Lounge Fiction Special 2025: Heads or Tails by Zeyad Masroor Khan

Like his flatmates, Dilip worked as a delivery partner, the modern version of a cart-puller. The transportation company that hired him gave no medical insurance, notice period or increments. But Dilip wasn’t brave enough to protest. Since the arrival of self-driving delivery cars, the need for delivery partners like him has declined. If he lost this job, he’d have just one option: return to Madhurapur, his village in Begusarai, and become a construction worker. College dropouts like him had few choices at a time when even people with degrees worked as labourers.

His mother had named him Dilip Kumar as his smile reminded her of the Bollywood superstar. When she gave birth in 2005, Maa was obsessed with the coloured version of Mughal-e-Azam, which she saw over 50 times with his father. “My son will become a superstar like Dilip Kumar," she’d tell him. “There is no chance of that happening now," Dilip thought as he got ready for his day’s delivery—a 30kg sack of roasted cashews destined for a trader in Old Delhi’s Khari Baoli.

In the orange solar rickshaw, the driver was listening to the news. “The war has intensified. Nine Indian jawans were martyred in yesterday’s drone attack. It’s high time India launches an all-out offensive on Islamabad, and destroys this vile nation," Sakshat, the famous journalist, clad in military fatigues, shouted from a VFX studio. Dilip had followed the war for a few months, but then life’s endless sorrows stole his attention.

“Can you turn down the volume? This man is very irritating," Dilip requested the driver, and he complied, but not before saying, “He is the only journalist who speaks the truth. Over 6,000 of our soldiers have died. Pakistan should be taught a lesson." Dilip kept staring at two people jogging in gas masks on the footpath. War-mongering was the norm and it got on his nerves.

Dilip had never raised his hand to anyone. Even when he faced bullies, he’d stand there as if looking into their souls. “This Gandhi ki aulaad is no fun," they’d say, leaving him alone eventually. “Don’t ever raise your hand against anyone, son. Hinsa kills us inside," Maa had taught him, and Dilip was forever mama’s boy. “What would she say now?" he thought, swiping his card at the rickshaw’s payment machine, tying the sack on his back with three belts and walking into Govindpuri Metro station.

The Metro was almost empty. It was 7am on a cold Monday. Most people were sleeping after celebrating New Year’s Eve. It took the train 9 minutes to reach Chawri Bazar. Dilip was 10 minutes early, so he decided to wait and give his shoulders some relief. He saw a man come out of the elevator, waiting for the train.

This was the moment it happened. The apocalypse. A deafening explosion shattered the air as the world split in two. The Metro platform trembled. A deep, thunderous roar shook Dilip’s core, interrupted only by the hollow, rhythmic thuds of something heavy crashing. Then, silence. A suffocating, unnatural stillness, broken only by the shiver of the ground. The lights flickered once and then died. Nearby, buildings crumbled, their collapse like distant screams. And then he heard it. A sound so strange, so raw, it froze his breath. The earth was groaning.

“What is happening, bhaiya?" Dilip held the other man.

“We are under attack," the man replied as if in a trance.

Dilip pushed him under the escalator. As the ground shivered, Dilip flicked on his phone torch and looked at the man’s face, numb with fear: Sakshat, the war-mongering journalist the driver had been watching.

This doesn’t make sense, Dilip thought and sat with him. The two said nothing for minutes.

Sakshat was the first to regain composure. He took out a satellite phone from his bag. “I was right. It was a nuclear attack. What happened to our automated defence system?" he said, as if to himself.

“Probably an old building fell nearby and you are making a big fuss," Dilip said and ran up the stairs.

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Five minutes later, he returned, silent. “We are trapped under the rubble," he told Sakshat.

“If we are buried under two storeys of rubble, we are somewhat safe from radiation," Sakshat said. Dilip didn’t hear him. For the next hour, he kept walking inside the premises, staring into nothingness.

Sakshat’s voice brought him back to reality: “I have one water bottle. I can survive on it for a day or two."

“I have one too, and a sackful of cashews whose recipient is likely dead," Dilip replied, awakened from his grief.

“Cashews? That’s terrific. If you share them with me, I can reach out to my government contacts to get us both out to safety."

