In science fiction writer Lavanya Lakshminarayan’s The Ten Percent Thief, shortlisted for the Arthur C Clarke Award 2024, a brutal meritocracy rules the world—one based on productivity and conformity A. former game designer, the 35-year-old author, who lives in Bengaluru, has had several short stories published in anthologies like The Best of World SF (Vol 2) and The Big Book of Cyberpunk. In this, her first novel (published in Asia as Analog/Virtual), Lakshminarayan takes corporate practices such as assessing human labour and contribution on a two-dimensional scale to its logical conclusion: a future where society itself is plotted on the notoriously problematic bell curve.
The technology-led dystopia, brought to life through a series of interconnected stories, feels urgent and real. In an interview with Lounge ahead of the announcement of the Arthur C Clarke Award on 24 July, the author talks about meritocracy, cultural conformism, and creating a richly imagined world. Edited excerpts:
Meritocracy is an outright terrible idea, but it’s a dangerously popular one, emerging as a driving force in any system shaped by technocapitalism. The idea of merit evokes the notion of a “fair” system, and it’s based on the assumption that reality is a level playing field. Nothing could be further from the truth; look at the blatant economic and social disparity in our country and across the world. Well, let’s imagine that we miraculously manage to level the playing field, implement social reparations until no disparities exist, and then implement a meritocracy to evaluate the worth of a human being based on their successes and failures. We come to a fundamental question: What counts as success? To define this is to give rise to a dominant ideology, and the worth of a human being to society is assessed along its parameters. Those who conform thrive, and those who do not, or cannot toe the line, are disadvantaged. I examine this in an extreme form in this novel, where value systems are set within a recognisable framework of technocapitalism. It doesn’t end well for anyone involved.
We’re always experiencing some form of thought-policing in the real world. It exists all around us, in varying degrees of harmfulness, attempting to bend our individual capacities for expression and identity towards an imposed version of what’s “acceptable”, often through violence. The horrifying shape vegetarianism is currently taking our country, often expressed militantly, is an expression of a dominant social group’s complete intolerance.
On the more trivial side, according to Twitter, it’s apparently impossible to be a feminist if you aren’t a Taylor Swift fan. Except, it’s not trivial to people who experience an entire fandom coming after them for expressing an honest personal opinion, is it? From extreme hate crimes to fandoms harassing people for differences of opinion, our ability to engage in dialogue from a place of empathy, instead of snap judgement and lashing out, is alarmingly non-existent.
My earliest idea of resistance was formed by Star Wars, and the romance of all its big ideas is still incredible. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that resistance can be expressed in a million ways. There’s violent oppression resulting in violent mutiny in Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Word for World is Forest. Her Earthsea series is a meditation on resisting the trappings of ultimate power. N.K. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy features resistance across a sweeping spectrum—from the personal to that which is larger than life. Samit Basu’s The City Inside, published in India as Chosen Spirits, examines resilience as a form of resistance. Then there’s the classic lone hacker taking down an entire system, which is a big theme in William Gibson’s work, or the coming together of the disenfranchised to challenge the powers that be, which China Miéville does so well. It’s a long list.
All of it. I think the overarching themes help me establish the shape that a work is going to take. They’re the mood board that determines my research, my characters’ belief systems and the large movements that shift the story forward. They ask all the big questions that I think are important concerns we’re facing as humanity today. The details are where I get to express playfulness; there’s an exuberance with which the specifics of any world I’m building pop up on the page, usually unexpectedly. Pop culture is a ton of fun to create—it’s inevitably based on everything I consume, and there are a ton of Easter eggs scattered all the way through this book.
I end up with folders filled with notes for anything that I write. The words on the page are a microcosm of the wider universe I’ve built in my head. The actual imagined realities of these worlds are far more expansive. It’s like peering up at the night sky—I know there’s an entire universe out there, and there are some star systems I’m fascinated by, so I use a telescope to zoom in and study them up close. All their details are mapped in my mind, and my readers catch a glimpse of them. And there are other star systems I’m content to leave alone, unless I need to study them to better understand the universe itself. Readers don’t need the encyclopaedia, though; they need star charts and a spaceship on autopilot. That’s what ends up on the page: everything I think a reader needs to know, in order to form meaning and understanding, for as long as they’re on board for the ride.
I loved being a game designer because it taught me how to frame the process of creating, almost de-romanticising it if you will. It’s really easy to get stuck in a rabbit hole of research and not-writing, day-dreaming and not committing to any decisions. I’ve learnt how to find balance, giving myself enough time to explore big ideas and distil their possibilities, while also trusting myself to make decisions that are right for the story. Then, my characters run off and do what they will on the page.
I’ve learnt to trust my compass, which gets easier the longer you do it. And that includes letting go—chasing perfectionism is running to stand still. With writing, I know I can let go when the only edits I make involve tinkering with synonyms.
It’s an incredible honour to be nominated for the Clarke Award, both as a woman and as a South Asian, and I think the intersection of these identities makes it all the more meaningful. Growing up, most of my reading was constrained by what was available in India, and it usually reflected white, male perspectives. It always felt like I was on the outside looking in at the infinite possibilities that the future held, except the future didn’t seem to include people like me. Anyone writing from a space that isn’t a traditional source of power brings a unique lens to science fiction. The more diverse the voices we have in science fiction, the healthier the genre. South Asia exists in multitudes, and no two South Asians express themselves the same way. What’s important is that we’re writing our versions of the future, and they’re being read and appreciated.
My next novel is set in the far-future, and is about the future of food. It's titledInterstellar MegaChef, and it examines the politics of food and its impact on culture. Culinary traditions are often seen to divide humanity, but the kitchens of the world can also bring us together, giving rise to new expressions of culture. It's a perspective on how food is a reflection of cultural dominance, but it's also an exploration of food as a source of joy.
