Dawn

by Rakesh K Kaul

  Maej turned to the large two-way glass touchscreen and typed something on it. Her steaming mug of kahwah was kept precariously close to the system. ‘Okay, here we go. No going back. The point of no return,’ she said to herself with finality as she wore her kalaposh cap—the technologically advanced form of the traditional headgear from Kashmir—and connected it wirelessly to the LeGoog hologram projector.

  With her Gotra Memory Gene now connected through the smart kalaposh cap reader, I could now view all my mother’s past experiences on the large two-way touchscreen. The kalaposh reader was my mother’s creation. It would extract, retain and then perfectly project all genetic memory that went back seventeen generations and with some erosion farther beyond that due to genetic mutation.

  Maej had invented the kalaposh reader to actualize her groundbreaking neurological research that was aimed at determining how much farther in time could one go back to retrieve information. She had called it her ‘counter to the Data Deluge’ in one of her scientific papers that she had written in the isolation of the pod for me to study one day. Now I remembered why it had seemed like a familiar phrase when Yuva had spoken of it. ‘Even if the truth of the society had been destroyed and had led to a prevailing falsehood, one’s life stories could not be tampered with, at least until now,’ she had stated.

  She began speaking nervously. It was almost as if I was the mother and she was the daughter. ‘Dawn, what you are about to see and hear . . . Never mind, let me just start from the beginning.’

  ‘How come you never told me any of this, maej?’ I felt so confused.

  She just took my hand in hers and kissed it tenderly. ‘You’ll know now,’ she whispered weakly. ‘But first hear me out. Now. Where was I? Yes. The greatest and grandest New Year’s party used to happen in Kashmir. It was the talk of the town back then. My friends invited me to join in the festivities. It was quite exclusive. You see, nobody could enter Kashmir unless they were a State subject or a descendant or part of the Noocracy. I was a descendant, and who could refuse such an invitation?’ she shrugged.

  She took a sip of kahwah. ‘Remember I had told you that the Times Square in Kashmir is named in recognition of the fact that Time itself had begun in Kashmir on the very first day of the Universe, around the present calendar of October–November? The day varies because it is determined by the solar calendar. It was fascinating to me as a scientist and as a Kashmiri. So, you see, I had to go back to my roots. I had to see this place for myself. The great New Year’s Jalodbhava party was set on the edge of Lake Kramasara and included its showstopper—the Moon Madness dance.’

  ‘The what party? Wait, who was Jalodbhava?’

  ‘A water demon from folklore. It was said to be very powerful but wicked and one who would torture people.’

  I turned to see the holograms projecting off the glass. Whatever my mother had seen, I could see, as if her eyes were my eyes. Whatever she had heard, I could hear. The hologram showed a crowd of girls on a street who were flaunting the ever-changing designs and colours of their attire to their male friends. The smart programmable fabrics would change based on the pattern algorithm the wearer had fed into the processor. The girls seemed to be revelling in the creative efforts that had gone into creating their exquisite New Year’s outfits. The hologram now shifted to a music band, which was serenading the crowd.

  ‘They were called Narada after the travelling musician of folklore fame,’ my mother said. ‘A very popular band, which was led by Haha and Hulu, the Gandharvas, who had named themselves after celestial musicians. You see here,’ she said, pointing at the hologram, ‘they are accompanied by the musicians Visvavasu and Salisis, crooning their hit New Year’s song.’ I nodded and concentrated on the music:

  I live in the year 10,000

  Me part spice and part khand3

  Flying high and swimming underwater

  Hangs out your beautiful daughter.

  She is singing

  Big, bada Jalodbhava

  Come drink my kahwah

  Happy New Year, yara4

  No place like Kashmira.

  Big, bada Jalodbhava

  Come, show me your paisa5

  Happy New Year, yara

  No place like Kashmira.

