The thought experiment which describes the God theorem makes me skeptical. In physics, we test our theories. Is there any way to test the dialogues that take place between the two characters Prof. Danish and the young boy? Since I have no name for the main character, I’ll call him Thought Prophet or TP in short. How would the plot change if Prof. Danish takes a look at the diary? He would discover that it is empty. He may say what a joke and may ask TP to leave, and then TP would do what he does in the hallway in the original plot. In either case, it proves that the physics professor is unhelpful and that the young boy is indeed a prophet anyway.
I’m just afraid of gods and prophets. Life is much simpler if there is no such thing. I’m in silence since the day I have got this idea of God theorem. Most of the times I’m carrying my diary. I have written several stories. My stories are not longer than two or three sentences. The goal is to write the shortest possible story – a story that can be told in one word or even one letter. I feel that a story is more powerful than an equation. A story expresses feelings while an equation doesn’t.
One day I’m sitting with my roommate Daud and another friend Kashif at Chemistry Huts, a tea shop. Chemistry huts, which is near our department, is our favorite place where we hang out. Some days we would spend all day at the huts. When we are about to leave, other friends join us, and we order more tea. Normally when we gather, we tease Kashif to give us treats for one or the other reason, but today I’m in silence carrying my diary like Thought Prophet who also carries one.
“Shahid, I think you should see a doctor. I’ve been noticing you’re behaving oddly.” Daud says. “Look at yesterday, you confined yourself in the room. It was good I came to help you get out of that phase. I don’t know since when you were sitting like that.”
“What happened yesterday?” Kashif, who is a day scholar, interjects.
“I don’t know but yesterday when I came to the hostel, Shahid was sitting on the floor like babies. He tucked his head in his knees. I thought he was weeping. I called him Shahid, Shahid, but he was not responding.” Dauds explains.
“I was hearing you, but my mouth was shut; I was unable to talk. Perhaps my brain was not sending a signal to my body to react.” I say.
“Shahid, are you happy with your engagement, or your family forced you?” Kashif asks.
“Kahif!” Daud eyes Kashif.
“Let’s go right now.” I at once say.
“Go where?” Daud inquires.
“You were saying to go to a doctor.”
“Oh Yes, we need to find a good psychologist or psychiatrist in Islamabad.”
“I know one doctor. Let’s go now.” I take the last sip from tea and throw the cigarette.
My friends unwillingly get up and come with me. We head to the university’s main gate where we get on a taxi. I guide the driver where to go. Daud is sitting in the front seat, while Kashif and I on the back seat.
We reach Pakistan Academy of Letters (PAL), Islamabad. I had been to PAL once with a poet friend from Landi Kotal who was receiving an award. PAL also gives awards to writers.
My friends cluelessly looking at each other. “Which place is this? We were supposed to go to a doctor.” Daud asks.
“We’re in the right place.”
We go to the chair’s office. The PAL chairs are renowned writers. The current one is also a famous poet. “Can I please meet with the respected chairman? I’m Ph. D. student at Quaid-i-Azam University.” I request the PS to chair.
“Please, write your name on this.” The secretary gives me a paper. I write my name, which he takes inside his boss’s office. As he steps out, he asks me if I can meet with his boss, while my friends are asked to wait in the lounge.
I abruptly sit on a chair to the right of him as I enter and say, “I’m a patient and you are the doctor who can cure me. Here is my disease.” I put my diary before him. In the back of my mind is Thought Prophet. I do not use exactly the same words as he uses when he enters Prof. Danish’s office.
Unlike Prof. Danish, the chair of PAL takes the diary from me and reads it. On the first page is the boy’s story and a poem below it.
“Did you write another piece?” He inquires turning over the pages.
There are a few other two-line stories and some of my quotations that I associate with the Thought Prophet.
“Yes.” I look here and there, pointing at different objects in the office. “See, this is a pen, that a book, a table, chairs. Apparently, they’re different objects, but if you chain them on a wire, they belong to the same chain. My work is also like that; I relate unrelated things. See,” I point at my diary which is with him, “the title of the first story is The Boy, in which a girl kills a boy. The second piece is a poem in which a girl on the run promises her lover that she will come back to reunite with him. The story and the poem when combined generate a third story. The title of this larger story is again The Boy. In the old story, an innocent boy is killed, while in the extended story, another boy – the woodcutter, who’s the protagonist – helps the girl to kill the antagonist.”
He leaves his seat and starts wandering behind his chair. I also leave the chair and sit on another one in front of him. I talk to him like I have known him for many years, mostly I’m talking. During this, he also prays – the noon prayer – in the office. After the prayer, his driver comes in. I realize it must be his time to off. I ask him, “Should I go?”
“As you like.” He replied.
“Should I come again another time?”
“As you like.” He repeats.
Well, if you leave it on me I’ll never come again, I think to myself.
I couldn’t notice how long the meeting took place. When I come out, Daud and Kashif tell me that they waited more than two hours. The meeting further worsened my condition. I think like I’ve created a masterpiece. The way the chair of PAL reacted: wandering around in the room, putting his hand under his chin, going to say something but saying nothing. More than what I have shown him, the Thought Prophet bothers me as if he has really emerged. I thought about the prophet, which was just a spontaneous thought, and today I really practiced his dialogues. Who is he? He carries a diary and so do I. Is he me? Did I foresee future – my own future? He commits suicide. Does this mean I’m also killing myself? These thoughts scare me.
Next morning another idea come to mind, to discuss the God theorem with a professor in my own department. This professor, who taught us Methods of Mathematical Physics, is secular. I think he will appreciate my ideas. I enter in the professor’s office just like Thought Prophet and give him the diary. I claiming that I have proved a theorem.
“What are the G, NG, B, and NB in your theorem? You didn’t define them.” The professor says.
“Here G means God; NG is used for no-God; B for believer; and NB for non-believer.” I explain the terms. “Sir, may I explain it on the board.”
“Sure.” He lights a cigarette.
Instead of explaining the God theorem, I write on the board what Thought Prophet does in Prof. Danish’s office:
X: 2+3
Y: 4
X: ?
Z: 5
X: !
He leans on the chair, crosses his legs and takes a puff, “What is this?”
“The unification of arts and science is possible. This is a dialogue written mathematically.”
“Shahid, I don’t get how this is related to your theorem. Leave your notes here, I’ll take a look.”
“It’s OK Sir. You may not understand it. From my writing, it is not so obvious. I’ll write it neatly and show it to you another time.” I get my diary and leave. In fact, I didn’t want to leave the diary with him.
I encountered two experts. First, I met with the chairman of PAL and then with my own professor; however, I didn’t talk about Thought Prophet. I know it is a blasphemous idea. How can I discuss it with someone other than my close friends Mushtaq and Irfan in my village. So, I head to Jamrud.
Mr. Monologue 
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