but opponents were quick to point out that those programs were not enforced at the genetic level. After years of debate, however, the law was passed and the enforcement began. The clinics started in the south, and with the help of over a hundred thousand soldiers, the entire country was screened and administered within six short months.
While the more vociferous, erudite, and metropolitan Indian citizens had been debating and protesting the plan’s merits for several years, the poor and unconnected—the slum residents and lower-class villagers—had never heard of the plan prior to its enforcement. Like the diseases being screened for, rumor of the enforcement spread, and the prospect of restricted childbearing created a fervor to get married and pregnant before the enforcement. A counterproductive baby boom exploded from south to north, an event that many scholars should have seen coming, but hadn’t.
Ramachandran and Tamalika had heard the rumors only a few weeks into their marriage. In the following months, they had tried desperately to become pregnant with no success. Tamalika cried to the Gods as she waited in line for hours on the day of their village’s screening. Thousands of soldiers organized the villagers into large groups and then smaller lines, until finally Tamalika was ushered into a tent at the exact moment a rare and particularly destructive monsoon arrived upon the coast. Rain pattered the tent as if Tamalika were inside a drum and God herself was outside beating a rhythm describing anger and decrying fairness simultaneously.
Nine months later Sindhu was born, and Tamalika cried with joy as she held her newborn child and the life passed out of her eyes.
Sindhu’s diligence in her studies was born from a natural curiosity for learning, rather than any pedantic responsibility preached by her father. In fact, Ramachandran rarely had to remind his daughter to do her schoolwork—it was typically the highlight of her day. Eventually her curiosity paid off in the form of consistent excellence during testing, allowing her the extraordinary opportunity to attend a realWorld examination. If she tested well in realWorld, she would be granted the option of attending realWorld school full time. Many villagers and slum dwellers had learned methods to cheat in their virtual studies (no small feat, given the biosecurity protocols of the government-issued tablets) such that they were given the opportunity for the realWorld examination, but nearly all chose not to attend, as they knew a human-monitored test would result in failure. (Only the very wealthy had the means to cheat on those.) Sindhu attended.
The day of the test was a watershed moment in Sindhu’s life. Her father took the day off and accompanied her to the city of Chennai. Once known as Madras during British rule, Chennai had quietly transformed into the largest city in the south of India: a burgeoning metropolis brought to life by an explosion of technology and manufacturing. They took the train, a four-hour ride north on a dilapidated, hundred-year-old rail system. Ramachandran fought off hordes of fellow travelers to gain two adjoining seats in the back of the third-class passenger car. Sindhu avoided eye contact, focusing on the holes in the floorboards by her feet where streams of railway tracks merged into a solid brown as the cars sped up.
The day blurred together, much like the tracks in the floorboards. They arrived at a large train station late in the morning, surrounded by a bustle of people who were late getting to work. At once, they transferred to a monorail system (only half as antiquated as the train) and shuttled their way to the testing site, a towering government-built high-rise just outside of downtown. The test went quickly, and Sindhu knew she had not missed a single answer.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon touring the sprawling city with her father. Westernized culture danced with technology. Skyscrapers reached for the
While the more vociferous, erudite, and metropolitan Indian citizens had been debating and protesting the plan’s merits for several years, the poor and unconnected—the slum residents and lower-class villagers—had never heard of the plan prior to its enforcement. Like the diseases being screened for, rumor of the enforcement spread, and the prospect of restricted childbearing created a fervor to get married and pregnant before the enforcement. A counterproductive baby boom exploded from south to north, an event that many scholars should have seen coming, but hadn’t.
Ramachandran and Tamalika had heard the rumors only a few weeks into their marriage. In the following months, they had tried desperately to become pregnant with no success. Tamalika cried to the Gods as she waited in line for hours on the day of their village’s screening. Thousands of soldiers organized the villagers into large groups and then smaller lines, until finally Tamalika was ushered into a tent at the exact moment a rare and particularly destructive monsoon arrived upon the coast. Rain pattered the tent as if Tamalika were inside a drum and God herself was outside beating a rhythm describing anger and decrying fairness simultaneously.
Nine months later Sindhu was born, and Tamalika cried with joy as she held her newborn child and the life passed out of her eyes.
Sindhu’s diligence in her studies was born from a natural curiosity for learning, rather than any pedantic responsibility preached by her father. In fact, Ramachandran rarely had to remind his daughter to do her schoolwork—it was typically the highlight of her day. Eventually her curiosity paid off in the form of consistent excellence during testing, allowing her the extraordinary opportunity to attend a realWorld examination. If she tested well in realWorld, she would be granted the option of attending realWorld school full time. Many villagers and slum dwellers had learned methods to cheat in their virtual studies (no small feat, given the biosecurity protocols of the government-issued tablets) such that they were given the opportunity for the realWorld examination, but nearly all chose not to attend, as they knew a human-monitored test would result in failure. (Only the very wealthy had the means to cheat on those.) Sindhu attended.
The day of the test was a watershed moment in Sindhu’s life. Her father took the day off and accompanied her to the city of Chennai. Once known as Madras during British rule, Chennai had quietly transformed into the largest city in the south of India: a burgeoning metropolis brought to life by an explosion of technology and manufacturing. They took the train, a four-hour ride north on a dilapidated, hundred-year-old rail system. Ramachandran fought off hordes of fellow travelers to gain two adjoining seats in the back of the third-class passenger car. Sindhu avoided eye contact, focusing on the holes in the floorboards by her feet where streams of railway tracks merged into a solid brown as the cars sped up.
The day blurred together, much like the tracks in the floorboards. They arrived at a large train station late in the morning, surrounded by a bustle of people who were late getting to work. At once, they transferred to a monorail system (only half as antiquated as the train) and shuttled their way to the testing site, a towering government-built high-rise just outside of downtown. The test went quickly, and Sindhu knew she had not missed a single answer.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon touring the sprawling city with her father. Westernized culture danced with technology. Skyscrapers reached for the
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