Time for “Darwin” to Retire

From The Present Crisis – A Survey and Critical Analysis of the Human Mind As it Exists in Our Time

© 1981 by Gopi Krishna

The main object of The Present Crisis is to prove that Inspiration and Revelation are verifiable phenomena which need the urgent attention of the leading scholars and scientists. It is the investigation of these phenomena that will prune religion of its superstitions and falsehoods, and put science on the track of real religious experience. Though the book deals with the present extremely complex and explosive state of the world, The Present Crisis was completed by Gopi Krishna in his seventy-eighth year in less than three weeks. It is aimed to clear away the cobwebs that have gathered on our political, social and religious systems, and make the human race look at herself in a mirror in such a way that the errors become perceptible.

“I could actually feel a Superior Intelligence intervening when ideas, crystalized into words strung in order like a necklace, floated before my inner vision to be put down on paper. The manner in which the most profound problems of human life are discussed with brevity and precision is so amazing, at least for me, that I am lost in wonder when I recall that many of these paragraphs were written down as if I was copying from an invisible open book in front of me.”

Chapter V: Time for “Darwin” to Retire

Agreed that genes enwomb a wonder-script,
Which stores up knowledge of ancestral traits,
Covering a span of say, a billion years,
Of man’s past human and pre-human life.
But who or what decodes this awesome script,
Which by itself provides a clinching proof
That earthly life is not a play of chance,
As, far above the intelligence which found
The code, a billion-times-more-clever wit
Must have devised it for terrestrial life,
To serve for aeons as a fool-proof guide.
Those who refuse to accept the existence of
This superhuman wisdom clear betray
The working of a sealed, unopen mind,
Which rather than believe in what is clear
As crystal, must its utmost try to hunt
For answers to the riddle, which tend more
Towards absurdity than common sense.
Only a quarter-wit can swallow that
The past-belief, amazing genetic code
Can be the slipshod work of fickle chance!
And when was natural selection born
To make it sure the fittest should survive?
Who laid down the criteria how to sift
The fittest from the unfit, the strong from weak?
How then arose the need for sturdy pines,
That live a thousand years, to bow before
The more evolved evanescent butterflies?
It was a most unlucky day for Man,
When scientists in Europe first embraced
The creed of Darwin, that the advent of life
On earth is more explained by calling Chance
To help than by subscribing to the view
That Wisdom absolute ensouls the world!
The puzzle is why should a galaxy
Of brilliant thinkers be on pins to prove
That all this vast creation, known to us,
Is made of only one insentient stuff,
In which Intelligence is out of bounds,
Debarred from entry by the wit of man:
A most outlandish way to look out for
The right solution of a riddle which
Has baffled mankind for ten thousand years;
To be dismissed abruptly as a fib,
Of no importance for the elite of science,
Upon the strength of observations made
By intellects, themselves completely void
Of knowledge how they know and cogitate:
A state of such extreme confusion that
There is no name one can assign to it.
It is, if not exactly, very like
A man observing, through a jaundiced eye,
The yellow color of the objects seen,
Writing book after book to witness that
The Universe is of a citrine hue,
Without subjecting first his own two orbs
Of light to scrutiny to test their sight.
What self-deception and self-mockery;
For if our mind is but a bastard child
Of chance, a whiff from an organic broth,
A freak creation of dead elements,
A wine distilled from pure, fermented earth,
That means it has no province of its own,
No name, no home, address or parentage,
No friend or kinsman in the universe,
A total stranger from no country, who
Just dropped from the clouds on barren earth;
First seen in funny forms, akin to apes,
Before that costume, heaven alone knows what,
But who, all at once, during recent times,
Began to pose as an authority
On how he first appeared upon this globe,
And finally, through some empiricists,
Discovered he was but a bantling, who,
Surprisingly, believes that what he says
About his pedigree, the universe,
And other topics is pure, gospel truth
That must be sworn to as legitimate!
A foundling, who has not the least idea
About himself, presuming to dictate
That his opinions are beyond dispute,
His spoken words denote the final say,
And his conclusions proven to the hilt:
A coxcomb who declares he is but froth,
And yet demands respect for what he says,
Is anxious to usurp the foremost row,
To have the best of dainties and the creams,
