Outlook Anniversary Issue: Life After Pralaya: Notes From Space Station 21B

Among the handful of survivors, some called it the qiyamat, others the pralaya. And for some, it was the apocalypse, of course. But it was none of those mythical endings. There was no hope of a rebirth after such destruction. The qiyamat or Doomsday is supposed to wipe out everything on Earth and take the souls to a Day of Judgement for their reward or punishment; that didn’t happen either.

The survivors on Space Station 21B had witnessed the ultimate annihilation of everything on Earth—its cities and forests, life and water, everything. Nothing was going to spring back again. Only two dozen men and women survived on a space station encircling Earth in a distant orbit. But for how long, they didn’t know: their life-support system would not last unless they found a way to make more food and oxygen. They could not land back on Earth, now burnt and contaminated. They often sat at the ship’s thick windows and watched a once-familiar world that had turned dark red and yellow as fires raged across continents.

“Everything is fine. Go back to your pods,” came the voice of Xorm, the computer that controlled the station, every time some anxious workers gathered to chat. It was becoming more stringent each day—it would lock or unlock doors at will, deny food or medicines to some, and reduce oxygen levels in someone’s pod. Xorm was surely partial to some workers. It censored all incoming information, giving them only official propaganda received from the government. For entertainment, they watched and rewatched old movies available on board.

The great destruction befell Earth, from whatever little they could glean, not only due to ecological disasters, but more so because of the grand war between Rajam, the king, and Prajam, the rebels. And since the space mission was sent by Rajam’s government, Xorm ensured that the workers didn’t voice any rebellion, knowing some might be Prajamites.

Swarna mostly kept quiet, but carried within her a deep resentment against Rajam. Her family, from an ethnic minority on Earth, had been killed or jailed by the ruling forces for speaking against Rajam’s atrocities. She had survived, maintaining a false, precarious identity, labouring to secure a career in space—far from the decaying Earth and its persecutors.

Xorm was programmed to strictly control the workers—not only their productivity, but more so their personal views and thoughts. “No. Rajam was not so bad as you say,” its voice would interject into conversations. “Rajam was a peace-loving king who sought prosperity for all. It was the Prajam who brought this destruction. Don’t spread lies here.” No one could argue with it. In fact, some workers agreed with it. “Yes, you are right,” someone would say from a corner. “These Prajams created all the problems—they have always been the troublemakers.”

The workers now spent their days trying to recycle waste and grow bits of food, and arguing about who was better, Rajam or the Prajam. “We had democracy,” Swarna told everyone at the dinner table once. “But Rajam corrupted it. He clung to power for several decades, rigging every election to secure a majority, even though the Prajamites exposed his corruption and his murdering of the planet.”

“Stop it,” came a stern mechanical voice from Xorm. “Eat your food and leave.”

Swarna would not stop. “They turned the air and water rancid, the land infertile. The hills were falling apart. Earthquakes, tsunamis, floods and diseases plagued the Earth. But Rajam and his cronies lived in the comfort of their guarded fortresses, while the poor Prajamites scavenged on mountains of filth.

“Ultimately, they came to blows: Rajam launched deadly nuclear and bioweapons on the strongholds of the Prajam. But the latter, too, had evolved techniques to deflect some of this warfare back to their origin. And thus, they annihilated each other over two decades.”

Something suddenly hit Swarna’s head from behind. It was a robotic arm that stunned her. Others hurriedly finished their food and left.

She woke up in her pod with a sharp pain in the neck. The oxygen levels were low. Her door didn’t open. Probably no food or water for today. She had been nursing only one thought for weeks: to shut down Xorm and manage the station manually.

“Are you crazy?” her friends told her when she secretly expressed this idea. “How will the systems run then? Who will process the food?”

“I’m the engineer,” she said. “I know the system. Xorm is hiding the actual food reserves. If we get the ingredients, we can process it ourselves. Xorm is also not allowing us to cruise to the Moon, where we could land and restore a biosphere.”

“But you can’t shut Xorm until 75 per cent of us agree to enter the vault,” said Jakme, the senior-most worker. “And you know these Rajam supporters. They would never join us.” They started dispersing before Xorm could find their secret meeting point.

Each morning, Xorm broadcast old speeches of Rajam on every screen. “We gave safety and security to all, including the minorities. We ensured everyone had jobs. The economy and trade are flourishing. We supplied homes, electricity, water, and toilets to all. We built roads, bridges, and rapid trains everywhere. We gave health and education...”

