NO DISRUPTION PLEASE

Short Story: ‘If there is one profession that needs to be disrupted, it is this one, M said passionately. ‘These priests are people who come between the people and God. They act as middlemen and project themselves as superior beings. If you look at it dispassionately, machines can do their tasks equally well, if not better.’

By Ajith Pillai

All characters and contexts in this short story are a work of fiction authored by the writer. The views expressed in this story solely belongs to the author, and do not necessarily reflect the editorial opinion of this media portal.

Whenever despondency weighed him down, M rushed back to the sprawling 10,000 square feet space called ‘Home’. He found strange comfort in the geometry of the rooms and the privacy they provided. Within the confines of his deluxe apartment, there was no one to question him or bring him good news or bad. The robots who served him could be deactivated, and the lines of communication could be put on standby mode, rendering him temporarily incommunicado. He could think and introspect, count his gains and losses or let his mind wander.

Also, the air inside his den on the 186th floor felt much more invigorating once M switched on the oxygen stabiliser. The mix was perfect -- 78.09 per cent nitrogen and 20.95 per cent oxygen, and that too minus pollutants. Outside, the air levels were stifling, allowing no more than non-strenuous activity. The Suprafone updated him half-hourly on the O2 and pollution levels in the megalopolis, but he had stopped bothering. Like other citizens of Delhi, he was aware that the air quality fluctuated between hazardous and extremely hazardous. But keeping track of marginal improvement and deterioration was no cause for celebration or despair.

Unlike many others he knew, M did not allow himself to be carried away by the arrogance the rich often indulged in. Perhaps this was because, at the back of his mind, lurked the fear that the day his money ran out, he, too, could be downsized to live like a lesser mortal. He had witnessed several riches-to-rags stories to understand the fate that awaited those who invoked the displeasure of those in power or were cursed with a downturn in their fortunes.

Such sobering thoughts ensured M counted his blessings for being rewarded with a fulfilling existence relatively early in life. He had struck gold at 20 when his partnership with a school friend caused a significant disruption in the music industry. Many experts believed it rivaled the digital revolution of the early 2000s, which rendered the traditional sale of music on compact discs defunct and paved the way for free or inexpensive online music access.

But M’s innovation — the Melody Generator (MG) — achieved a lot more than that. His device --- a square-shaped box which sat easily on any bedside table --- could compose music from samples on demand. On a keypad, which fitted into the palm or could be downloaded on the Suprafone, the genre of music, the preferred style, nature of lyrics, tone, and tempo could be punched in, and the machine would instantly compose a clutch of songs which poured out through high-performance speakers. It was like listening to customised music made exclusively for your listening pleasure.

The MG was hailed as a versatile, user-friendly AI innovation that straddled virtually every genre of music past and present—from Bollywood to classic rock, mood rock, happiness blues, post-electronic dancehall, robot rock, raga funk, folk punk, jazz, reggae, bubble-gum pop, tribal music, and what have you. It covered 450 different styles and categories.

The invention disrupted and rocked the music industry. Websites showcasing new releases and old hits reported a drastic decline in visitors as more and more people switched to the MG. An advanced customised version—the MG-Extraordinaire (MGE)--came out two years after the first model's launch. It immediately spread panic among composers and musicians because it rendered them redundant.

This was because the machine was unique in that it could be directed through special commands to compose original material not derived from existing music or voice samples. This added a new dimension to sound production and design because the MGE could translate musical ideas and concepts into compositions that could be copyrighted.


It could also feed inputs to specially designed robots, enabling them to perform live songs on stage. One of the first compositions by the MGE for the film, Kosmic Masala, was a super hit, and the singer Robot Rafi was launched.

The success rang alarm bells and was perceived as a threat by performing artists, session musicians, lyricwriters, and music directors. Desperate trade associations petitioned the government and persuaded it to ban the new generator.

That was three years ago. After the musicians' bodies successfully managed to halt the production of the MGE and disable the machines that had already been sold, other voices stepped forward seeking a total ban on future disruptions. What started as a series of demonstrations by rights organisations in Delhi spread throughout the country as a larger ‘Right to Work’ campaign.

