Chapter 1: God Theorem

In May 2001, I attend a three-week extensive workshop on superstrings, held in the Department of Physics, Quaid-i-Azam University (QAU), Islamabad. The very first speaker begins his talk with the Hamiltonian, which is the starting point of any quantum mechanical problem. I’m lost. How could there be no factor of mass in the equation? I clear my throat and raise my voice from the third row, “Excuse me, did you forget the mass in the kinetic energy term?”

He pauses, “For simplicity, all constants are set to unity.” He turns back and within a blink of an eye, he fills the longboard – that extends from one end of the wall to the other – with equations. To my disappointment, I put down the pen and say to myself: this cannot be the theory of everything. Everything cannot be just equations. Can it achieve the world peace? Does it cure all diseases? Why there is death? A true theory of everything must be like a machine: question in answer out. Perhaps I’m thinking of a higher theory, whereas the goal of string theory, which is regarded the candidate theories of everything, is to combine quantum theory and general relativity.

At the tea-break, students are chatting with the speakers, while I’m standing alone at a distance holding my cup like I don’t belong here. I strongly feel that one day I’ll discover the theory that really describes everything, not just the physical aspects of the universe. I come to physics with a goal. I know breakthrough will happen through physics.

**

My life dramatically changes in July 2003 when I get engaged. This is when I’m a Ph.D. student. I enter QAU in spring 1999 as an M.Phil. student. The engagement takes place on the fourteenth of the month. I’m in university at the time. My presence in the ceremony is not necessary. Our women go to my fiancée’s house to put her the ring and pour sugar in her hair. Pouring sugar into the girl’s hair is our tradition which means that she is now ours. It’s evening and I’m in the hostel when Mother tells me about the ceremony over the phone. She says that my fiancée looked very beautiful in the engagement dress. I cannot wait to go home tomorrow and see the pictures. I do not sleep all night and spend the night in the department. It is common for research students they work late at night in the departments. I’m working on a problem in quantum electrodynamics in three dimensions (QED3), which involves 2-space and 1-time dimensions. QED3 bypasses the Higgs mechanism to study mass generation. I’m stuck in this integral which can be solved if one of the quantities is/was a vector. This quantity is a scalar in theory. Scalars are quantities that have no directions such as temperature, and vectors have directions such as force. Calling a scalar a vector is like calling a buffalo a camel.

Next day in the afternoon, I get my backpack to leave for home. The bag, beside other things, contains my clothes. I do laundry at home. There is also a laundry shop in the hostel where I sometimes drop my clothes. I need to change three rides: the first one from Islamabad to Peshawar which is about three-hour drive; the next one from Peshawar bus station to Karkhano Market; and the last one from Karkhano Market to my Jamrud, Khyber Agency. A Jamrud bus also runs directly from the Peshawar bus station, but it stops everywhere and makes a half-hour trip one-hour long. I prefer a minibus to Karkhano Market and then a taxi to Jamrud.

Upon reaching Peshawar, I get on a minibus. As the vehicle passes through the Tehkal area, the traffic is jammed. I’m sitting by a window facing the sun. It is very hot, and the bus is advancing slowly. I cannot wait to get home to see the pictures. To keep myself busy, I grab a pen and paper from the backpack to write something unusual. Usually I take notes about physics, but today I want to create something spontaneously. I rapidly write:

As soon as the girl saw the window open, she jumped out it. Out there, she saw a woodcutter and snatched the piece of wood from him. With the piece of wood, the girl struck the boy on his head. The girl dropped the stick and ran, while the boy toppled and fell on the same piece of wood that she dropped. The dying boy, taking his last breath, said to the girl on the run, “O girl.” He said nothing before that.

I write the original story in Urdu in which the first word is lardki, girl, and the last word is also lardki, but the title is lardka,“TheBoy”. This is the first story I ever wrote. Normally, I am immersed in equations, but today I did something new. I’m very excited as if I have solved a major problem in physics.

As I arrive at home, I show the story to my niece Benish who is in middle school. She says, “Hmm, very good.” I’m totally restless and want to show it to everyone.

