Playing God

“Snap! went the fox and that was the end of the gingerbread man.” I end the story lamely. I had fielded at least a dozen questions from my 4-year-old by then – “How can the gingerbread man run?” “What is gingerbread?” “Can I make a gingerbread man?” “Can I make him run?” “How can the cow drink tea?” etc. etc. I shushed her each time not because I couldn’t answer the questions, which I might have been able to with staid matter-of-factness, but because I wanted to finish reading yet another fantastical but predictable story.

When she closes the book and runs to ride her bike, I rummage through her rack, leaf through a bunch of books, and ponder – on fairy tales and life and magic and playing god. Granting life to inanimate objects seems to be archetypical in children’s stories – just like our gingerbread man who comes to life and runs out of the oven. Fairy tales are full of them. Take a look at Pinocchio. Gestappo, an average woodcarver, makes a marionette from wood and accidentally gives it life. After many adventures, some of them as tedious as they come, Pinocchio, with his inexplicably morally conscious nose, finally comes of age and becomes a real boy. Thumbelina grows out of a magic seed given by a wise old woman. We have magic oranges that become beautiful maidens, a metal pig who can run when an innocent boy sits on it, a toy tin soldier who falls in love with a paper ballerina, and even an entire clock-work marching up to defend their clock-maker. Even in Cinderella, there is a convenient fairy godmother making horses out of mice and chariots out of pumpkins.

Making inanimate animate is not restricted to children’s stories alone. Victor Frankenstein creates a monster, gives it life, and later pays a heavy price for his irresponsibility. Perhaps an allegorical novel, it nevertheless highlights our preoccupation with playing god. Or take the case of Pygmalion. The statue he carves is so beautiful that he falls in love with it. Cynics of the present day might write it off as an acute case of agalmatophilia (attraction to statues, dolls, etc.), but the fact remains that the statue did come to life because of the sculptor’s devotion.

We have our own Indian equivalent in many legends and myths. A lump of flesh can become a hundred sons and a daughter. A clay statue can transform to a god, a rock can become a beautiful lady by a touch, or trees can turn into young men.

It is intriguing that across cultures and across ages, man has searched, dreamt, and written about creating life and achieving immortality. Is the act of creating life and playing god so entertaining or is it just a rudimentary impulse in man which gives rise to these fantasies? The search for the elixir of life or that elusive philosopher’s stone is ingrained in man’s psyche. A tiniest portion of the elixir or ambrosia or amrut or dancing water or aab-e-hayat, call what you will, will rejuvenate you – nay, make you immortal. Man can be omnipotent. Man can be god.

Where miracles and fairies and magic and potions don’t work, ingenuity might. Life might still be created in a lab from nonlife. If scientists can induce life to a lab-made genome and make it grow and reproduce, how close are we to playing god? Or rather, how far? Can we, as a megalomaniac race, wait that long?

I take out my daughter’s Play-Doh. I make a clay man similar to our gingerbread man, with shining black eyes, a red nose, and a wide grin. I even make two buttons for the coat. I make him stand up and I sit back. I am waiting for him to run.