A year later, their efforts bore fruit. Under pressure, the government declared all new forms of innovation that took away jobs illegal. An Ordinance issued detailing the new law was terse and explicit:

“The introduction of new systems (digital, computerised or others) which are designed either to replace or limit human engagement, is henceforth prohibited. The only exception to this rule will be special projects which have the approval of a high-powered clearing agency-- AI and Robotic Projects Authority of India (ARPAI)-- to be set up by the government. While existing networks/systems/ arrangements will be allowed to continue operations, any fresh attempt at disruption, without prior approval, will attract severe punitive action, including the death penalty. Such a stringent law has been introduced because, despite citizens being guaranteed universal basic income, it is felt that some form of employment/occupation is required for the mental well-being of the larger population. As a nation, we cannot suffer any more job losses to automation or AI.”

Since the manufacture of the MGE was halted, M and Samarkand, aka Samar, found themselves at a loose end. They could see no future ahead with their only passion—disruption—declared illegal. It was like a writer waking up one morning to find the use of the alphabet banned.

“At least we are gainfully unemployed,” Samar said, trying to console his friend. “The MGE may have been banned. However, the sales graph of our first machine, the MG, had not stopped zooming. Our product is still moving like hotcakes. So, rest assured, we can afford to retire from life while the money keeps coming in,” he added.

But that did not relieve M of the unease that he felt ever since the ban. It was an unease prompted by the realisation that he had been reduced to a genius without a job.

Thoroughly confused, M toyed with the idea of regressive innovation (the new buzzword), which would generate jobs. But that would be like reintroducing antiquated systems and replacing AI efficiency with human inefficiency. He wondered if there could be any serious takers for that.

M went out for a walk when he felt muddled in his mind. The polluted air hit him on the street, but he walked unmindful of the pressure on his lungs. When exhaustion overcame him, he stopped at one of the premium Lounge Stations. A signboard before it beckoned passers-by, promising,Superior Highs. No hangovers. Great music. Clean Air.

In the past, such recreational places would have been called bars. But things had changed. Designer medication, which induced the same high minus side effects, took over ever since the ban on alcoholic drinks some years ago. The government distributed the pills and potions at the lounge stations open 24/7—another example, M noted, of disruption having done the trick. The pharma whizz kids ran the liquor industry out of business.

A robot waiter who came to take his order interrupted M's chain of thoughts. “A dose equivalent to two pints of draught,” M said without considering other options. He downed the two pills offered to him with a glass of lemon barley water. He then slunk into his chair and slipped into a reverie.

Looking back, M was struck by the fact that he had grown up with disruption all around him. Everyone with a bright mind, it seemed, was innovating to undo something or the other. And with each innovation, jobs were being lost to machines. It was only a matter of time before a sizeable majority of the population became dependent on the government's universal basic income (UBI) for its upkeep.

Jobless citizens spent their time and money at subsidised Lounge Stations getting high or at downmarket Recreational Centres and Pleasure Domes satisfying their carnal desires.

Unmindful of the music, M focused on his future. Was there anything left for disrupters like him after the ban? Precious little, he reckoned. Admittedly, as things stood, there were only two areas he could think of which were largely untouched by the sweep of technology– human procreation and religion. To use an archaic expression, they were the holy cows that no one dared disturb.

This was strange, at least in the first case, because genetic science had the knowledge to replicate human beings. But even half attempts—and one by the Indian government-- to take over the ‘hatching of homo sapiens’ was met with stiff public resistance.

A decade ago, one party in power fell after riots broke out when the blueprint to produce genetically engineered humans was exposed by a journalist. The government's plans triggered outrage because they included a devious design to create a population programmed to vote for a single party and ideology during its lifetime.

M surely had no intention of participating in any project that created made-to-order humans with government—or corporate-approved traits. That left religion. Except for a few superficial changes, it had remained unchanged.

However, there was one low-hanging fruit—the priests and the rituals they conducted. On the face of it, the duties executed by clerics or pujaris were those that machines could easily duplicate. Surely, if technology provided the framework, then it would not be impossible to envisage churches, mosques, and temples of the future being run by humanoid priests.

M was aware that creating android priests would be a challenge. Programming a robot to conduct rituals was the easy part. However, priests were also required to impart advice and wisdom to devotees. M realised that the key was to provide the AI-driven priest a range of inputs covering philosophy, psychology, theology, and a wide gamut of literature touching on what one would call the ‘larger’ human experience. Coding all that and making it accessible for a robot to put to appropriate use was a tall order. Still, he instantly felt it was a challenge that excited him immensely.

