3 Rays, page 32
Saunders shook off his wonder and said, ‘There isn’t a single insect around—which is most surprising.’
The four of us were advancing when we suddenly found ourselves up against an obstacle. For the first time we were faced with an object on the ground which was not a species of flora. A twelve-foot-high boulder, bluish green in colour, obstructed our path. How far it stretched on either side was hard to tell. Kroll suddenly gave a mighty leap which took him soaring and landed him gently on top of the boulder. And then something wholly unexpected happened; the boulder heaved, and then started to move to our left. Kroll too was being borne along with it when he suddenly yelled out, ‘My God, it’s a dragon!’
Yes, it was a dragon. One of its legs was now passing in front of us. Meanwhile Kroll had jumped off the back of the beast and had joined us. We stared in amazement at what was visible to us of the giant beast. It took it nearly three minutes to pass by us swishing its huge scaly tail, and disappear behind the dense foliage. The smoke which now hung over the forest must have come from the nostrils of the beast.
Saunders had sat down on the grass and was holding his head in his hands. He said, ‘I feel like an uneducated boor up against these strange creatures in these unfamiliar surroundings, Shonku.’
I said, ‘But I like it. I’m glad to discover that there are still surprises left even for learned men like us in this planet of ours.’
I have lost count of the wonderful things we saw in the next hour of our expedition. We have watched a Phoenix consumed by flames, and a new Phoenix rising from its ashes and flying off towards the sun. We have seen the Gryphon, the Simurgh of Persian legends, the Anka of the Arabs, the Nork of the Russians, and the Feng and the Kirne of the Japanese. Among lizards we have seen the Basilisk whose unblinking stare can reduce anything to ashes, and we have seen the Salamander which is proof against fire and which, as if to prove the truth of the legend, was again and again passing through flames and emerging unscathed. We have also seen a four-tusked elephant which could only be Oiravat, the mount of the Indian god Indra. The stately pachyderm stood eating the leaves of a tree whose dazzling brilliance could only mean that it was the celestial tree Parijat of our mythology.
But Dung-lung-do is not just a forest of gorgeous trees. We had proceeded a mile or so along the northern wall when we were suddenly confronted with an open country bereft of vegetation. Before us were enormous boulders with caves in them from which emerged blood-curdling roars and snarls. We realized we had come to the region of legendary demons and rakshasas, a common feature of fairy tales of all nations. Emboldened by the fact that none of the creatures paid the slightest attention to us, I was debating whether to enter the caves or not when a frenzied, high-pitched cry made us all turn to our left.
‘Unicorns! Unicorns! Unicorns!’
It was Markham, and his voice was coming from behind a large boulder.
‘Has he been taking cocaine again?’ asked Kroll.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, advancing towards the boulder. As I crossed it, a unique sight nearly stopped my heartbeat.
A big herd of animals, both adult and young, was passing in front of us. Each looked like a cross between a cow and a horse, was pinkish grey in colour, and had a single spiral horn on its forehead. I realized that they were what launched us on our expedition. They were unquestionably unicorns, Pliny’s unicorns, the unicorn of western mythology, the unicorn on the seals of Mohenjo Daro.
Not all the animals were on the move. Some stood chewing grass, some frisked about, while others playfully butted each other with their horns. Like Willard, we too were watching the scene in full possession of our senses.
But where was Markham?
The question had just crossed my mind when we saw a strange sight. Markham had emerged from the herd of unicorns and was running towards the wall behind us. But he was not alone; he was grasping with both hands a unicorn cub.
Saunders cried out, ‘Stop that scoundrel! Stop him!’
‘Put your boots on! Put your boots on!’ screamed Kroll. He had started running after Markham. We too followed him leaping.
If the warning had reached Markham in time, perhaps he wouldn’t have acted the way he did. Running up the grass slope Markham gave a leap as he reached the wall and dropped out of sight behind it.
