Welcome to the speculative fiction of the academic world — a world where the imagination is not about new galaxies or time travel, but about creative ways to multiply numbers, inflate visibility, and outsmart metrics. In this alternate universe — which looks suspiciously like our own — scholars are not driven by curiosity alone, but by citation counts, h-indexes, and the haunting whisper of publish or perish.
When the Academic Performance Index (API) was first introduced, it promised to reward merit and transparency in higher education. But like every system designed to measure excellence, it soon began to manufacture it. In the pre-API age, teachers were scholars in the truest sense — passionate learners who read voraciously, taught with conviction, and never needed numerical validation to feel accomplished. They were moved by knowledge, not metrics; their classrooms were laboratories of thought, not arenas of performance.
That era, however, has quietly faded into the past. What we have now is a neoliberal version of academia where impact factor matters more than impact itself, and where the true scholar risks invisibility for refusing to play the game.
Still, amid this data-driven chaos, one finds moments of humour, irony, and even dark creativity — like the story I’m about to tell.
It’s not a dystopia.
It’s not a fantasy.
It’s a speculative fiction written in the language of academic life itself — one that unfolds in a future not too far from our own.
Publish or perish — that’s the mantra echoing through modern academia. Numbers are the new currency; visibility the new validation.
And everyone, it seems, has found their own magic formula to stay afloat.
When the Academic Performance Index (API) was introduced to ensure quality and accountability, it was meant to reward excellence. Yet, somewhere along the way, the spirit of scholarship got replaced by the arithmetic of achievement.
There was a time — not too long ago — when teachers didn’t need metrics to measure merit. They were true-blue scholars, lifelong learners who chased ideas, not impact factors. They read because they loved to know, and they taught because knowledge was too precious not to share.
No student feedback form dictated their enthusiasm; the mere presence of an attentive class was reward enough.
But that world is gone — quietly buried under digital dashboards and citation counts. The scholars of the pre-API era, with little online footprint, risk fading into the margins of institutional memory. And yet, they were the ones who built the foundations on which today’s "performative academia" rests.
Still, all is not lost. There remain genuine scholars — the kind who remind us that learning, even today, can be an act of love, not strategy.
Now, let me tell you a story.
A story that could easily be fiction — or too close to truth for comfort.
The Tale of X
Once upon a time, there was a scholar — let’s call this person X. X was always in motion — chasing deadlines, polishing papers, and perfecting introductions that mattered more than conclusions. In the world of “publish or perish,” X was surviving beautifully — perhaps even thriving.
Then came an opportunity. A periodical, let’s call it ABC, invited X to be a part of it.
Naturally, X accepted.
But X was generous too — why not bring along a few friends?
Friends who could, in return, be useful allies in the grand game of academic arithmetic.
So together, they curated an issue that read less like a dialogue and more like a carefully orchestrated chorus of mutual admiration.
That was in the year 2100.
Fast forward a few years.
A prestigious publisher — we’ll call it LMN — approached X to propose a book.
At the same time, a corporate firm (PQR) granted X funding for a new project.
The timing was perfect.
Funding to do research, and a publisher waiting for the outcome — what could be better?
But there was one small issue.
PQR wanted results within a year. LMN wanted a manuscript just as fast.
No problem for X — a mind full of solutions.
Why not take the articles already published in ABC, tweak them a little, and republish them as a “new” book under LMN?
Sure, they were old papers, but who was keeping track?
There was only one technical hitch:
the periodical was from 2100, while the funding and the book deal were from 2105.
How could 2100 research become the product of 2105 funding?
Simple.
In the acknowledgements, X would mention the volume number of the periodical — but conveniently leave out the year.
After all, who checks references so closely anymore?
LMN agreed — after all, X was footing the bill through the research grant.
And thus, in 2105, a “new” book was born — built mostly out of recycled articles from 2100.
A perfect circle of production.
X gained recognition, LMN made profit, and PQR lost money — though it didn’t even know it.
The Moral (if there is one)
This is not just a story about one scholar.
It’s a parable for our times — when the measure of merit is not depth, but data.
When originality takes a backseat to output.
When knowledge becomes just another commodity in the marketplace of metrics.
We may never return to the quiet scholarship of the pre-API age — but perhaps we can still remember it.
Because somewhere beneath the graphs and Google Scholar pages,
the true pulse of academia still beats —
quietly, steadily, in the minds that seek truth, not trends.
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