Chapter 1: The Lab and the Temptation

“Beta, for these three months, just observe and take notes. No experiments, samjha? Don’t touch anything unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

The advisor’s voice had that familiar sternness—the one reserved for first-years who’d been caught playing cricket in the corridor. My seniors, bags dangling from tired shoulders, swapped a few meaningful glances, all itching to flee the stuffy computer lab. Before leaving, they each tossed a warning my way, their words sticking to me like leftover exam anxiety.

With that, the advisor and my seniors filed out. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, mingling with the clang of a peon’s steel tumbler and the slam of the main door. The lab finally fell silent. The overhead tube light hummed gently, casting its tired glow. The ceiling fan’s low whirr was a comfort against the muggy summer air. From a distant window, I caught the faintest whiff of hot samosas wafting up from the canteen, and, just barely, the commentary of a cricket match drifting from a security guard’s radio.

Settling in, I sat with one leg tucked under me—just like I always did during late-night study marathons—pulled out my textbooks and a pile of xeroxed notes, and started revising for the upcoming semester. My bag was stuffed with last-minute tips, MCQ hints scribbled by friends, and handouts from generous seniors. I tried to focus on formulas, but my mind kept wandering. The wall clock’s ticking matched the slow pulse of the campus outside, where the canteen boys were probably shutting down the samosa counter for the night.

After an hour, I stretched and let my eyes drift to the glowing monitor where the virtual world’s simulation ran. Curiosity tugged at me—I got up and pulled the display onto the main screen.

My back cracked as I stood. I rubbed my eyes, still tasting the dregs of chai from my battered thermos. The monitor’s blue light made the whole room feel like a movie set. The mouse was warm from so many hands. The CPU’s steady hum reminded me of the old family fridge—comforting, always there.

I hadn’t really contributed much to this project. While others coded and debugged, I mostly watched from the sidelines, distracted by assignments and relentless family WhatsApp pings. Still, seeing the city inside the screen now gave me a weird thrill.

The simulation showed a bustling city, CCTV-style, as if I were a ghost hopping from camera to camera. The details were uncannily Indian—tower blocks with faded paint, water tanks perched on rooftops, autos squeezing through lanes, a cricket match on a dusty plot, aunties bargaining with a sabziwala under a neem tree. Even without sound, the visuals felt alive—like watching security footage of a home you’d left behind.

Despite knowing what to expect, I was awed again by the city’s realism: high-rise apartments, a maze of cars on tangled flyovers, gulmohar trees splashing red in city parks. I zoomed in, drawn to the heart of it all—the virtual people.

The world was textured like a good Hindi novel: kids chasing a punctured football, an uncle in a mundu yelling into his phone, a woman with razor-sharp sari pleats waiting for the bus. Even the pigeons squabbling over crumbs seemed to have their own stories. I grinned, thinking of the mornings in my own colony—how they’d somehow seeped into this digital city.

Thanks to the heavy-duty computing, every virtual person had a full history and inner life. I could access their memories, dreams, street fights, school crushes—even the day someone lost a slipper in the rain and had to limp home, muttering curses. It was as detailed as my mother’s memory for embarrassing childhood stories.

The monitor’s glow caught my face. For a second, I felt like a mischievous god, peering into the secrets of every soul. My reflection in the glass looked a bit too pleased. I remembered those Amar Chitra Katha tales—gods peeking down from the clouds, eyes sparkling with mischief. For a moment, I was one of them—remote, invisible, all-seeing.

A rush of possessiveness surged in me. The world inside the screen felt like the best toy ever—a thing to play with, maybe even break if I wanted. My heart beat faster. I remembered the time I’d tried (and failed) to hack my school’s grade system, and the reckless thrill that came with it. Wasn’t this better than sneaking an extra gulab jamun at a wedding?

I forced myself to turn away, diving back into my notes, but the sense of power made it impossible to focus. The old-textbook smell—ink, dust, a hint of correction fluid—offered no comfort. I tapped my pen, restless, the night suddenly too quiet, as if waiting for me to break a rule.

Maybe I could just… interact with the world, a little bit.

I glanced up at the CCTV camera above the door, half-expecting it to blink at me. But the department was empty—everyone off at a conference in Germany. The chowkidar outside was probably finishing his dal-chawal. I couldn’t help grinning at the thrill of doing something forbidden.

The advisor and my seniors are always too cautious. What’s the point of just watching?

My cousin in Hyderabad always said, “Risk lene ka maza hi alag hai.” What was there to lose? It’s all just code.

That’s how I justified it. After all, I could back up the whole thing anytime. If anything went wrong, I’d just reload the backup. Like bursting all the Diwali crackers you wanted, knowing someone else would clean up the mess. No real consequences—just endless chances to play god.

As if nothing ever happened.

I laughed softly. Isn’t that every IT guy’s dream? Ctrl+Z for life. The screen’s glow flickered as I opened a new backup folder, WhatsApp group pings and a meme notification popping up in the corner as I worked, grounding me in my own digital chaos.

With everything ready, I stood up, connected my laptop, made the backup, and opened the simulation. Randomly, I picked a virtual person: Rohan. I locked onto his code, tunneled into his phone, and sent a WhatsApp message:

“Hello, I am an all-knowing, all-powerful god. Do you have anything you want to ask?”

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, adrenaline buzzing. Sending that first message felt like flicking the first domino. I pictured Rohan’s startled face, chai halfway to his lips, eyes wide. I grinned, biting back a giggle—just like those prank calls we used to make as kids, only now, the stakes were cosmic.

For a second, I felt like Mogambo, only with better WiFi. The sense of power was delicious.

If only there was a thunderclap or some over-the-top filmi background music. I felt a little silly, but the thrill was real—like delivering a hero’s dialogue at a movie climax.

I sat with one leg tucked under me, like every exam-night study session, right in front of the simulation. The monitor’s light bounced off the dusty notice board, where “Exam postponed” was scrawled in red. I was ready—like a kid at a magic show, waiting for the trick.

I wanted to see what kind of ripple my words would cause in this virtual world. Somewhere in that city, a phone buzzed—and the game truly began.