Later we learnt from Rabsang that as soon as he saw Markham jump over the wall, he had run towards him. But there was nothing for him to do. The two-hundred-foot fall had crushed all the bones in his body. When we asked about the unicorn, he shook his head and said he had only found Markham’s body; there was no unicorn cub with him.
My conclusions about Dung-lung-do have found favour with both Kroll and Saunders. My feeling is that if a great many people believe in an imaginary creature over a great length of time, the sheer force of that belief may bring to life that creature with all the characteristics human imagination has endowed it with. Dung-lung-do was a repository of such imaginary creatures. Perhaps it was the only place of its kind on earth. To try to bring anything from Dung-lung-do into the world of reality was futile, which is why the unicorn vanished as soon as Markham crossed the limits of the world of fantasy.
The mute lama’s saying yes and no almost in the same breath now bears a clear meaning; the unicorn exists, though not in reality. But the lama was wrong when he said no to the question of flight. Perhaps he didn’t know about the manuscript.
Mr Majumder said at the end of our discussion. ‘So there is nothing for us to show when we get back home?’
I said, ‘I’m afraid not. Because I doubt if Kroll’s photographs will come out, and our boots won’t help us to fly, because the manuscript says that ngmung melts in the heat of the plains.’
Mr Majumder sighed. Now I played my trump card. ‘Have you realized that we are going back younger by about twenty years?’
‘How’s that?’
I wiped the snowflakes off my beard and moustache.
‘Why, they’re black again!’ exclaimed Mr Majumder.
‘So is your moustache,’ I said. ‘Look in the mirror.’
At this point Saunders came in. He looked younger too and a weak tooth of his had become stronger again. He heaved a deep sigh of relief.
‘Nomads, not robbers,’ he said. ‘Thank God!’
I can hear the sound of horses’ hooves, and the barking of dogs, and the shouting of men, women and children. The cloud has lifted and the sun shines again.
Om Mani Padme Hum!
TELLUS
Originally published in Anandamela (Puja Annual 1978) as Compu. It was translated by the author himself to be part of the compilation titled Stories (Secker & Warburg, 1987). The illustrations in the story are by Satyajit Ray.
12 MARCH
OSAKA
There was a demonstration of Tellus today in the presence of more than three hundred scientists and a hundred journalists from all over the world. Tellus was placed on a three-foot-high pedestal of transparent pellucidite on the stage of the hall of the Namura Technological Institute. When two of the workers of the Institute came in carrying the smooth, elegant platinum sphere, the hall echoed with spontaneous applause. That an apparatus which can answer a million questions should be only as large as a football, weigh forty-two kilos and bear no resemblance to a machine, came as a complete surprise to the audience. The fact is, in this age of microminiaturisation, no instrument, however complicated, need be very large. Fifty years ago, in the age of cabinet radios, could anyone have imagined that one would one day be watching television programmes on one’s wrist watch?
There is no doubt that Tellus is a triumph of modern technology. But it is also true that in the making of intricate instruments, man comes nowhere near nature yet. The machine we have constructed contains ten million circuits. The human brain is one fourth the size of Tellus, and contains about one hundred million neurons. This alone indicates how intricate is its construction.
Let me make it clear that our computer is incapable of mathematical calculations. Its job is to answer questions which would normally require a person to consult an encyclopedia. Another unique feature of the computer is that it gives its answers orally in English, in a clear, bell-like tone. The first question has to be preceded with the words ‘Tell us’, which activate the instrument and which gives it its name. At the end the words ‘Thank you’ turn it off. The battery, whose life is one hundred and twenty hours is of a special kind, and is housed in a chamber inside the sphere. There are two hundred minute holes on the surface of the sphere covering an area of one square inch; these allow the questions to enter and the answers to come out. The questions have to be of a nature which call for short answers. For instance, although the delegates were briefed before today’s demonstration, a journalist from the Philippines asked the instrument to talk about ancient Chinese civilization. Naturally no answer came out. And yet when the same journalist asked about certain specific aspects of specific Chinese civilizations, the instrument astonished everyone by answering instantly and precisely.