  I could observe the teeming crowd dancing at the base of the mountains, one of whose peaks seemed to have been carved in ancient times in the shape of a man’s face with a white beard, matted hair and a crown on each head. He had four heads, each facing four directions, and in his four hands, he held a book, a rosary, a water pot and a ladle. I had never seen the image of this man before—not that I could recall. I turned to my mother to ask her, but she seemed to be hypnotized; her gaze was not wavering from the holograms in front of her that flashed images of her past. She had a soft look on her face and tears in the corner of her eyes, reflecting what she had long buried inside her. Suddenly, I felt like an intruder encroaching on something private, but the urge to know was far too great. So, I turned to the projector albeit with a sense of shame.

  The fountains in the lake shot water high up in the sky, lit with coloured lights. The crowd went wild twirling to the tune. Then boomed the announcer’s voice: ‘Five! Four! Three! Two! One!’ and a bright light flared from the edge of the sky. It got brighter and brighter as it approached earth and at the exact midnight moment, it revealed itself.

  ‘Kalachakra, the wheel of Time,’ maej muttered, her eyes still fixed on the wheel that was spinning while producing an angelic golden halo. ‘It had first appeared on this day when the Universe was created. Do you see the inner disks radiating, mimicking the flow of life and death—one disk each representing earth, water, fire and wind? And then it expanded until it covered the entire earth.’

  I gaped at the supposed wheel of Time in the sky; it was truly extraordinary. There was a five-storied palace in the middle of the wheel. Resting in the highest storey was an eight-petal lotus, a symbolic part of every Kashmiri’s New Year’s resolution, which is to achieve the end goal of humanity—perfected creation.

  As the bells chimed bringing in the New Year, everybody assembled at the Times Square started clapping and hugging each other. All of a sudden, my eyes fell on one person. A stranger was hugging my mother very tightly, squeezing her hard. She drew back in surprise and I could hear her gasping for breath, but that didn’t seem to faze this man. He only seemed to have eyes for my mother.

  ‘Would you like to fly with me to the top of Trout Beat?’

  ‘You mean the very exclusive and mysterious vapour bar? How did you even get passes for that?’ I could hear the incredulity in mother’s voice.

  The man smiled and said something that was drowned out by a loud burst of cheer in the background.

  My mother turned to me, ‘In the Trout Beat, only the Aryas were allowed.’

  ‘The ancient, extinct race?’

  ‘No, no! This was a secret and elite fraternity of powerful technology moguls whose minimum worth started in the quadrillions.’

  ‘Quadrillion?’ I squawked. Money meant nothing to me, but I could certainly understand the number. My stunned expression brought a smile to her face. ‘Yes, with a Q.’

  ‘What kind of place was this, maej? Sounds out of this world!’

  ‘Well, since you’re sixteen, I can tell you it was a dangerous place. Trout Beat offered the most advanced technological experiences. There was a different, heady, chemically infused atmosphere inside this place. It was nothing like anything I’d ever experienced before. The people who entered it would get an instant rush far faster than drinking any brew! It was shocking to see the elites of the world so intoxicated!’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I managed to utter. It was strange to see ma reminisce about the past like this. It was unlike any story she had ever told me. It was as if she was someone else; she had this look, which I had only heard about or seen in stories about teenagers.

  My mother took a sip of the now lukewarm kahwah and tugged at her jacket. She turned to the holo
gram. ‘See there? The bar was misty with the humidity of the psychotropic vapours and the visibility was no more than three feet on the dance floor. I assumed that this was to hide the entangled bodies of the ones who had breathed in too quickly.’

  Then, as if suddenly remembering something, mother started laughing, as her eyes glossed over the misty façade that shone with bright, sweeping strobes of light. ‘You know, I didn’t like this place at all. The moment I entered this place, as a neurologist, I was able to understand the dirty game these powerful men played. It was so pathetic that they were resorting to the equivalent of the ancient, evil trick of spiking an innocent’s drink. But I had instantly covered my face and mouth. See there,’ she said, pointing to the hologram that showed a large mirror on the walls of the bar.

  Indeed, in the mirror, I saw that my mother had covered her mouth and nose with her shawl. My eyes strained to see more of her, my mother as a young girl, but then darted to the young man who was with her. He was greeted respectfully at the entrance by the dvarapala guard with a face mask. This man seemed to know his way around, as he and my mom were soon seated outside the bar on a revolving, flying Kashmiri silk carpet high above the Valley.