In the evening, I call my fiancée. Hajra, another niece of mine, sets up the call. Hajra and my fiancée are childhood friends. The phone call is set in a manner so that my brothers-in-law do not know, as they may not like my fiancée to talk to me. Hajra first calls Ayisha telling her to expect a call from me. Hajra and I are not in one place. She lives in our childhood house, while I live in our new house. Both houses are in Jamrud. I make the call when Hajra gives the green signal.

“Is it Dr. Saar Gul’s house?” I say.

“Who is Dr. Saar Gul? Sorry, you’ve dialed the wrong number.”

“Oh no, no, it’s me, Shahid. I want to talk to you.” I open with a joke, and she gets confused. She doesn’t understand my jokes yet.

“Hi.”

“I saw the pictures. You looked very beautiful in the blue dress.” I’m referring to the engagement pictures.

“Thank you.”

“How is your study? Home Economics College must be a good college. I didn’t know much about your college when I was a student at Peshawar University. Peshawar University has a big campus, I didn’t explore it much.” I graduated from Peshawar University in 1998 with a Master degree in physics.

“Our college is behind our hostel.”

“I know the boys’ and girls’ hostel are not far from each other, but I didn’t know about your college. May I ask you one last question: in which year are you?”

“Second year.” She means the second year in F.Sc., a two-year 11- and 12-grade certificate.

“O.K. thank you for talking to me. I’ll call you another time.

“Sure.”

**

Next day in the afternoon, I head back to Islamabad. First to Peshawar then to Islamabad. In Peshawar, I’m sitting alone on the seat. Other seats are also half-full. When the coach pulls away, the bright day looks to me as if it’s moonlight and the coach is heading to a desert. I’m frightened. My hands are between my legs. I’m thinking that I’m standing in front of our hostel gate and smoking. The me in the thought turns around looking to another person who is also me and who is also smoking. That me also looks behind. The whole scene multiplies like the mirrors in a barber shop in which the image reflects back and forth. I then see myself watching a movie alone in a theater. The person on the screen who’s also me is watching TV. On the TV is another person who is also me is sitting on a chair; legs crossed and watching TV. The TV and the person also multiply. Then I suddenly see that the world is changing. A revolution is coming. I think:

It is the first day of the fall semester. Only five students are registered in Prof. Danish’s class because nobody ever got an A grade in his course. The professor is in his office when somebody knocks on the door.

“The door is open.” The professor raises his voice from the inside.

A boy, breathing irregularly, enters as if escaped from jail. His shirt is half-open, eyes red and fully open, hairs scattered, and he holds a diary in both of his hands tightly close to his chest.

“Here is my theory.” Without even asking permission, he sits on a chair next to the desk and abruptly puts his diary on the desk before the professor. “I’ve unified arts and science, please, take a look.”

The professor, who is in the middle of writing an email, raises his eyebrows and thinks what to say.

“Your physics is about feelingless particles and fields; my theory is, in fact, a love story of the universe. Please, take a look at it. It’s in front of you.” He continues talking without a pause, “The universe is…”

“Hold on. You hardly look 18. Where did you learn physics?” Says the professor.

“Knowledge is not in books. It’s out there. I directly acquired it”

The professor does not follow the logic. “Well, it is not a good time for discussion. My class is about to start.” The professor has seen many crazy people like him who come to the physics department claiming big things.

“If you do not take interest in my work, I’ll commit suicide. I’m serious.”

“Suicide?”

“Yes, I’ll leap off the library.”

“Why don’t you publish your work? Why suicide?”

“No journal publishes this kind of work. I put the theorem and poem on the same footing. A math journal does not publish poetry, and the same is the case with the literary magazines they do not publish theorems.”

He gives examples. He writes on the chalkboard in the office:

X: 2+3

Y: 4

X: ?

Z: 5

X: !

“It is a story. Here X, Y and Z are characters, they talk in a mathematical language. X asks a question. Y answers it. X says it is wrong. Then Z gives the correct answer. X says, yes, it is correct.” He then gives another example. He writes:

I said to her to marry me. She neither said yes nor no.

