNook prioritised the care of its followers and content creators. All a big farce! But if he saw I didn't have a work-life balance, I’d lose my job. I had to play along.
On the bright side, today was Friday! I will have two days of doing nothing but scrolling mindlessly through my grandmother’s decades-old posts! I love reading her posts, which include photographs of the beautiful places she has visited, as well as pictures of her friends and family. Although I occasionally chatted with friends online, which again required government approval—a huge detriment, although not as challenging to obtain as a real meeting—I was very jealous of the fun life she led in her time. By the way, the waiting list to meet people in the real world was currently over 15 years for those who applied last year.
The hoi polloi (another word I picked up from my grandmother’s posts) only had a two-hour-a-week window into the outside world because of the Traffic Law. This law was based on the assumption that if 10 billion people (the government said this was the current world population) were to move around freely anywhere, anytime, traffic and other logistics would be a nightmare.
So, people’s movements were categorised into different segments based on their career and social status. Low-level social media people like me got a bad deal—just a two-hour-a-week window!
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Sorry! Not the worst deal! But not a great deal, either. I’m grateful that I’m not among the many millions out there who didn't know where their next food pill would come from and who were stuck in hellholes with no way of escape. My government-mandated slot was Saturday evening, 6-8 pm. I look forward to roaming the streets outside.
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GET BACK TO WORK!
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I quickly swallowed a food pill and a painkiller for my headache, before returning to my desk, I worked for 2 more hours filling comment sections with nonsense. By 2 p.m., I had five more left to do. I needed to create and submit my content, too. I took a 10-minute break by pressing the break icon on the AI timer, which is allowed twice daily.
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My thoughts wandered again. My heart felt light thinking of the two hours outside this claustrophobic place. How do they manage to control the two hours, you ask? Yeah, I cannot close or open my door. It is programmed to open at 6 pm every Saturday and close at 8 pm. If I don't return by then, the door is locked, without me inside it if needed. I have had a horrible experience of being locked out once. I met this nice guy on that unforgettable Saturday at the flavoured water store. Talking to other humans was allowed during our break times, but nothing more. Our conversations were all recorded through our built-in chips. Usually, I avoid talking to anyone. But that day, I was taken in by his kind eyes, and I got so lost in some mindless conversation with him that I lost track of time. Reality hit me only when the alarm on my watch rang, 5 minutes before my apartment door closed. I ran as fast as I could, but didn't arrive on time. My front door was locked. But I could hear sounds from inside.
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“Who’s there?” I yelled. The sounds stopped immediately. The person inside cannot open the door either.
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So, I called the government helpline. The officer who took the call admonished me first.
“You should’ve known better than to fall for some random guy’s talk. People who are waiting for homes are running a scam. They sweet-talk naïve people like you, and their homeless friends occupy open homes, even if only for a short while.”
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“Shouldn’t the law enforcement do something about it?” I asked, a little angrily.
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The officer’s response was cold.
“Law enforcement cannot be held responsible for the irresponsibility of 10 billion people. You have to be careful.”
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He continued after a pause.
“By the way, you must be grateful that I’m not reporting you. You could lose your home for missing your deadline to return on time.” My heart turned cold as fear of homelessness returned.
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“So, what are my options now?” I croaked tearfully.
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He seemed to soften when he heard the croak in my voice.
“I will not report you. I could send an officer to break the lock. But you will have to pay the cost. Do you have money for that?”
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“No!” I cried helplessly.
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“Then, you have to wait for your door to open on Saturday to regain access to your house. When you do so, you could choose to report the intruder. Be warned that the cost of litigation is huge. The maximum sentence for the intruder is that they will be demoted from the ranks on the list of people seeking accommodation. It’s up to you to do what you think is right.”
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I had to choose the second option. I didn't have the resources to break the lock or for litigation. That week was horrendous, to say the least. I could do little else but wait outside the door. I could not stray outside and take the risk of getting caught.
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A few of my neighbours (we didn't know each other at all) left their homes for their weekly visits to the outside world, but no one even tried to make eye contact with me, let alone offer to help. I couldn't blame them. I would’ve done the same thing. Who could handle the governmental rigmarole that came with human interactions?
On Monday morning, I heard my alarm screech, “GET BACK TO WORK!”
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I would be marked absent until I got inside and reset my profile and password. Five days of scarce holidays gone in total vain!
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But I was shocked because I needn’t worry about that. The person inside did my work for me! I could hear the clacking of keys, the pings of likes, and the hurrahs when milestones were reached. I could not have asked for more, well, maybe re-entry into my home, but at least some respite from losing on my work days.
I used up the two bottles of flavoured water while outside. Not a single food pill! I sipped from the bottles for a week, just a few sips morning, noon, and night. When the door opened the following Saturday evening, I found a girl, not more than 20, looking sheepishly at me. She apologised and ran from there. Before running, she turned and murmured a thank you and whispered, “I took only one pill a day. I owe you one, anything, even if illegal.”