  A flying carpet!

  I remembered reading one of the archived articles on the LeGoog system about the great Professor Mahadevan, who during his time at Harvard, had discovered the principles of creating a magical flying carpet. I had found the article fascinating. The professor had said that if one was to create small ripples in a carpet with a small motor, then the downward pressure of the ripples would not only create an uplift, but the rippling movement would also create a forward motion. ‘If the carpet material was composed of dark matter, which has negative mass, it would create a negative-gravity force based on the repulsive property of dark matter, and so, one could experience smooth sailing through the air.’ The paper had noted this simply, but it took me ages to understand the concept.

  This beautiful green magical carpet reminded me of that article: this one here was clearly a high-end variation complete with a sophisticated feather glide. It proudly boasted its name ‘Shikara’ like the boats of yore. The carpet made a small sound as it travelled through the air, chapa, chapa, much like an oar pushing through the water. I heard a rustle of wind that made my mother’s hair fall upon her face and eyes. The birds flying past the undulating vistas of snow-capped mountain peaks with deep blue lakes; the cool breeze on my mother’s face; the sailing through the clouds—it surely did provide for an extremely serene setting where people could bond.

  ‘What you see now, Dawn, is a specialized server. The Trout was famous for their gourmet chefs who were trained to serve the perfect experience to their guests.’

  I saw the immaculately dressed man bring out what seemed like a vessel that was rounded at the bottom and tapered at the top. A long pipe was connected to its mouth.

  ‘Maej, what is that thing?’

  ‘It was called chillum—’ my mother began, but then something else struck me as more important than all this. ‘Who is this man and what is his name? Was he your friend? Wait! Is he my father?’

  ‘Yes, his name is Arman.’

  I looked at him for a long time. I was unsure of my feelings and waited for maej to continue, but she seemed to have frozen. She was just looking at the man with a strange expression that I couldn’t fathom. Arman reached out for the contraption that maej called chillum and inhaled through the pipe with a practised move. The server turned to my mother, the young Vidya. ‘The Kashmir Elixir, ma’am. An excellent and safe choice,’ he said, and with a bow, left.

  ‘It’s a saffron-infused, honeysuckle nectar cocktail,’ explained the young man.

  My mother chided him, ‘Smoking is injurious and illegal. Clearly, at the Trout bar, even breathing is illegal.’

  ‘What is illegal is all a matter of who you know,’ responded Arman arrogantly. I felt the blood rise in my face; clearly, he wasn’t a nice man. I now understood why she didn’t want me to see her memories of him. I started dreading what was to follow.

  My mother said to me with a pensive smile, ‘I vividly remember that night. Under the full moon light, the Valley was bathed in splendour as the renamed Kawthar River flowed beneath us, winding slowly in its serpentine path.’

  I started to nod but then stopped . . . I then realized that what I was watching was the flashback of my mother’s first date with my father! My own father whom I had never seen before!

  I walked up to the hologram to look at his face closely. He was looking straight at my mother’s eyes and thus me. He was a very handsome man with fair skin, sharp nose, trimmed beard and pale eyes. His body was muscular with broad shoulders. He folded his hands under his chin and leaned over towards my mother. I shuddered and stood back, rigid; it was almost as if he was leaning in towards me as I was in the scene, looking through my mother’s eyes.

  ‘Arman is my handle. I am a UI scientist specializing in Unified Intelligence algorithms at Stanford in St Paul. I haven’t seen you here before . . . Are you from here, Vidya?’ He had a honey-like voice that oddly sounded like mine.

  ‘Well, all I can say is that you too are from Minneapolis, St Paul, the magnificent Twin Cities.’

  Arman laughed. ‘You too? What a coincidence! Well, yes, the Twin Cities is beautiful, but my heart lies in Kashmir. It is hard to explain why. Maybe because my ancestors came from here. That is why I teach and earn money in St Paul but come every weekend to Kashmir.’