“Isn’t everyone dead?" Dilip said.

“Only the leaders who attended the Parliament session. Many didn’t." This seemed to make Sakshat angry. “If we don’t order an all-out attack on Pakistan even now, we are just sitting ducks," he said.

“You know, I saw your show once or twice. You are an educated man. Why do you promote violence? Aren’t you also responsible for the mess we are in?"

Sakshat stepped back a bit. “You are saying this after our Capital has been attacked. Are you a Muslim?"

“My name is Dilip Kumar. And I know that violence doesn’t solve anything. My mother taught me this."

“Your mother didn’t know shit."

“What?"

“War is a necessity in the modern age. It’s only during wars most human innovations take place. The global order is like a jungle. If you don’t take out your enemies at the right time, they will do the same to you. Non-violence looks good only in books."

“Violence always leads to more violence. Those who live by the sword die by the sword."

“If you don’t keep a sword, you will die sooner. By the way, what do you do?"

“I am a delivery partner."

“Why am I even arguing with you? Anyway, I want to inspect the premises to see if I can find something useful. You want to come along?"

“I want to be alone," Dilip replied, his thoughts drifting to his home. Maa would be worried. I wish I could call her.

Sakshat came back an hour later. “I figured out the water supply. A water cooler and toilet for the staff. If we fill our bottles once a day, it might last us a month. Don’t use the toilet water though. It might be contaminated. Use tissue paper."

“Thank you. Can I use your phone to call home?"

“All calling has been banned. We can only use the internet," Sakshat replied.

After a few hours of following the news, both slept. The next morning, Sakshat’s satellite phone chirped to life, giving him reason to celebrate amid the gloom. “We launched nuclear attacks on Pakistan yesterday. Half of the that vile country was destroyed. The rest surrendered and became part of the Indian Union. We have annihilated our arch-rivals."

“What was the casualty on their side?"

“Not sure, but close to 5 million."

“How many people died on our side?"

“Around 3 lakhs. It was a one-megaton bomb that was dropped on Delhi. Central Delhi was levelled, but the radiation has made the city uninhabitable."

“Do you think ours was a proportionate response?"

“You are worried about enemies? Are you an anti-national, a namak haraam?

“Be careful with your words. You live on my cashews right now."

The two didn’t talk for three days, but saw each other for their morning cashew-eating ritual. On the fourth day, Sakshat broke the ice. “There is good news. We are mobilising emergency teams. Most UN countries are sending help," he announced. “They are locating and rescuing survivors trapped in Delhi. However, the PM also warned that the situation is dire."

Dilip listened, the glimmer of hope in Sakshat’s words tempered by their reality. “How long will it take for them to rescue us?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Sakshat shook his head. “I can’t say for certain. I am pulling all the strings so we are among the first. But in all likelihood, we may have to fend for ourselves for a while."

The two men fell silent once more. Dilip felt a sense of resignation creeping in, so he devised a way to fight it. “Do you want to play Heads or Tails to kill time?" he said.

“Heads or Tails?"

“When I was a kid, we couldn’t afford costly games. So, Maa and I used to spend hours playing Heads or Tails. And I happen to have a coin with me," said Dilip.

“You can’t defeat me in an argument, so you want to do that in a game? Okay. We have all the time," Sakshat replied. They played until morning. Sakshat told Dilip about his family in Canada. His father ran an automobile business there.

It had been a week since they had seen the sun. Every morning, they ate a handful of cashews. Sakshat often ate more than his ration, but Dilip didn’t protest—he was his only chance of escaping this hell. He thought of his mother every day.

The next week also passed in endless rounds of Heads or Tails. Sakshat had used an emergency genset to charge his satellite phone. He was going to plug it in when the notification came.

“The nuclear strike wasn’t ordered by the Pakistan Army. It was AIFP."

Dilip neither knew nor cared about AIFP, but it had been a whispered secret in tech circles. In 2025, a group of peace-oriented programmers developed AI For Peace (AIFP), a self-adaptive AI designed to bring nuclear disarmament. It functioned like a virus, capable of infiltrating defence systems and identifying their vulnerabilities. In 2031, however, the code fell into the hands of anarchist hackers on the dark web. They reverse-engineered it for human annihilation. The altered AI began exploiting the vulnerabilities of defence systems with the aim of a global nuclear holocaust. Nobody knew how powerful the world’s first “AI terrorist" was until the catastrophe of 1 January 2035.