Tellus can not only supply information, but is also capable of reasoning logically. The biologist Doctor Solomon from Nigeria asked the instrument whether it would be safer to keep a young baboon before a hungry deer or a hungry chimpanzee. Tellus answered in a flash! ‘A hungry deer’. ‘Why?’ asked Doctor Solomon. Came the answer in a sharp, ringing voice: ‘Because the chimpanzee is carnivorous.’ This is a fact which has only recently come to light; even ten years ago everyone thought that monkeys and apes of all species were vegetarian.
Besides these, Tellus is able to take part in games of bridge and chess, point out a false note or a false beat in music, identify ragas, name a painter from a verbal description of one of his paintings, prescribe medicines and diets for particular kinds of ailments, and even indicate the chances of survival from the description of a patient’s condition.
What Tellus lacks are abilities to think and feel, and supernatural powers. When Professor Maxwell of Sydney University asked it if a man would still be reading books a hundred years from now, Tellus was silent because prognostication is beyond it. In spite of these deficiencies, Tellus surpasses human beings in one respect: the information fed into its brain suffers no decay. The most brilliant of men often suffer from a loss of faculties with age. Even I, only the other day in Giridih, found myself addressing my servant Prahlad as Prayag. This is the kind of mistake which Tellus will never make. So, in a way, although it is a creation of human beings, it is more dependable than man.
The original idea for the instrument came from the famous Japanese scientist Matsue, one of the great names in electronics. The Japanese Government approved of his scheme and agreed to bear the expenses of constructing it. The technicians of the Namura Institute put in seven years of hard labour to construct Tellus. In the fourth year, just before the preliminary work was over, Matsue invited seven scientists from five continents to help feed information into the computer. Needless to say, I was one of the seven. The other six were: Doctor John Kensley of Britain, Doctor Stephen Merrivale of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Doctor Stassof of USSR, Professor Stratton of Melbourne, Doctor Ugati of West Africa, and Professor Kuttna of Hungary. Of these, Merrivale died of a heart attack three days before leaving for Japan. He was replaced by Professor Marcus Wingfield from the same MIT. Some of these scientists have stayed the full stretch of three years as guests of the Japanese Government. Others, such as myself, have come for short stretches at regular intervals. I have been here eleven times in the last three years.
I should like to mention an extraordinary event. The day before yesterday, on March the tenth, there was a solar eclipse. Japan fell in the zone of totality. Because it was a special day, we had already decided to finish our work before the tenth. We thought we had done so on the eighth of March when we discovered that no speech was coming out of the machine. The sphere was built so that it could be taken apart down the middle. We did that. Now we had to find out which of the ten million circuits was at fault.
We searched for two days and two nights. On the tenth, just as the eclipse was about to begin—at 1.37 p.m. in the afternoon—a high-pitched whistle issued from Tellus’ speaker. This indicated that the fault had been repaired. We heaved a sigh of relief and went out to watch the eclipse. I wondered if there was any significance in the fact that the beginning of the eclipse coincided exactly with the coming to life of the instrument.
Tellus has been kept in the Institute. A special room has been built for it to keep it under controlled temperature. The room is a most elegant one. Tellus rests on the concave surface of the pellucidite pedestal in the middle of one side of the room against the wall. On the ceiling is a hole through which a concealed light sends a powerful beam to illuminate the sphere. The light is kept on all the time. Because Tellus is a national treasure, the room is guarded by watchmen. One mustn’t forget that even nations can be jealous of one another; I have already heard Wingfield grumble twice about the USA losing the race to Japan in computer technology. A word about Wingfield here. There is no question that he is a qualified man; but nobody likes him very much. One probable reason is that Wingfield is among the most glum-faced of individuals. Nobody in Osaka remembers seeing him laugh in the last three years.