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I was too weak to run after her. I staggered into my home, swallowed a couple of pills, lay on my bed, and went to sleep, emotionally and physically enervated. I awoke only on Monday morning to the screams of “GET BACK TO WORK!”
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That intense episode taught me a valuable lesson: never run late (duh!), and more importantly, never speak to a stranger at least not in the real world. The fear of losing what little I had was crippling.
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I remembered my grandmother speaking of desolation in one of her posts, after her husband died very young. What I experienced being outside my flat for a week with nothing but a bottle of water must have been desolation. I realised the only companion I have is my home. I know it sounds pathetic. But it was worse outside.
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GET BACK TO WORK!
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I had lost my ten-minute break in the scariest memories of my life. I returned to my desk and completed commenting on the remaining content, and had one hour left before the inspector’s visit. I submitted my content, a half-hearted selfie reel of a weak joke. I was likely to get a couple of hundred thousand likes from others like me, enough to add more food pills to my ration.
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At 4 pm sharp, I shut down my computer just as my doorknob turned and the inspector walked in. The inspector finished his work and wrote a satisfactory report. We never spoke a word to each other. He would be in trouble if we did. He had much more to lose, considering he had a higher social status than I, a bigger house, a shorter waiting period to speak to other humans, and maybe, even a partner. So, he certainly wouldn’t want to break any rules. When he left, the door locked automatically.
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I had a quick shower in my tiny bathroom (bath soaps were also government-provided), settled on my couch with my grandmother’s laptop. I always followed her posts in date order. The last date I checked was October 1, 2025, her 50th birthday. There were many birthday wishes from her friends and family. My grandma had taken the time to respond to each of those simple wishes for happiness and health. These days, birthday wishes are considered passe. Would I have liked to receive birthday wishes? I really don't know. It would mean I have to write more comments!
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Anyway, today, on an impulse, I scrolled through the list to see her last post, a nine-minute video. It was on 31st December 2040. I clicked on it, and my grandmother’s face lit up the small screen. She said,
My dear Sharda, this will be my last post. I’m getting straight to the point because I have little time. There’s a paradigm shift in the way the world is moving forward.
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As of tomorrow, January 1, 2041, nations and countries will be dismantled. A contingent vote was sought on social media, and a whopping 80% of the global population voted in favour of it, all for a great cause; for the end of human conflict driven by territories, culture, and belief systems.
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You must have heard of the nuclear casualty in 2035 in one of the countries, which resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of people. It was a huge wake-up call, and the leaders of all the nations, unanimously for the first time in the history of this planet’s civilisation, decided on this paradigm shift, to give up war and weapons.
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A consortium, or conglomerate, government represented by prominent members and leaders of erstwhile nations has been formed, which will govern the entire planet, creating a new world order. This consortium promises to provide food, clothing, and shelter for all those who vote for it, based on individual and family needs. On the surface, it seems that this type of system could bring about equality for all humans - seems to be a keyword here.
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I fear otherwise. For example, I’m certain that in the near future, the three basic necessities will change from “provided” to “rationed” so that we might have enough to survive and nothing more.
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There is already speculation about a large pharmaceutical company on the verge of developing a food pill that will address all our nutritional needs. The conglomerate supports this company wholeheartedly. They say this will free up land for reforestation, resulting in numerous benefits for humans and animals.
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However, would nourishment pills mean that food as we know it is going to change drastically? No farms? No poultry? No agriculture? No cooking food? I cannot imagine a life where I cannot eat fluffy idlis, soft chapatis, cheesy pizzas, succulent meats, fresh vegetables, and instead pop pills for the rest of my life.
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The intention of a warless world appears noble right now, but I fear the nobility will erode, like all natural things. I’m worried that rationing will not only spread to other aspects of our lives later but also become increasingly stringent. Less and less food, clothing, and shelter will be made available to share. And from this rationing will come new kinds of conflicts. Who will get how much? Who will decide? Most likely, the ones wielding government power?
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The safe structure and environment that the new world order promises is likely to become so rigid that humans will feel caged in it. I fear free thought would be wiped out from our minds. Artificial intelligence-powered tools would only exacerbate the situation for ordinary human beings.
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Books, movies, and social media content as they exist today are also to be given up in return for the promise of a warless, peaceful world. They believe that social media is a bane that has caused confusion in our lives, and they wish to regulate it for the benefit of humanity. But if information is going to be controlled, then wouldn't that lead to worse stuff? I’d rather know more and struggle with choices than not have any choice except that offered by the powers that be.
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In terms of accommodation, a new bill offering us the option to surrender our homes in return for an easier life in the new world is already available. We would all be accommodated in close-knit, warm communities. Many of my friends and family are very impressed with the offerings and are already giving up their homes and land for a secure and war-free future, with little to no work required. The yaysayers believe they are giving up their excessive space so homeless people will also get homes, and all of us will feel equal. They feel morally superior for helping to create a new and just world order. Naysayers like me are being treated as terrorists who need to be put away in a mental asylum for lack of compassion and kindness.
