By Abhik Ganguly
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” blared from the speakers of the Museum precinct. Two sanitation workers, minding their own business, walked down the hallway. In front of them, stood a giant plasma screen. Flashing dots of electronic lights, with the label under it curiously marked as ‘Humans, Earth-616’.
The Ancient Antiquities of Maldamore was winding down for the evening, its holographic exhibits dimming as the automated systems prepared for closure. The older sanitation worker glanced at the young recruit, curiosity softening her weathered features. “How will you get home on your first day?” she asked. The younger worker replied with a confident smile, “I’ll catch the inverted monorail at six.” After a brief, awkward pause, she extended her hand and added, “I’m Zendo. How long have you been here?” Renda chuckled softly, her eyes reflecting years of memories etched into the museum’s hallways. “Thirty Maldamorian years,” she said, her face tinted with a bit of pride and weariness.
Both of them chit-chatted for a while before wrapping up. The twin suns of Glasterboros crept above the horizon, painting the cityscape of Maldamore in shades of lilac crimson and molten gold. Towers of crystallised ferroglass caught the light, scattering brilliant rainbows that danced across the airways. The High Council in a rare moment of unity had passed bill on universal healthcare six Maldamorian years ago. Since then, Maldamorians live up to 250 years of age, an extension of average lifespan by at least a hundred years. However, beneath such reforms the Maldamorians were stuck in a never-ending cycle of consumption and labour.
The colossal plasma display pulsed with unending streams of shifting dots—two distinct panels, one radiating red light, the other one radiating blue. The lights seemed busy – lost in their own dance, sometimes, drawing closer as if attracted to each other, only to repel because of an inherent tension. The museum had witnessed generations of visitors, young awestruck schoolchildren, astronauts delivering keynote addresses, and on non-busy days, couples strolling hand in hand lost in their own orbits.
Once while working, Zendo asked Renda, “What are these dots of lights flashing? Who were these aliens called hoomans?”
Renda burst out laughing and corrected her, “Humans! Those were humans, you didn’t hear stories about their extinction?”
A quite frightened Zendo shook her head. “Let’s head over to the canteen in break time.” Both of them sipped their herbal syrups.
Renda began her tale, her voice laced with a mix of fascination and disbelief. “There was once a planet called Earth—now designated Earth-616. Life once thrived there, or so the archives claim. It existed in a galaxy far removed from ours and was home to a species known as humans. Unlike our unified society, their planet was fractured—divided into countless races and ethnicities, perpetually at odds with one another. Greed consumed them,” she continued, her tone growing somber. “Can you imagine? Those so-called doctors of science say they exploited their own mother planet to the brink of ruin. They tore apart the very world that gave them life.”
“And…. what about those lights? What exactly do they mean?” a visibly shook Zendo asked. “Well, legend has it,” continued Renda, who felt like an academic don now, “that our astronauts reached about a Maldamorian millennia later after the Earth-616 had perished. The astronauts only found a couple of capsules with recordings in the dead parched lands which looked like as if it had bled a thousand times. Though I must admit, they found escape launch-sites too, so maybe some of those humans might have survived. Who knows?”
Zendo, shifting uneasily, asked, “So… what are those lights?”
Renda, her voice tinged with a mixture of pride and reverence, replied, “We couldn’t decipher their language, couldn’t comprehend their words. So, our scientists transmuted their essence into electronic lights, hoping that someday we might finally understand their message. Those lights are, in essence, the ‘After-Lives’ of those aliens—every memory, every fragment of pain, suffering, and joy, preserved and immortalised. They’ve achieved a kind of eternity, encoded in light. How many of us can claim to be that fortunate, don’t you think?”
The bell signaled the end of their break, and they returned to the endless cycle of what is often called ‘life.’
Abhik Ganguly is a poet, writer, and scholar-practitioner. He’s from Santiniketan, Bengal. Currently, he’s a Junior Research Fellow pursuing his PhD at the University of Delhi.
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