By Vishesh Kashyap
It’s 2424, and I wake up every day in my underground home, surrounded by the cold concrete walls that trap us in this strange, dark world. They call this place Short-Sighted City, and it’s a fitting name. As I roll out of bed, I reach for my mask—the essential accessory of our time—designed to filter out the toxic air we can’t escape. I check on my two kids, their faces illuminated by the flickering lights of our artificial world, and I know it’s time for our weekly outing to the surface.
Every week, I take my kids outside for a little sunlight and fresh air. I know it sounds ridiculous, but this is our life now. The air we breathe costs us precious oxygen from machines that hum softly in the background, reminding us how much we rely on technology to survive. We only get to go out once a week because, well, you can’t waste oxygen like it’s just lying around. As I pull on my oversized coat, I remind myself to breathe easy, a mantra I’ve repeated countless times.
Stepping outside is always a mix of anticipation and dread. The surface world has become a grim sight, a shadow of what it used to be. The streets are littered with trash and debris—plastic bags swirling like lost souls in the wind. Every step I take feels like a walk through a nightmare, a reminder of how the choices of the past have created this living hell. “Great job, previous generations,” I mutter under my breath. This is the legacy you left us—an apocalyptic playground where every turn reveals another horror.
As I walk through what used to be a park, I can hardly recognize it. Once, there were wildflowers, trees, and laughter. Now, there’s just concrete and despair. The ground is cracked, and the air smells of oil leaks that have become all too common in our underground cities. The last time I was outside, I caught a whiff of that acrid smell, a sickening reminder of humanity's addiction to fossil fuels. “Oh, the sweet smell of progress,” I snark to myself, recalling how proud people used to be about drilling for oil, never thinking about the consequences.
The sky above me darkens as storm clouds gather. I can hear the distant rumble of thunder, a sound that sends a chill down my spine. Just last week, I saw a report on how a freak storm wiped out an entire neighborhood, and I can’t shake the fear that we’ll be next. I think of my children and how they deserve to play outside like I used to, under trees and blue skies. But for us, it’s like living in a dystopian novel, only it’s real, and there’s no happy ending in sight.
As I navigate the wasteland of what was once a vibrant city, I think about how our lives have become a series of compromises. Food is a constant worry. The underground markets offer shelves filled with canned goods and processed foods, but the fresh stuff? That’s a thing of the past. My kids are learning how to grow small plants indoors, and I’ve become a master at cultivating a few herbs in our cramped space. We have to make do with what little we can find, and sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever eat anything that doesn’t come from a can.
I push the thoughts aside as we head to the market. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sickly glow on the faces of the people around us. We’re all wearing our masks, faces hidden behind layers of fabric and filters. “Welcome to the 22nd century,” I say to myself, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Where clean air is a luxury and food is a processed mystery.”
When we get home, my kids are already asking about the wildflowers again. They want to know what it was like to see colors in nature and breathe in the scent of fresh blooms. I remember my grandmother’s stories, how she’d describe playing in fields filled with flowers. “One day,” I tell them, “we’ll find a way to make things better.” It’s a promise I cling to, even when it feels like a distant dream.
But let’s talk about education—or what passes for it these days. Schools have transformed from places of learning to survival training camps. My kids’ lessons focus on finding clean water and growing food in our cramped quarters. The last time they had a history lesson, it was about how not to repeat the mistakes of the past, but honestly, it felt like a joke. How can they learn from history when we’re living in a nightmare that could have been avoided?
As we huddle together in our underground home, I tell my kids stories about the world that used to be. I talk about the time when you could lie on a blanket in the grass, feeling the sun warm your skin, instead of hiding in a cold concrete box. Their eyes grow wide with wonder and disbelief, and I can see the hope flickering there. “We’ll find a way to bring it back,” I promise, though part of me wonders if I’m just telling myself what I want to hear.
At community gatherings, we share tips and ideas about how to survive in this bizarre reality. We talk about the latest news—who managed to grow the best indoor vegetables or who figured out how to filter water more efficiently. In a way, it feels like we’re a family, bound together by the shared experience of this bizarre existence. There’s something comforting about it, even amidst the chaos.
But there are also discussions about escaping Earth altogether. Yeah, remember when they thought Mars would be the next big thing? Well, that dream ended in flames, and now the red planet is a scorched wasteland, a testament to our failures. So, while some of our bravest are trying to reach a new planet in another solar system, I can’t help but laugh bitterly. Space debris is everywhere, making it hard for anyone to navigate. It’s like trying to find your way through a junkyard blindfolded.
I think about how they used to dream of leaving Earth, of colonizing other worlds, all while ignoring the mess they made here. They thought they could just pack up and leave, but you can’t escape the consequences of your actions. I hear whispers about a new spacecraft that recently launched, carrying two brave souls in search of a new home. Part of me admires their courage, but another part is filled with doubt. “What if they just end up ruining another planet?” I think to myself.
As I prepare dinner, I catch a glimpse of my kids playing in our tiny living room, and I feel a flicker of hope. They laugh, inventing games out of nothing, creating a little joy in this grim existence. It reminds me that even in the darkest times, we can find ways to survive and thrive. “We may be underground,” I whisper to them as they run around, “but we’re still here. And as long as we’re alive, we have a chance to make things better.”
As the storm rages outside, I hold my kids close, reminding myself of the promise I made to them. “We will not forget,” I vow silently. “And we will fight for a better tomorrow.”
In this strange, dark world where hope feels like a distant memory, I cling to the belief that we can still create a future worth fighting for. One day, I dream of rising from the depths of this concrete cage, breathing in fresh air, feeling the warmth of the sun on our skin, and maybe, just maybe, restoring the beauty that was lost.
By Vishesh Kashyap
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