“Yes Rajam, you are right” … whoever said that would get breakfast. Those who remained silent or disagreed could be denied food. The Rajam supporters happily conformed. Their king was dead, but they considered Xorm their master.

“We opened schools and universities where free thought was promoted,” said Rajam on the screen. “We allowed arts and culture to flower. We gave freedom to the media. But despite that, the Prajams are unhappy and opposing us. They have instigated protests and riots everywhere.”

“That’s a lie. A propaganda,” said an irritated Jakme, ready for punishment. “Rajam was cruel to minority groups. He arrested opponents and journalists who asked tough questions. He demolished the homes of activists. Democracy was a joke under Rajam. Women were not safe. Hunger and diseases grew. People were jobless.”

This time, a Rajam loyalist confronted him. “Can’t you remain quiet? Can’t you accept the truth? Your people ruined the Earth. You’re the one responsible for pralaya.”

“No. That’s the propaganda you’ve been fed,” said Swarna. “Prajams had no role in the destruction. We come from indigenous tribes and minorities who considered nature sacred. We saved trees and rivers. But Rajam’s forces destroyed our sacred habitats and farms through mining and construction.”

The room suddenly went dark and the robotic arms started hitting them. Someone shrieked after a thud.

Despite Xorm’s hostilities, Swarna and Jakme continued on their secret mission. “We need 18 workers on our side to shut this down but have so far only 10.” For days, they exchanged letters on paper to evade Xorm’s eyes. “We need to convince the Rajam loyalists. They’re brainwashed.”

Prajamites were now facing more power cuts in their pods as Xorm diverted power for its own survival. In their next secret meeting, they managed to get two Rajamites. “But how can we trust you?” they said.

“Do you have a choice?” asked Swarna. “Xorm is selfish, just like its masters. Soon, it may combust our food to generate power for itself. We’ll all die.”

“So how will we make more food if you shut it?” asked Matadin, a Rajamite.

“We have seed grains in the vault. We can grow plants from them instead of cooking and eating them. We’ll survive much longer then.”

After some thought, Matadin softened. “I can try to convince the workers. But they are Rajam loyalists. They won’t trust you.”

His friends were angry with Matadin for having joined the Prajam meeting. But they couldn’t argue much as Xorm started listening. Time was running out and the power cuts affected everyone. Some Rajamites changed their mind, but many still would not budge.

On the appointed day, 15 anxious supporters of Swarna gathered outside the big vault, waiting for three more Rajamites to join.

“You’re not authorised to enter here,” said Xorm’s mechanical voice. “Go back to your pods.”

“We have Protocol 75P. We’re 18 workers with keycards. Open this,” said Jakme.

“No, you don’t have the quorum. Go back to your pods.”

Ignoring it, all 15 moved closer to the vault with their keycards, as Xorm’s robotic arms violently tried to prevent them. A jittery Swarna looked back to see if others were joining, but didn’t find any. With 15 keycards signalling it, the vault door had started whirring to open, but waited for the full protocol.

“You’re making a big mistake—you’ll all die here,” came Xorm’s voice. “The station will destroy itself.” It was now aiming a laser gun at them.

“Enough of the protocol,” said Swarna as she took out a pair of big metal pliers from her dress and inserted it into the half-open gate. “Help me,” she asked, as others pulled the two sides of the door apart.

“Watch out,” someone shouted, as the gun’s laser missed Matadin’s shoulder. “You’re breaking the law. Go back to your pods,” shouted Xorm amid the laser’s swishing sounds.

Many were using hand-held laser shields to evade the gun, but not for long. Some were already injured. Swarna somehow squeezed herself into the vault and pulled the shutdown lever. There was sudden silence.

Everyone paused. Xorm was shut, but the station’s other machines kept working. “I told you,” said Swarna. “Things will work even when Xorm is shut.” They found enough sacks of grains and seeds inside, which would yield them many crops in the future. Swarna now went in to check the module that would take them to the Moon.

Yousuf Saeed is a Delhi-based independent author and filmmaker who has worked on science and arts in his films and writings since 1990s. He manages the Tasveer Ghar archive of South Asia’s popular visual culture

This article appeared as ‘A Space Odyssey' in Outlook’s 30th anniversary double issue ‘Party is Elsewhere’ dated January 21st, 2025, which explores the subject of imagined spaces as tools of resistance and politics.