But, would the government approve of his idea?

After careful consideration, M knew it would be foolish to even try to obtain clearance before starting work. A better strategy, he felt, would be to develop a prototype and present it before the high-powered government committee for approval. The committee might then take kindly to the idea and even give its assent.

After a rather long lull, M could sense a storm brewing in his mind.

It had been 18 long months since he began his robot priest project. M had conducted his work in utmost isolation ina flat he had especially rented in a distant suburb. To ensure secrecy, he deliberately kept his new workplace snoop-proof.

He even stopped using his vehicle to drive to his hideout. Every morning, he would dutifully report for work at his corporate office, slip out before lunch, and head to his ‘lab’ in the suburbs. At his office, the general perception was that M had decided to take life easy.

Little did they know how busy he had kept himself for the last year-and-a-half. For the first six months, M devoted himself to reading everything he could about religion. Next, he researched the duties and responsibilities of priests and the training that clerics and pujaris undergo. Then, he visited several places of worship and took elaborate mental notes, interviewing believers. Finally, he began coding.

During his months of toil, M had often toyed with the idea of making Samar privy to his project. However, given that he had not sought prior government approval, he decided to take his business partner into confidence once the prototype was ready.

That moment arrived 18 long months after he set out on his mission. It all happened on a fateful Monday evening when he casually invited his friend to come with him for a drive. “I have a surprise lined up for you,” M said in a half-conspiratorial tone.

That was enough to arouse Samar’s curiosity. “Don’t tell me you have given up bachelorhood to get married. Or, have you designed a super new version of the MG?” he speculated.

M evaded an answer, even refusing to offer a clue. Once inside the flat turned workstation, M was all business. He unveiled his creation with a flourish.

“What, an android priest!” Samar exclaimed even as the contraption launched into a Sunday sermon. Then, with the switch of a button, it transformed into a pujari in a temple.

“What we have is a basic prototype of the device. When the final product is developed, it will be able to function as a priest of every major faith practised in this country,” M explained with a measure of pride.

“But can your innovation go beyond leading prayers, chanting mantras and conducting rituals? You know, priestly duties include much more than that,” Samar wondered.

“Yes, it can fulfil all other functions—from reading and interpreting the holy texts, providing counsel and advice to devotees, creating awareness and spreading the word of God. You name it, and my robot priest does it. Let me demonstrate,” said M, indulging in a little hard sell.

With that, he instructed the robot to showcase its skills. Samar was speechless.

“This is fantastic—incredibly realistic and original. Has your project been approved by the government?”

“I thought I would develop a prototype before approaching the ARPAI, which clears new projects. A live demo, I felt, will be more convincing than a proposal,” M said, adding that he had kept his project completely under wraps. “I have not breathed a word about it to anyone. You are the first person to be privy to my creation.”

“I am sure the ARPAI’s committee will be as impressed as I am,” Samar said, patting his friend on the back. “My only worry is whether objections will be raised because your device will add to the joblessness and render priests redundant.”

“If there is one profession that needs to be disrupted, it is this one,” M said passionately. “These priests are people who come between the people and God. They act as middlemen and project themselves as superior beings. If you look at it dispassionately, machines can do their tasks equally well, if not better.”

“I agree,” Samar interjected. “I do not doubt that this invention, if approved, will revolutionise religious practice. However, there will be many objections to introducing artificial elements into the religious process. Now, don’t think I am trying to burst your enthusiasm, but you must be fully prepared to answer uncomfortable questions from the committee.”

M said that he was ready for the worst. “In the last century, several professions were disrupted, which were far more honourable and useful than this one, so I don’t see why there should be any severe heartburn.”

“It’s all about power and control. Many in the government would not approve of dehumanising the process,” Samar pointed out.

M could sense a faint disapproval in his friend’s voice. “I hope you are not suggesting that I scrap the project.”

“No, no,” Samar said, raising his voice. “That’s not my intention. I am merely preparing you for an unfavourable response, which to my mind seems quite inevitable. If that happens, it should not come as a shock.”

M had expected Samar to be supportive, but his friend did not seem enthusiastic. So, M quickly wound up the demonstration and bid him farewell. He later popped a ‘double pill of whisky’ and began carefully keying in a request for an appointment with the ARPAI the following week.

