An Indian gentleman in his late thirties, in Western attire, rushed in, panting slightly. He started speaking in Bengalee with Mr. Tagore, but arrested himself when he saw us and continued in English.
‘Gentlemen, my apologies, I have just concluded my classes and was delayed. I—’
Mr. Tagore raised his arm in greeting. ‘Jagdish! No need to apologize! Let me introduce you to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, newly arrived from England. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Jagdish Chandra Bose, a man with a remarkable penchant for scientific enquiry, who, I dare say, will make a name for himself very soon.’
Mr. Bose bowed to us and we shook hands.
‘Mr. Tagore is too kind. I am just a humble student of science. And I am delighted to meet both of you. I used to read about you while I was a student at Cambridge, Mr. Holmes, obviously through the wonderful efforts of Dr. Watson here. Lord Rayleigh, my professor there, spoke often about your scientific methods and urged me to review some of your cases to see how the application of scientific methods could solve some kinds of criminal situations.’
I observed Holmes study this interesting gentleman carefully. Mr. Bose was obviously of an excitable disposition, his eyes darting here and there. Of medium height and average build, wearing rimless spectacles, he radiated a certain magnetism and energy. He made for an interesting contrast to the more reflective Mr. Tagore.
Mr. Bose sniffed the air. ‘Tobacco. An unusual variant—not from India. Possibly Brazilian? No—a subtle Virginia.’
Sherlock Holmes was delighted. ‘Quite so! You know your tobacco, Mr. Bose!’
Mr. Bose shrugged. ‘Merely the result of having spent time with others in London who were quite obsessed. And I have read a couple of your monographs on the distinctive nature of various kinds of tobacco ash. Really sir, your range of interests is fascinating!’
‘More monographs, Holmes?’ I asked wearily. Holmes pretended not to have heard my cry of hopeless misery.
‘I am, after all, a scientist, gentlemen, and may be forgiven my questions. As I understand from Mr. Tagore, you are travelling in a roundabout way to Japan on a sensitive mission, all the way from London. Is that correct?’
He saw our hesitation and continued hurriedly, ‘I can only assure you of confidentiality, for whatever that might be worth, Sirs, but it happens that I too have some knowledge of Japan and may be able to suggest a few lines of enquiry. But that is entirely up to you.’
‘Have you heard of the Yakuza, Mr. Bose?’ asked Holmes.
‘Yes, I have. And if it is them you seek, you obviously know it is a difficult and dangerous business. But I am sure you have thought it through. It is the fear of violence from organized gangs that is the apparent deterrent to probing from the outside. But since their value systems are invariably convoluted, you will find a weak link based solely on some principle of irrationality that ties them together. That is my suggestion for your line of enquiry, not knowing much more about your mission.’
Holmes nodded, his eyes already gazing into the distance, weighing this sage advice and various facts he was privy to.
Servants flitted in and out, serving us tea and local sweets. (‘The Bengalees have quite the sweet tooth, Watson. People of extremes in every aspect of behaviour,’ Holmes had earlier remarked.)
Mr. Tagore said, ‘Mr. Holmes, let me take a moment to tell you about my family, though I am not ordinarily given to boasting.
‘The Tagores have been landed zamindars in this area. We are quite prosperous, perhaps due to the canny business sense and political adroitness of prior generations, particularly my grandfather Dwarkanath Tagore. Incidentally, his business empire spanned many areas, such as jute, tea, and coal production, and even shipping and banking. But it was in the trade of opium that the large bulk of our fortune was made and the family had very strong connections with the East India Company, which in turn had ties with China. I will not detain you with details of our family wealth, but to this day we have properties all over India and even in England. Indeed, my grandfather is buried, contentedly we hope, in Kensal Green.’
I saw Holmes stiffen at the reference to opium and China.
‘I myself received some form of education in England, but cannot boast of an excellent academic record. I have strong views on the matter and I intend to prove in due course that the lack of formal education need not come in the way of a rich and fulfilling life. However, I digress. Allow me to turn the conversation to my friend.