  My mother’s voice rose in excitement, ‘I have Kashmiri ancestry too! What are the odds! We have a lot in common. Just like Kashmir and the Twin Cities.’

  ‘Yes, when it comes to the lakes, they are the same, but Kashmir has the grandest mountains and valleys, which the Twin Cities do not.’

  ‘Agreed, but the weather is similar, which means that I could wear my antique shawl and kalaposh cap,’ she said, pointing to the ancient headgear she had adorned.

  ‘Yes, I was admiring it from a distance when I saw you. You know, it’s funny . . . my family folklore is that our ancestor who came to Minneapolis was a seller of shawls. I wonder if your beautiful light green shawl was one of his creations,’ he said, gingerly, touching the hem of the pashmina.

  ‘Anything is possible! In my family, the girls wear their heirloom shawl on New Year’s Day and then on their wedding day. That is it.’

  ‘How strange! Wearing the oldest item in your wardrobe on New Year’s Day when everyone else is wearing their latest creation.’

  ‘Well, our line has always maintained its traditions of continuity.’ There was a hint of pride in my mother’s voice. My heart warmed and I smiled. She was always one to pay respect to our heritage.

  ‘We, on the contrary, do not believe in any traditions,’ the voice on the other side answered. ‘That is old thinking, and for me, New Year’s Day means to throw out the old.’ My dad, or Arman, as he was called, was quite dismissive and seemed highly rude to me!

  ‘What is your area of social wealth creation?’ he asked mother.

  ‘My what? Oh, you mean . . . Right! It’s Genecrinology. I work on maximizing the potential of the brain and minimizing its disorders.’ I could hear my mother trying to regain her composure after the offhand reply.

  ‘So, you are a brain mechanic?’ said Arman, sardonically. Was he trying to be funny? I thought to myself.

  ‘And you a cryptologic techie?’ mother retorted confidently, ‘I am more of an evolutionist designer.’

  ‘No offence, Vidya, but I am a sceptic—of your brain science. There is no superman or superwoman who can match what I call the Arman Algorithm. Unified Intelligence is the way forward.’

  ‘Well, Arman, algorithms have their merits, but logically it leads to an Artificial Intelligence Singleton world,’ I heard her sigh.

  ‘What are you both talking about?’ I asked. ‘What’s the Intelligence Singleton world?’

  ‘Well, how do I explain it simply?’ said ma, thinking for a while. Th
en she spoke up, ‘A Singleton world is where there is a single decision maker who controls everything, and that decision maker prevents threats that are internal and external to its control or supremacy. It is anti-human.’

  ‘Like a king?’

  ‘A very bad king. The worst, Dawn.’

  I looked at the hologram of the handsome young man, with his eyebrows scrunched, leaning forward to hear the very intelligent Vidya. Clearly, he knew that he had met his match, I thought proudly.

  I heard mother say to Arman, ‘A decentralized Syntellect similar to an autonomous beehive is what the policymakers have believed is the safest and best option. Each bee is autonomous and yet part of the collective. It is the unified pathway fostered voluntarily by independent, consenting human beings. It is not either or, instead, it is Unified Intelligence in the service of Unified Life and not the other way around.’

  I could see that maej was being accommodative but not compromising in the face of Arman’s self-centred arrogance.

  ‘Cyborgs never took off, Vidya. So, why would you think that you can create this hybrid, what you call a QuGene entity—yes, I’ve read that paper!’ he held up his finger, indicating for her to wait and let him finish. ‘“QuGene—the final frontier of quantum and biology where the quantum behaviour of living cells can be harnessed.” Am I right? Fascinating in theory, but is it practical? No.’

  ‘Anything is possible, Arman. There is nothing in science that rules it out. Cyborg tech until now did not have the benefit of quantum computing. You are into Unified Information, so you tell me, do you agree that at absolute zero temperature, there is a state of maximum information because that entity has the maximum choices of the higher energy states that it can go into? The opposite of no choice, such as in the case of the Sun will rise in the East, yields perfect predictability but zero information?’

  All this was going above my head, but I saw Arman nodding his head slowly. I could see that his eyes had narrowed because he sensed that my mother was going to win the argument.