“So we wiped out a country’s population for nothing? How does that make you feel," Dilip asked a deflated Sakshat.

“I don’t care. At some point, we had to punish them. Also, it was their responsibility to make their systems safe, not ours."

They didn’t talk for the next week. But they still played Heads or Tails. There was nothing else to do. The news remained distressing. Though India had been able to manage the radiation around Delhi, the radiation from Pakistan spilled over. Major rivers had become contaminated, leading to widespread disease and famine in western India.

A week later, rising temperatures had begun melting the Himalaya, leading to floods in eastern India. Over 30 million people died of diseases. Nearly all of north India became uninhabitable.

The mood in Chawri Bazar Metro station was dark. Sakshat and Dilip still played Heads or Tails. Sakshat continued to supply the news to Dilip. “India has declared Bangalore its new capital and moved the survivors from the north to camps in Kanyakumari. We may also be taken there," he said one day.

Dilip still hoped his village was safe, and Maa would be waiting for him. She had to.

A week later they heard a rescue team would come for them in three days. “They will seal the surroundings to contain the radiation, burrow a hole in the rubble, and ferry us to a safe zone in a specially designed helicopter," Sakshat told Dilip. The two celebrated by eating more cashews than usual.

The day came in a jiffy. That morning, Dilip took a bath in the toilet, ignoring Sakshat’s warnings that the water could be contaminated. He deemed some risks worth taking for the sensation of water droplets on his body. As he put on his clothes and combed his hair, he heard drilling sounds. “They have arrived, my friend," Sakshat’s grinning face announced. “We will have real food today."

Eight hours later, they saw a man in an astronaut-like suit lower himself through the hole. He threw a bag towards them. It had two more suits. “Let’s bid goodbye to this home, Dilip Kumar. Weren’t you lucky to be trapped with me? They wouldn’t have put in this much effort if you were trapped alone," Sakshat said as they put on the suits. Dilip took a last look at the Metro premises and clipped his suit to a pulley that would take them up.

It was evening in Delhi. Their eyes, which hadn’t seen sunlight for two months, were blinded for a few minutes. The rescue team carried them to the helicopter. It was only when it began to take off that Dilip could open his eyes.

On top of the rubble, he could see a half limb with a red sandal, lying amid a jumble of body parts. I hope it was swift, he thought. The helicopter rose further and he could see what looked like a monument. “That’s Red Fort," the pilot pointed. He saw the ruins of buildings, homes, schools, hospitals, malls, bungalows of politicians and shanties of the poor. So many dead. “That’s Humayun’s Tomb," Sakshat pointed out a minute later.

What have we done? Dilip thought. Finally, gathering courage, he asked the pilot. “Can you please check what happened to Madhurapur village in Begusarai?" The man turned on a black device. A minute later, he said: “Madhurapur was destroyed in a flash flood of the Ganga eight days ago. There were no survivors."

“I am sorry to hear about your loss, my friend," Sakshat said in a low voice, but Dilip was lost. He was staring at the sun, eclipsed by ash clouds. The sky was crimson. Delhi looked like a wasteland where life hadn’t existed for centuries.

Suddenly Sakshat leaned closer. “I know you are hurting but try to see the bigger picture. Winning this war was worth any price. All of us need to make small sacrifices for larger goals," Sakshat said, his voice cutting through the layers of protective suits, louder than it needed to be.

Sacrifices. Small ones. The words rang in Dilip’s head and a violent rage began to build. All the rage he had suppressed through the years—beaten up at school, exploited at work. How dare men like you play God? Dilip raged, his world narrowing to Sakshat’s face. Sacrifices?

Their eyes met for a heartbeat before he lunged forward, grabbing Sakshat by his suit. In a split second, he slid open the chopper door and flung him into the air. As the rescuers wrestled him back, Dilip watched Sakshat’s body fall into the abyss, dissolving into the debris of what had once been Delhi.

Zeyad Masroor Khan is a freelance journalist and author of City on Fire: A Boyhood in Aligarh.

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