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The panic of that nuclear outburst, I believe, is driving this irrational decision, supported by social media-savvy individuals. This scheme reeks of something sinister. I have many questions and very few satisfactory answers. How do we know if the truly deserving are being brought into the mainstream, especially if information is going to be controlled? Even if the intention of the present leaders is noble, how can we be sure that future leaders will maintain the same magnanimity and honesty?
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I can almost see power being concentrated in the hands of a very few, so few that the rest of humankind will be made to think that the world that is shown to them is the only way of life. I’m afraid that there will come a time when everything beautiful humans created, right from creativity to emotions, would cease to exist, and humans would be nothing more than robots with a beating heart.
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Coming to the most crucial element of human happiness, individual freedom. I can see it being torn apart sooner or later. They tell us artificial intelligence will take care of our work. Then what will I do? What will be my identity? What occupational choices will humans have in the future?
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I reiterate that the most significant losses will be those of individual freedom, federalism, and diversity. While I’m happy wars, as we know them, will come to an end, am I willing to sacrifice personal liberty for a seemingly effortless but controlled and monitored life? And my answer is a clear no! And isn’t it natural that new forms of war would emerge?
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Like I said, those who are siding with the new world order decision accuse the likes of me of preferring war over peace. That’s not it. I don't want war. But I also don't want to be a slave to any government. I want to be free to make my own choices. But I can’t even convince my daughter, your mother. She’s hell-bent on agreeing with the majority and has already signed the papers to hand over everything for an AI-facilitated life with no work for the rest of her life, and a happy, easy future for you.
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So, a few of us who disagree are going underground today to a secret destination. We hope to initiate a silent revolution and preserve human life as it deserves to be, powered by individual freedom. I am proud to be one of the pioneers of such a revolution.
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I leave this standalone laptop as my legacy of social life as we knew it with your mother, so she may pass it on to you when you’re older. She has promised me she will. When the new world order came into being, you were just a baby. You had no choice. The information on this laptop presents you with a choice: to choose between freedom and a cage.
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We used something called email, which the government does not monitor because it had already become obsolete when the new world order was concretised. My email ID is shardagrandma@gmail.com. I hope you find a way to send the email to me. I may or may not be available, but I will ensure that someone reads it and reaches out to you. I want a free life for you, my dearest granddaughter.
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Remember, personal freedom is like hygiene. Only when you lose it, do you realise how important it is for a happy life. And yes, often, freedom takes precedence over survival. It certainly comes above a rigid social and political structure, regardless of how easy your life may seem within it. Make your choice sensibly.
I sat unmoving for a long time, absorbing my grandmother’s words, stunned into speechlessness. She foresaw what would happen. Now I could articulate my restlessness. It wasn’t to rise in the social hierarchy of this world. It was to be free to make a choice to leave this world.
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I soaked in her words for an entire week. I had a choice to make. Yet, practically, I knew only the world I live in. I don't know the world she talks about. My life is already deeply rooted here. A few more followers, and I will rise in the ranks. Was it worth the risk to leave what I have and go search for something that may or may not be good for me, or worse still, may not exist anymore? Who can help me with sending an email? I suddenly remembered the girl who usurped my home for a week. I had seen her many times at the shop selling flavoured water. Should I reach out to her?
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Suddenly, I realised that the power of free thinking brought with it all thoughts, good and bad. For example, a greedy thought occurred to me. What if I negotiate for a better life here itself, in exchange for this laptop? I’m sure government agencies would be eager to eliminate incriminating evidence of a freer world. If the content on this laptop were to leak, imagine the chaos among ordinary people. What if I threaten to release it? It could create immense havoc, one that the “powers-that-be” would be willing to pay a lot to prevent.
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What could I get in exchange? Could I become an inspector, maybe? Or substantially increase my follower base to get me a better house, cooked food instead of pills, twice or even three times a week? The thought made me very happy.
But again, other thoughts filled my head., Would it be the right thing to do? Or should I do what my grandmother tells me? Try to connect with the people of the old world order? Maybe this! Maybe that! Oh! My head hurts again. Lately, I’ve begun to wish I didn't have to make a choice.
Ratna Prabha
Articulation has always been Ratna's strong point. Combined with a deep love for reading and literature, writing was something she wanted to do all her life. Life rigours challenged her writing dreams until they didn't.
After a successful stint as a banker, she took to writing as a ghostwriter, creating articles and ebooks, both fiction and non-fiction. The money was good but she was writing someone else's dreams.
Around 2019, writing for herself took precedence and since then she has been retelling old tales, specifically Indian itihasas and puranas, and attempting to create original stories, too. Like any aspiring writer, publishing a book in her name continues to light up her dreams.
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