‘Since I lack a scientific disposition, I am unable to engage in a discussion on the astonishing new ideas propounded by him.’ He looked up at Mr. Bose and said, ‘Perhaps I should let my young friend take over the conversation now. His English superiors keep him at a distance, his colleagues have other interests and his students lack the spirit of enquiry he sorely desires to see in them. I think he will enjoy an argument with you on some aspect of science.’
‘It would be a great privilege to listen to the perspectives of Mr. Bose,’ said Holmes, politely.
I did not share Holmes’ enthusiasm and could not understand why he was getting diverted into scientific discussions when, on his own admission, it was imperative that we find ways to think about reaching Japan and staying ahead of our ill-wishers.
The restless Mr. Bose stood up and walked about the room, his head bent and his hands clasped behind him. He was evidently an intense man with many weighty matters on his mind.
‘Yes, I am a man of physics, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. After gaining my Tripos at Cambridge and then a degree from London, I returned to India. I am presently a member of the faculty at Presidency College—’
‘Not treated very well, sadly,’ remarked Mr. Tagore. ‘There is reason to suspect our brown skin—’
Mr. Bose waved his hand impatiently. ‘It is not relevant. Small men resent the potential and race of others and I personally do not care for popularity.’
‘I am, however, currently grappling with issues related to plants. And now, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I must ask you a question, quite distinct from the world of electromagnetism, which is what I teach at Presidency. What is your opinion of plants? Do they possess sentient life?’
‘Yes,’ I volunteered. ‘But the implied comparison can be challenged.’
Holmes did not respond immediately. He puffed at his pipe for a moment and said, ‘Please elucidate. I believe you are trying to say something that we have not yet understood.’
‘Do they live with awareness? Do they experience death?’
‘Yes,’ said Holmes.
‘Would you compare their lives to ours?’
‘To the extent that we, Homo sapiens, are believed to be at the apex of animal development and claim that we can reason and feel emotion—I would say that no, it would not be correct to compare plant and human life,’ said Holmes slowly, puffing at his pipe.
‘It seems almost heretical to make the claim of equivalence of human and plant life, Mr. Bose. We are quite convinced we are superior in every way and would not tolerate any opinion to the contrary, as it would put emotive issues like religion on the table. This is a world that does not even accept the equivalence of human and animal life. What is your proposition, Sir?’
‘I say I am embarking on a journey to prove that plants, too, feel emotion and pain. My initial experiments demonstrate very clearly that if presented with certain stimuli, plants respond in a manner similar to us.’
‘My dear sir!’ I exclaimed.
‘Most remarkable! And can we see a scientific validation of your theory?’ said Holmes, ignoring my outburst.
‘At this moment, no, Mr. Holmes. I am building a machine called a Crescograph, which I hope will demonstrate that plant physiology has curious similarities to our own. This should take a few more months. If you happen to be in Calcutta, it would be my honour to have you examine the machine and witness my experiments personally.’
‘Sadly we shall not be here then, but we shall certainly follow developments with interest.’
Mr. Bose’s intensity was quite overpowering. ‘The scientific spirit of enquiry must banish notions of superiority and not be fixated on one absolute ideal of what the term “life” means. How brainwashed we are, gentlemen! Never challenging, never questioning self-serving axioms dinned into our heads from a young age. We live on oxygen. Others may not—could they thrive on nitrogen, perhaps? We have a cardiovascular system. Others may not. We reproduce in a certain way. Others may reproduce in different ways. We have a view of the meaning and experience of time. Other life forms may think differently. Who decides which is more advanced and correct? I have even shown that plants react to music!’ It was difficult to contain this passionate man.
Mr. Tagore spoke. ‘Yes, quite a remarkable experiment that I was witness to and in which I participated, as a matter of fact. Jagdish asked me to sing my songs to some plants he had brought with him. When I did, some died while others experienced terror!8 Ha ha ha!’
We laughed politely at Mr. Tagore’s little joke, though he himself was quite taken by it and kept chortling for a few minutes.
