Everyone knows Dr. Intelligent Sulphate—a towering scientist, obsessive researcher, and formidable carnivore. His fame stretches from Mohenjo-daro to Babylon, and everywhere in between.
Years ago, when he lived a quiet, almost anonymous life, his house was in our neighborhood, Bhagganpura. I often found him in his living room, absorbed in experiments that made even the bravest student’s stomach churn. It was during this period that he unveiled his celebrated theory: “Radishes Can Solve the Gas Shortage.” European scientists apparently read it and recommended a continent-wide radish diet to ease their energy crisis. Everyone could generate their own gas, and the Ministry of Energy could finally breathe easy.
I frequently witnessed him tackling absurdly difficult experiments—killing fly after fly, removing hair with surgical precision. The obsession and determination he displayed would have made Newton and Einstein weep.
Then disaster struck. His house exploded while he was trying to invent a medicine by mixing toilet cleaner with blue vitriol—a formula designed to exterminate parasites allegedly living inside humans. The house was obliterated. Otherwise, this miracle drug would already be on pharmacy shelves, and the world’s parasitic worms would have been history. But apparently, Mother Nature doesn’t approve of cruelty to parasites.
Afterward, local strongman Athra Pehlwan claimed the ruins as national heritage. Dr. Sulphate relocated to a modest rented home in Savannabad, taking only what survived the explosion.
These days, atop the rubble of his old house, Athra Pehlwan hosts cockfights, turning the site into a peculiar cultural landmark. Science may have lost a building, but the national sport thrives.
Even after moving, Dr. Sulphate’s heart remained in Bhagganpura. Every Thursday after sunset, he returns silently, sheds a few tears over his lost home, blesses Athra Pehlwan, and disappears.
One Thursday, I insisted he stay for tea. I seated him on the carpet, removed my shoes and socks, served tea, and joined him. For three or four hours, we debated. I argued that many great scientific discoveries—medicines, treatments, and inventions—had been accidental. He refused to concede: every discovery, he insisted, came from relentless research and labor. Neither of us budged.
Later, around three in the morning, my phone rang. It was Dr. Sulphate.
“Why call so late?” I groggily asked.
“My friend,” he said, “during our debate tonight I refused your point. But now… I’m convinced. Some discoveries really are accidental.”
“How so, at three in the morning?” I asked.
“My nose,” he said. “It’s been blocked for years. I’d forgotten what fragrance even was. But tonight…”
“But tonight what?” I interrupted.
“Tonight, I smelled your socks. The ones I wore after you left them behind to keep warm. By God, the smell cleared my blocked nose completely.”
I sat in stunned silence. Then mischief struck.
“Doctor Sahib,” I said, “could you smell them again, identify the chemical, and we could reproduce it in a lab? Imagine the profits!”
He listened patiently. “Sure, the chemical can be identified. But here’s the problem: who would dare smell them again? Only a heroic man with a blocked nose could survive. Anyone else would drop dead. Still, I think I’ll send your socks to an ENT clinic. Maybe they can help patients with nasal congestion.”
And thus, science marches on—radishes, socks, explosions, and all.
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