Welcome to the Technocratic Republic of India

There are many ways to travel across a collapsing world.

Some choose trains. Others take boats.

And a rare, unlucky few… get stuffed into the floor of a caravan with questionable legality and a parrot who smells like regret.

Let me paint the scene for you. Three fugitives of grammar, wedged together in a space designed for smuggling either luggage or cheese—not humans. There was no light. There was no airflow. And there was definitely no personal space.

Someone’s elbow was in someone else’s ribs. Someone's leg was somehow behind someone's head. There were sacks that growled. There was a parrot that kept muttering, “You're gonna die in here,” like a budget horror narrator with feathers.

Thankfully, I had the good sense (and the omniscient instinct) to climb on top of the caravan, where the air was fresh, the view was cinematic, and the elbow-to-face ratio was considerably lower.

Below me, however?

Chaos.

It was the kind of cramped, sweaty nightmare that builds character. Or breaks friendships. One of the two.

And me?

I sat on top, legs crossed, notepad in hand, enjoying the breeze and documenting the descent into madness like a grammatically accurate war correspondent.

Because this wasn’t just travel.

This was transportation at its worst—and storytelling at its absolute best.

Next stop: India.

A new land.

A new culture.

And hopefully, a new shower.

So buckle up—assuming you even can in this sardine can of suffering.

Because the next part of this story is rolling toward India.

One parrot insult at a time.

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“GET YOUR ELBOW OUT OF MY NECK!”

“That’s not my elbow!” Sota shrieked.

A beat of silence.

“…What is it then?” Kaito asked, horrified.

Hana groaned from her corner of the cramped smuggling compartment. “If either of you breathes on me one more time, I will commit violence using this parrot.”

“You’d have to find the parrot first,” Kaito muttered. “I think it’s nesting in my hoodie.”

“Regret,” the parrot croaked helpfully.

The space was barely big enough for one person, let alone three. They were crammed in like malfunctioning Tetris pieces—knees bent at unnatural angles, limbs tangled like discount origami. The air smelled like onions, goat sweat, and bad decisions.

Sota whimpered. “My foot’s asleep. Actually, I think it’s dead. I’m going to have to bury it.”

“You’re going to bury your foot?” Kaito asked.

“SHH!” Hana snapped. “We’re stopping.”

The caravan jerked, tilted, and eventually rolled to a stop with the elegance of a drunk shopping cart. Outside, muffled voices in Hindi and the occasional goat bleat.

The flap above them creaked open.

Bright sunlight stabbed them in the face like a judgmental flashlight.

“Welcome to India,” the driver said cheerfully.

They climbed out slowly, one by one, like prisoners released from a cargo hold designed by IKEA.

Kaito squinted. “Huh.”

Sota rubbed his eyes. “That can’t be right.”

Because in front of them wasn’t chaos.

It was peace.

The air smelled like flowers.

The streets sparkled. Literally sparkled. Like someone had hired a full-time glitter crew and given them too much budget.

Drones flew overhead watering rooftop gardens. Public benches auto-adjusted based on posture. People moved with purpose—but calmly. Smiling. Organized. Happy.

No yelling. No honking. No wild animals attempting to unionize.

“Are we… dead?” Sota asked.

“No,” Hana said, narrowing her eyes. “We’re just in a functioning society.”

A man in a silver vest approached them, holding a tablet and a warm smile. “Welcome to the Technocratic Republic of India. Do you require translation, hydration, or emotional support?”

“…All three,” Kaito muttered. "I never imagined India to look like...this."

"Yes, we fixed it," the man said.

Sota blinked. “Wait. How?”

The man just smiled. “We stopped making YouTube tutorials.”

“…Okay?”

“And started applying them.”

Pause.

“Oh no,” Sota whispered. “They’re what happens when a country actually does the DIY.”

Kaito looked around again. “So they just… fixed everything?”

Hana sipped the water. “Guess so.”

“By doing stuff?”

“Yes,” the man said smiling.

Kaito stared into the middle distance, broken. “Oh my god. It was that easy the whole time.”

The parrot fluttered out of the caravan behind them and landed on Sota’s shoulder.

“You still gonna die,” it said.

Sota sighed. “Of course.”

“Apologies for the interruption.”

They turned to see a sharply dressed man in his twenties, wearing an ID badge labeled Rajan – Logistics & Guest Relations, Mumbai City-State. His hair was perfect. His voice was smoother than the recycled marble path he stood on.

“You must be Kaito, right?”

Kaito held up his hands cautiously. “Allegedly.”

Rajan gave a light chuckle. “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble. Quite the opposite.”

The man in the silver vest froze.

“Oh. Rajan. I didn’t realize you’d be here. I, uh, have… a thing. A local… ceremony. Grass inspection. Goodbye!”

He spun on his heel and bolted down the glittering path like a man being chased by consequences.

Kaito turned to Rajan. “Was that weird, or am I just paranoid?”

“Both are valid,” Rajan watched him go with mild amusement, then turned back to the trio.

“Apologies again. People tend to panic when I show up. Occupational hazard.”

“What occupation is that?” Hana asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I organize logistics for foreign dignitaries. And… uninvited anomalies.” He smiled.

“Are we the anomalies?” Sota asked.

Rajan didn’t answer. Instead, he tapped his badge, then looked up at the group.

“There is a United Nations official currently stationed in Mumbai. He was sent as part of a last-ditch linguistic diplomacy mission—whatever that means—and he’s very eager to speak with the ‘Duo Killer.’”

“Allegedly,” Kaito repeated.

“Of course,” Rajan said smoothly. “Allegedly.”

He turned to lead them away, but just as he did, something strange happened.

He paused.

Glanced slightly over his shoulder.

And looked directly at me.

“And I’m sure we can find somewhere to accommodate you as well, Mister…”

The sentence hung there like a loaded question.

I blinked.

Wait. Me?

I quickly snapped my notebook shut and ducked slightly behind the decorative ficus next to the caravan.

“Uh. Yes. Thank you,” I coughed. “Name’s… uh… Jeffrey. Jeffrey Paragraph.”

Rajan’s smile didn’t change, but his eyes twinkled with something far too aware.

“Of course it is.”

Then he turned back to the others like nothing had happened.

The group didn’t notice. They were already asking about food.

But me?

I stood very still.

Because someone had seen me.

And I didn’t know if that was exciting…

…or terrifying.