He was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. It was the police. M opened the door to let in a robot inspector and three constables, accompanied by a gentleman from the dreaded Citizen Inquisition Agency (CIA). The latter identified himself as Officer 3432.

“You have to come with us,” he said, handing M a warrant of arrest.

“But what happened?” The late-night call took M aback.

“It’s got to do with your robot project,” the man from the CIA said in a matter-of-fact tone. “We understand you have been indulging in anti-national acts. So, I have been directed to seize your work, seal your flat and take you in for questioning.”

“But I have merely developed a prototype to be presented to the ARPAI for approval,” M protested.

“We will see whether you are guilty or innocent. Come voluntarily, and you walk out with dignity. If you don’t, I will have to instruct the constables to take you away forcibly,” Officer 3432 continued in his deadpan voice.

M chose not to resist. On his way to the CIA headquarters, he asked the officer how the project had come to the authorities' attention. “Well, the government has its eyes and ears,” he said without revealing much. “We also received a tip from one of your colleagues.”

It was almost like M’s worst suspicions had come true. Samarkand Mani, his associate and long-time buddy from school, had betrayed his trust. M could visualise him alerting the CIA to score loyalty points with the government. M was truly shattered.

Two days after his midnight arrest, the Special CIA court handed M a guilty verdict with no right to appeal. As part of his punishment, the court directed that he be transferred the following week to a secret state-run correction and reorientation centre where errant citizens were “instructed and persuaded to serve the country productively”.

On the last evening before his transfer, his lawyer shared with him a copy of the secret note from the home department submitted to the court. It had two paragraphs devoted to religion, which M found illustrative of the government's mindset. It read:

“Religion and its practice cannot be disrupted. While it is true that robotic devices can carry out the duties of a priest effectively, it is felt that these machines will lack what is called the human touch. It must be remembered that religion not only serves as a binding factor that holds together those who pursue a faith, but it also provides solace in the face of emotional and personal suffering. Such support will be limited if it comes from a mechanical device. Moreover, religion has many roles to play in society. Though rooted in ancient customs and the belief in a supernatural force, it is dynamic and must be constantly moulded and manipulated to suit the needs of governance. Some changes may be misinterpreted as unfair or incompatible, and resisted by robots. An unfavourable response from such machines is likely to come in the way of the use of religion by the State for effective governance and people-control…

“Finally, and most importantly, competing religions and the fight for supremacy often lend a purpose for human existence, already in a quasi-utopian zone where the need to work is no longer an essential criterion. Thanks to Universal Basic Income (UBI) and the State subsidising all needs and even excesses, citizens today must be provided with some form of motivation to keep their competitive instinct alive. And that is provided by religion. The constant pressure of proving that my God and religion are mightier than your God and religion keeps the masses, who have given up on pursuing wealth or excellence, going. Given this situation, robots may fail to sustain this friction between communities, so essential to any divide and rule policy of the government. It is, therefore, essential to see any act of disruption vis-à-vis religion as anti-State…”

In his padded cell, M ruminated over all that had transpired in the last few days. He now fully understood what it meant to be hounded by the government. Left to himself, he also thought about the fate that awaited him. He began to envisage disturbing and fear-inducing possibilities till a prison attendant administered an anaesthetic to ensure he did not stay awake.

That night he dreamt of hurtling down a dark tunnel with no light at the end of it…

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A seasoned journalist working in the profession for 40 years, Ajith Pillai has reported out of Delhi, Mumbai, Chennai, Andhra Pradesh and Kashmir on a broad spectrum of events related to politics, crime, conflict and social change. He has worked with leading publications, including The Sunday Observer, Indian Post, Pioneer, The Week and India Today, where he headed the Chennai bureau. He was part of the team under Editor Vinod Mehta that launched Outlook magazine and headed its current affairs section till 2012. Under his watch, Outlook broke several stories that attracted national attention and questioned the government of the day. He has written two books—’Off the Record: Untold Stories from a Reporter’s Diary,’ and a novel, ’Junkland Journeys’. He is currently working on ’Obedient Editor’, a satirical novel on the life and times of a ‘compromised’ journalist. The short story presented here is from a collection that is awaiting publication.