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Saraswati has measured three fingers of oil into the same brass lamp every morning for forty-one years. Three sectors away, her son does seven minutes of Reflective Practice that remembers nothing about him.

At six o’clock on a Tuesday, Latika Bhandari typed “A good day to be alive in Delhi” and marked it placeholder. It was received forty billion times. Nobody knows she wrote it.

At twenty-six, the Bureau gave Vikram and Meenal forty-one per cent, and he let her go. He married at ninety-one per cent. Fourteen years later, a dead woman’s file makes him sit for eleven extra seconds.

For eleven years Samar Varma did intake. Now he sits in a corridor of nine chairs behind a shuttered printing works, tells each patient how long the doctor will be, and then says nothing at all.