‘Well, Mr. Bose, I am certain there is merit in what you say. You may or may not convince me with your theories, but I am certainly convinced that you are a man born too soon. I hope I shall have the pleasure of corresponding with you.’
I heaved a sigh of relief. This pointless conversation was finally coming to an end.
But then Holmes continued, ‘Mr. Bose, tell me about your work in physics.’
I almost cried out in frustration. When would this end? When would we discuss Japan? Mr. Tagore observed my restlessness and hurriedly placed some sweets in front of me.
‘These rosogollahs are remarkable, Dr. Watson,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I must insist that you try one.’
I did and was silenced. They really were quite remarkable.
‘I am a researcher of radio waves, Mr. Holmes. I have been attracted by the work of Heinrich Hertz in the issue of invisible electromagnetic waves in space—’
‘The German professor from Karlsruhe,’ remarked Holmes.
‘Quite so. How pleasing that you have heard of him. He worked on Maxwell’s theory. You seem to know all this, though we are speaking of developments of only the past ten years or so. Now, this theory says in essence that it is possible to transmit signals through walls, via what we shall call electromagnetic waves. Wires are not necessary. You can imagine the world of possibilities that opens up.’
I was astonished, but Holmes was the picture of equanimity. ‘Unusual, but not impossible, I imagine.’
‘Naturally, like Tesla and many other pioneers, we are faced with skepticism and even derision. I have a small lab—it will suffice—at the Presidency College. I am convinced that this is an entirely new area of science waiting to open up. But I am unable to attract funds and attention.’
‘Genius is always met with skepticism. I am sure you will not give up.’
‘I am grateful that you are not dismissive. To begin with, I need the opinions of men of logic such as yourself on creating a vision for the future application of such electromagnetic waves. People are attracted by applications, not theory alone, I have come to realize.’
‘Have you approached the Royal Society? What is the opinion of Oliver Lodge? I heard him speak once on the existence of Maxwell waves.’
‘Indeed, I am in correspondence with the Royal Society, but the whole process takes a long time and I am impatient by disposition. I am now designing a microwave receiver and transmitter, but there are challenges…’
‘…Hertz…’
‘…galvanometer…antenna…’
‘…coherer…crystal detector…’
And thus the discussion turned scientific and to my discomfiture, I soon found myself bewildered, distracted, and utterly bored. Mr. Tagore, too, was finding it difficult to keep up and, much to my amusement, the distinguished gentleman fell asleep in his chair, snoring loudly, while not ten feet away two men of science discussed the quirks of a new theory.
With an effort, I kept my eyes open. Sherlock Holmes was speaking.
‘…wireless telegrams would soon emerge, I believe. An Italian scientist Marconi is presently discussing this matter with the Home Office, if I recall. My brother Mycroft mentioned that there was interest at the highest places. You must, I believe, patent these discoveries of yours.’
‘I am not driven by lucre, Mr. Holmes. Whatever I discover must be in the public domain. I refuse to profit from it.’
‘A noble perspective, no doubt. But you may face problems in funding future experiments if you do not take precautions.’
‘Perhaps, but I am prepared. Science belongs to humanity, not to the scientist. There is no room for ego.
‘I dream of a wide series of applications that I imagine may change the world one day. Electromagnetic communication—perhaps a device through which the public can listen to the music of my good friend Mr. Tagore. Perhaps the speeches of the prime minister. Or the emperor of Japan.’
‘The mind draws its own boundaries, Mr. Bose. I believe such a day as you describe will come. I see that it may be possible for police departments to exchange information through wireless devices, discarding the inefficiencies and eccentricities of the telegraph bound by Morse Code. Though I wonder what would happen if my criminal adversaries, such as Professor Moriarty, were to take possession of such science.’
‘I do not feel, Mr. Holmes, that such discoveries must be limited to select groups simply because of the fear of its misuse, its benefits must touch humanity at large!’ exclaimed Mr. Bose with passion.
I was impressed by Mr. Bose’s obviously sincere, though perhaps slightly naïve, altruistic nature.
