It was to that task — of applying rationalism to everything around them — that the society now had to turn. And for that he had a plan.
As a boy, Gopal went on, he had been made to read through some of the Sanskrit scriptures with his father. Later, when he began to read about science, something — he didn’t know what — had troubled him. Now that he had read much more, he had an idea of what it was: there could no longer be any doubt that there were certain very curious parallelisms between the ideas of the ancient Hindu sages and modern science. If that was true, and many very learned authorities believed it to be so, then it was definite proof that over the centuries those ancient and completely rational ideas had been perverted by scheming priests and brahmins to further their own interests. It was urgently necessary, therefore, that the society make known to the masses of Hindoostan how they were daily deceived and cheated by the self-styled purveyors of religion.
For example, it was certain that the pandits and brahmins had distorted the ancient Hindu idea of God, the Brahma, into their thousands of deities and idols, so that they could make money quicker. Just as a shopkeeper might open new counters, so each new god was a steady new source of income for the priests. As for the real Brahma, he was without attributes, without form, nothing but an essence, in everything and in nothing.
In fact, Gopal said in a sibilant whisper, the Brahma is nothing but the Atom.
Gopal stopped there and looked at his enthralled audience. There were a few inadvertent claps. He squashed them with a raised hand. And so, too, he said, it has been proved beyond all doubt that the Universal Egg of Hindu mythology is nothing but a kind of Cosmic Neutron.
He was met with a storm of cheers and claps. He smiled, luxuriating in the applause. When it had faded away, he began again: If we are to disseminate the truth we must begin here, in our own society. I propose, therefore, that we begin all our meetings hereafter with salutations and prayers to the Cosmic Atom.
There were nods of agreement all around the room. Then Balaram stood up. But you know, he said, atoms and suchlike are old-fashioned now. Ever since Professor Satyen Bose published his famous paper, all the elementary particles which obey his statistics have been renamed Bosons. Should we not, then, salute the Cosmic Boson instead?
There was a murmur of approval. Gopal nodded, a little apprehensively. Yes, he said, it’s only right that we keep up with the times.
But, said Balaram, smiling slyly, as I’m sure you’re well aware, all other particles obey Enrico Fermi’s statistics and are known as Fermions. So shouldn’t we, then, salute the Cosmic Fermion as well?
A hubbub of consternation eddied through the room. Only Dantu laughed and he was quickly quelled by a roomful of frowns. Everyone there had long since boycotted British-made and foreign goods, and many had publicly burnt every scrap of Lancashire cloth in their houses. Bosons, made in Calcutta, they could applaud; but salutations to Italian particles?
No, no, said Gopal. We can’t salute everything. I think we’d better keep to Bosons. Now, sit down, Balaram.
Balaram sat down.
Their next two meetings began with the chant: Hail to thee, O Cosmic Boson. Gopal spent half of one meeting exhorting them to begin their letters home with Hail, Cosmic Boson instead of the sacred syllable Om. Then they went through the epics and tried to find rational explanations for various magical events, objects and creatures. It was decided, for example, that the sudarshan-chakra, the legendary wheel of fire, was actually an example of ancient fireworks, and Gopal was applauded for his ingeniously down-to-earth suggestion that the mythical clawed bird of the Ramayana, Jatayu, was no early phantasm but merely one of the last surviving pterodactyls.
Balaram said nothing at either meeting. He sat in a corner with Dantu and fidgeted.
At the next meeting Gopal urged the Rationalists to turn their minds to the business of finding a rational substitute for the superstitious incantations which Brahmins chanted at weddings. While others eagerly offered suggestions, Balaram’s fidgeting grew till he was twisting and turning on his mat. Then Dantu prodded him sharply in the ribs and whispered: Go on; tell them.
Drawing in a deep breath, Balaram jumped to his feet. What does it matter? he shouted. What does it matter?
Gopal looked at him dumbfounded: What do you mean?
I mean what does it matter what the Brahmins say and the rishis say and the myths say? What does it have to do with science or reason or the masses of Hindoostan? What good will it do anyone if the masses start saying Hail, Cosmic Boson instead of He Bhagoban? Will it cure them of disease? Will it fill their stomachs? Will it get the British out of here?
Gopal said: Balaram, that’s enough. Remember where you are. Don’t shout; you’re not in your right mind.
In astonishment Balaram exclaimed: I’m not in my right mind?
Gopal cast up his hands: All right, then, tell us what you would like us to do.
Balaram’s slim face narrowed with intensity. He swept his hair from his eyes and looked straight at Gopal. It’s not what I want to do, he said. It’s how. This is nothing. Just talk. Empty talk. That’s what Pasteur would have called it. Do you remember Pasteur? Do you remember the book you gave me — you, yourself?
Soundlessly Gopal sank on to a mat.
Do you remember how Pasteur first came to science? It wasn’t by thinking about the Cosmic Atom. It was because his father was a poor tanner. Do you remember why he left his promising studies in crystallography? It was because the brewers of France came to him and said: What makes our beer rot? It was that question, asked by simple people, which led to the discovery of what he called the ‘infinitesimally small’ — the Germ, in other words.
Has anything changed the world as much as the discovery of the germ? Has there ever been a greater break in history than the moment when men were unburdened of their responsibility for their bodies and all disease was assigned to the treachery of the elements?
And how did it come about? Not through cogitations about the cosmic, but as an answer to the everyday problems of simple people.
Who did the silk farmers of Europe go to when disease struck their silkworms and whole provinces lay devastated and groaning in misery? Who did they go to with their children hungry at their breasts and their livelihood wasting in their fields? Who but Pasteur? They went to him and they said: Save us. And when he saw their wretchedness not all the powers on the earth could have kept him from answering.
That is why the world still has silk.
What was it that led him to struggle for years, at the risk of his own life, to rid the world of hydrophobia?
Nothing but the everyday suffering of helpless children and their mothers. It was that which sustained him when all the world laughed and said: Pasteur is mad, bitten by his dogs.
Why? Why did he do it? What drove him?
It wasn’t talk of reason, it wasn’t the universal atom. It was passion; a passion which sprang from the simple and the everyday. A passion for the future, not the past. It was that which made him the greatest man of his time, for it is that passion which makes men great.
Gopal cleared his throat uneasily. All right, Balaram, he said. But what can we do? We’re not scientists. We can’t find cures for things.
Balaram paused. Slowly he said: I don’t know. How can I say? All I know is that this is pointless. If all these things we talk about — reason, science and all the rest — are to mean anything, they must have the power to move people. Who can be moved by the Cosmic Boson? It is the everyday, the mundane things that happen in real life which move people. If we want to do anything at all, that is what we must think about. And we have to start here, in Presidency College, in the Hindu Hostel, with our fellow-students. If we can’t make them change their lives, if we can’t make them see Reason, what can we ever have to say to the masses of Hindoostan?