Among the learned and the laity both.
Or, might be, what he says is but a ruse
Only to vent his spite against the church,
Or, by perversity, to earn a name!
Ah, what a clouding of the intellect
To hold a product of capricious chance,
Who has no mark of authenticity,
No stamp attesting to his genuineness,
No firm position in the Universe,
As worth the slightest credence for the thought
Expressed about the Cosmos and himself.
But, strange to say, this freak is much esteemed,
His counsels listened to, his views imbibed,
His books avidly read, his art admired,
His person, too, is honored and revered
By millions in a famous statesman or
Distinguished scholar, priest, musician,
Discoverer, artist, saint, explorer or
Inventor and in other hundred roles.
Some are impressed so well by his exploits
That they nigh worship him as their ideal,
His picture keep uphanging in their rooms,
Or e’er abiding in their loyal hearts,
At no time do they have the slightest thought
That they bow but to an alchemic toy.
If such is his ill fame, why should he be
Awarded prizes and distinctions for
Unique achievements in some worthy cause,
Regarded with respect, applauded loud,
When he addresses a group or talks to friends?
Why then his works of art or melodies,
His songs, his science and philosophy
Have been preserved for many thousand years?
And why none has the courage e’er to say
That all this treasured store, devoutly kept,
Has for its author but a chance-distilled,
Material stuff, as volatile as scent,
No more substantial than a perfume is.
No one, not e’en the evolutionists
Remind a comrade he is but a hoax,
Who has no substance and no lasting worth,
No seal of office or authority,
A mere excrescence of the mortal frame,
Which grows from it to disappear at death,
A glowworm which believes it is the sun,
A stone mistaken for a diamond;
A wraith impersonating as a prince,
A fleeting breath soon to evaporate,
Without disclosing its identity.
A mere non-entity that has no place
Among the elect – an effervescence pure,
Of which no one has solved the riddle yet,
Nor met it face to face to see it close,
Unseen; as if it is not of the earth,
Like to a bubble which dissolves for e’er
Into the water from which it is born;
Not e’en comparable to a grain of sand,
Which has the hope, at least, of lasting life,
Although it might be scattered by the wind,
But is, as matter, indestructible,
More lasting than the transient human soul!
This foaming spirit, when, with knowledge drunk,
Indulges in ill vagaries of thought
Of the sick type we are discussing now;
Evaporating, when the bottle breaks,
To mingle with the void from where it came,
Leaving, at times, a bottleneck behind,
In flagrant theories which when scattered wide,
In tiny bits become embedded in
Precocious brains, to cause the running sores
Now driving Man towards a precipice,
Enticed away from his allotted Path
By some of his own shining intellects,
Among the highest earth has e’er produced,
Lost in the labyrinth of their own wit,
For lack of guidance from the Light Divine.
But uninformed about the Law Divine,
The learned of the age, whose biased minds
Were ill-equipped to pass a verdict on
The riddle of the Origin of Man,
Like Darwin, Monod, and their thinning ranks,
Still in the dark about their very selves,
Their brain, their nervous system, e’en their cells,
Not to say of the driving force of life,
A yet unsolved enigma for the learned;
They cut in hot haste at the tender roots
Of what had been held sacrosanct till then –
The immortal nature of the human soul.
These ill-advised attacks on Soul and God
Made by impatient, superficial minds,
That are still nescient what their blood contains,
Or how their organs, limbs and muscles work,
Or how bees find their way back to their hives,
But keen to pass premature judgments on
The cosmos and their Maker, rush in haste
Where Wisdom fears to tread and, by this heat,
Commit a grave offense against mankind
By rooting out ideas instilled by faith,
Leaving a blank for charlatans to fill.
It is a riddle how a learned mind,
Which is still floundering in the deep morass
Of scores of major problems that demand
Solution – like the working of the brain –
Should leave them still unsolved to run in haste
To throw a bombshell at the astonished ranks
Of science, leaving them to prove the truth
Of the explosion caused for centuries,
In learned courts, and spend enormous sums
To bear witness in a concocted suit.
The argument that hundreds of astute
And well-known savants, after study deep
And wide research, confirm the theory, taught
All o’er the earth, and treat it as if proved,
Does not take into account the saying old,
That there can be, what happens every day,
A slip between the cup and opened lip.
The time has come for “Darwin” to retire,
Leaving his once redoubtable name among
The authors of exploded myths, who did
Incurable harm to a devout mankind.