Three of the scientists from abroad are going back home today. Those who are staying behind are Wingfield, Kensley, Kuttna and myself. Wingfield suffers from gout and is getting himself treated by a specialist in Osaka. I hope to travel around a bit. I’m going to Kyoto with Kensley tomorrow. A physicist by profession Kensley’s interests range wide. He is something of an authority on Japanese art. He is most anxious to go to Kyoto if only to see the Buddhist temples and the Zen gardens.
The Hungarian biologist, Krzystoff Kuttna, does not much care for art, but there is one thing that interests him which only I know of, because I am the only person he discusses it with. The subject does not come strictly under the province of science. An example will make it clear.
We were having breakfast together this morning. Kuttna took a sip of coffee and said quite unexpectedly, ‘I didn’t watch the eclipse the other day.’
I wasn’t aware of this. For me the total solar eclipse is a phenomenon of such outstanding importance. The corona around the sun at the time of totality is for me such an extraordinary sight, that I never notice who else is watching besides me. I was amazed that Kuttna could deprive himself of such an opportunity. I said, ‘Do you have any superstition about watching an eclipse?’
Instead of answering, Kuttna put a question to me: ‘Does a solar eclipse exert any influence on platinum?’
‘Not that I know of,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Why then did the sphere lose its lustre during those two and a half minutes of totality? I clearly noticed a pall descending on the sphere as soon as totality began. It lifted the moment totality ended.’
I didn’t know what to say. ‘What do you think?’ I asked at last, wondering how old Kuttna was and whether it was a symptom of senility.
‘I have no thoughts,’ he said, ‘because the experience is completely new to me. All I can say is that if it turns out to be an optical illusion, I would be happy. I am not superstitious about an eclipse, but I am about mechanical brains. When Matsue asked me to come, I told him about it. I said, if man continues to use machines to serve human functions, there may come a time when machines will take over.’
The discussion couldn’t go on because of the arrival of Kensley and Wingfield. What Kuttna felt about machines was nothing new. That man may one day be dominated by machines has been a possibility for quite some time. As a simple example, consider man’s dependence on vehicles. Even city dwellers, before the days of mechanical transport, used to walk seven or eight miles a day with ease, now they feel helpless without transport. But this doesn’t mean that one should call a halt to scientific progress. Machines will be made to lighten the work of man. There is no going back to primitive times.
14 MARCH
KYOTO
Whatever I have read or heard in praise of Kyoto is no exaggeration. I wouldn’t have believed that the aesthetic sense of a people could permeate a whole city in such a way. This afternoon we had been to see a famous Zen temple and the garden adjoining it. It is hard to imagine a more peaceful atmosphere. We met the famous scholar Tanaka in the temple. A saintly character, his placidity harmonizes perfectly with his surroundings. When he heard about our computer, he smiled gently and said, ‘Can your machine tell us whose will works behind the sun and the moon coinciding so perfectly for a solar eclipse?’
A true philosopher’s question. The moon is so much smaller than the sun, and yet its distance from the earth is such that it appears to be exactly the same size as the sun.
I had realized the magnitude of the coincidence as a small boy. Ever since then I have had a feeling of profound wonder at the phenomenon of total eclipse. How can Tellus know the answer to the question when we don’t know it ourselves?
We will spend another day here and then go to Kamakura. I have benefitted a lot from Kensley’s company. Good things seem even better when you are with someone who appreciates them.
15 MARCH
I am writing this in the compartment of our train in the Kyoto station. There was a severe earthquake here last night at 2.30 a.m. Tremors are common in Japan, but this one was of a great magnitude and lasted for nine seconds. But this is not the only reason we are returning. The earthquake has precipitated an incident which calls for our immediate return to Osaka. Matsue phoned at five this morning and gave me the news.
Tellus has disappeared.
It wasn’t possible to talk at length over the telephone. Matsue speaks in broken English anyway. In his agitation he could barely make himself understood. This much he told us: immediately after the earthquake it was seen that the pellucidite pedestal was lying on the floor and Tellus was missing. Both the guards were found lying unconscious and both had their legs broken. They are in the hospital now, and haven’t yet regained consciousness. So it is not yet known what brought them to this state.