“It might look to you a love story; in fact, it is a form of logic in which there is no yes or no. My work is also like this.”

“I have no time. Sorry, take your diary and leave.” The professor says. He sends the email, takes his notes and heads to class. “Physics doesn’t work like that.”

“OK, OK.” His tone changes, “If you don’t want to know about my theory, I’m going to perform an act as I leave your office. I’m also an actor. You will enjoy the live show..”

“What kind of acting? That jumping from the library.” The professor becomes suspicious.

No, it’s a secret. I cannot tell you now.

The young boy leaves the office. He’s holding his diary in both of his hands. His arms are hanging vertically down and he’s knocking the diary against his knees while walking. The professor’s office is on the second floor. When he reaches the staircase, he tumbles and rolls down the stairs. He abruptly sits on his bottom upon reaching the ground.

A student rushes for help if he is hurt. The student gives him a hand to stand on his feet, but he shakes his head left right, to say don’t touch me. He is mute. His lips are closed tightly as if glued, and is constantly looking at his diary, which is lying in the stairs, with a babyish look. Prof. Danish, who was following him, asks the student to give him the diary.

It is 10 a.m., the busiest time of the day. Students are going in and out of the classes. The hallway is blocked. The young boy, whom nobody knows, takes his diary from the student. He is sitting squeezed and frightened in the middle of the hallway and looking at everyone as if they are the predators and he is the prey. He opens the diary and turns over all the pages so that everyone sees that it is empty. Prof. Danish, who is also standing in the crowd, recalls the earlier encounter with him in his office, “Why would he show me the diary if it was empty.” The young boy, after turning over all the pages, returns to the first page and begins writing. When he writes, he nods as if he is receiving commands from someone.

When he finishes writing, he closes the diary and put the pen on top of it. It is very quiet here, a place which is otherwise very loud. He is looking here and there through the legs of the crowd around him, to make a way to get out of there. In one direction, he finds an outlet and prepares to run. He leaves the diary there and runs toward the main library. Prof. Danish also motions fast after him. In the library, he takes the stairs and reaches the fourth floor. It is a reference section. Prof. Danish also gets there, but he cannot find the young boy. Prof. Danish is panickily checking every aisle. Behind one aisle, he notices a broken window. When he looks out the window, he sees the young boy lying dead on the ground. He leaves the dead body there and rushes back to the department and takes the diary, which is with the people, in his possession.

When Prof. Danish opens the diary, it begins with a theorem that states that a complete theory of everything exists if and only if there is no god. His work contains verses and dialogues. He remarks that mathematics is poetry. To him, word choice, word count, line breaks, and the number of lines in a poem are important. From it, he obtains the values of unknowns, such as the charge of an electron.

Prof. Danish is impressed. He does not follow much of the poetic approach, but, at least, the fundamental constants of nature – the speed of light, the gravitational constant, Planck’s constant, …. – are obtained right. In standard physics, these constants can only be determined experimentally.

A new theory comes into being. It is called the Emotional Science. Most people think it is the end of the story, as the ultimate theory of everything is discovered. On one hand, the theory is simple, but, on the other hand, it is hard. To understand it, one has to be a poet, a mathematician, a linguist, an artist, and much more. Who could have all these characteristics?

A new scientific era begins. All fields of knowledge are unified. Science fiction has become the new standard. New conventions are introduced. Textbooks are revised. Theorems in mathematics are proved poetically.

Everything is fine but god. Why is god not allowed in his poetic model? The atheists are fine with the new model but the theists. The theists find god in a new form. They recall that the young boy, who sacrificed himself and whom nobody knew, was, in fact, guided by an angel. How could he write such an incredible theory in one setting? His diary was empty, and he was nodding when writing. He must have been commanded by someone, and, therefore, he must be a messenger of god. Prof. Danish reminds the people that the said boy was not a prophet but an actor, referring to his encounter with the young boy; however, he has no evidence to support his claim.

Would God send a messenger whose very message is to deny Him? Perhaps God wants us to forget about him and focus on our own problems, people think. I call the whole scenario God theorem according to which religion would always exist in some form.