Holmes shook his head. ‘There we perhaps disagree, Mr. Bose. My assessment is that the abilities of the public to use the benefits of science in a constructive way are limited. I am by no means one to advocate denying convenience, but appropriate authorities must first explore and certify, and only then let the benefits of science and engineering percolate to the citizenry. I say this only from the perspective of pure logic, having observed the behaviour of all manner of people in my career—the common man who lives for today, the criminal who seeks to maximize profit through illegal means as soon as possible, the woman who covets a necklace and would go to any length to get it, the merchant who profits by arbitrage because he has an unfair advantage…’
Mr. Bose’s eyes flashed. This was bait that he could not ignore.
‘Autocracy! Who decides?’ Mr. Bose cried, his voice rising in anger. ‘Who gave these authorities the right to decide what is good for the public and what is not? Is this not how autocrats and dictators keep power—by limiting access to knowledge on the specious theory that they possess the ability, power, and right to discriminate? And who can decide that they have used knowledge and science wisely? Mr. Holmes, the first application of science has invariably been on the battlefield. We would rather kill with better cannons and guns using the principles of science. No, Mr. Holmes, no! I have no patience for the self-serving votaries of regulation and control!’
Mr. Tagore was suddenly awake, the raised voice of Mr. Bose having penetrated his siesta. He observed his guests with bleary eyes.
‘Let us agree to disagree, Mr. Bose,’ Holmes responded in a conciliatory tone. ‘Both of us have travelled on different roads and have reasons to believe what we believe. What we should do is celebrate science and the scientific temper. No doubt we shall see the application of your discoveries soon. Naturally, I am forced to wonder if a day might not come—very soon—when information will be shared easily and almost instantaneously anywhere in the world, making it much smaller in a manner of speaking. What if information about the Yakuza, the Thuggees, and the Mafia were made available to in
vestigators around the world in seconds instead of months, if at all?’
I was unable to control my laughter. ‘My dear Holmes! I too am a man of science in my own way—but surely there must come a time when fantastic ideas must be challenged?’
‘Watson, what is possible? What is probable? How much do we know? How much do we not know?’ asked Holmes. ‘I am surprised at you, my dear fellow, that such a refreshing idea could provoke such a hot-blooded response from you. Perhaps the effect of malaria continues in some insidious manner. If this discussion were happening a hundred years ago, you would perhaps have been outraged by the suggestion of the principle of the telegraph. Yet we—you!—frequently send wires without a second thought. When you chronicle this episode and if it were to be read a hundred years hence when the world is entirely different, you may look rather ridiculous, Watson!’
I recall feeling outraged and perhaps my face showed my strong feelings as I searched for a sharp retort.
‘Some more Bengalee sweets, Dr. Watson?’ interjected Rabindranath Tagore, seeking to soothe tempers.
I accepted a peculiar-looking white sweet called sondesh with some hesitation and nibbled at it tentatively. The taste was quite enchanting. ‘Pray, carry on, gentlemen,’ I said, my anger subsiding in seconds, ‘while I conduct a prolonged scientific enquiry into the secrets of this sweet.’
My attempt at humour was well received and the others broke out in laughter. I proceeded with my enquiry in earnest, while their voices rose and fell around me.
Holmes’ voice suddenly interrupted my consciousness. ‘And now, Watson, if you are quite done with those Bengalee sweets, perhaps Mr. Tagore would be kind enough to introduce me to his musician acquaintance, Mr. Sen, from whom I may pick up a few pointers on music.’
I was embarrassed to discover that I had consumed almost the entire plate of sweets in barely ten minutes!
After the good-natured laughter subsided, we went out to a small building in the garden, where we found a thin, dark gentleman waiting for us. He wore a dhoti and seemed rather nondescript at first glance, but made up for it with a bright and genuine smile a moment later. He was seated on the floor on a carpet behind a harmonium and stood up as we entered and brought his palms together in a namaste. After some initial exchange in Bengalee between him, Mr. Bose, and Mr. Tagore, he spoke.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan Page 15
