Don't trigger the boats

Everyone knew who Farid Tarini was. A mysterious 41-year-old who had arrived out of nowhere, seemingly sent from the heavens to deliver them from the disease of war, famine, and hardship.

Every man, woman, child, and dog knew of this fresh-faced stranger who had saved them from an early extinction. 

Everyone also knew that he was a robot.

But we didn't talk about that. It was the elephant in the room. Except the elephants had gone extinct too. We didn't talk about that either. In a world where death had become commonplace, conversation was limited.

One could find an image of Farid Tarini poking out of the rusty billboard that welcomed visitors to their town. The self-aggrandizing billboard stood tall amidst a dusty wasteland and depicted a grinning six-foot-tall man proudly throwing a fist in the air. His diamond-encrusted navy suit, oversized top hat, and shiny red cowboy boots, stood out in sharp contrast to the deserted moor. It was as though he were mocking the starving armadillos that had gathered below the billboard to sniff out dying termites.

The town itself was starkly different from the barren lands surrounding it. A plush green, oasis of a city, that not long ago many believed was hell on Earth.

This was Sana, the last of the remaining towns standing in a post-apocalyptic world. A city that once comfortably harbored more than three million people, now saw its population reduced to a mere five thousand.

The world had been reduced to rubble, and the radioactive fires that engulfed the surrounding cities isolated their town, effectively putting an end to all forms of trade and communication. It was only a matter of time before this isolation gave birth to lawlessness, unrest and violent crime lords. Meanwhile, if they weren't being killed by malnutrition or warring factions, they were being attacked by wild animals. Centuries of chemical warfare had left them with uncontrolled animal mutations that threatened to annihilate their already weakened population. 

Anwar was six when Farid walked into town, clad in a crisp blue suit, his hair combed to perfection, sporting a goatee that was made prominent by his cheesy grin. Here was a man standing before them in this post apocalyptic world, looking cleaner than a bar of soap. People naturally thought they were hallucinating.

Looking back, it should have been quite obvious that he was a robot.

No one knew where Farid came from. The nearest town was 60 miles away. Between them was an unholy stretch of wasteland, where one might run into a ghoulish creature or two that could tear you apart in seconds. Even if one managed to get past these fearsome creatures, they would then have to swim across fifty miles of toxic water. And if they survived all of that, they still had to get past the three-mile stretch of barbed wire keeping out wild animals.

Farid described himself as a representative of the world. Whatever that meant. People didn't care. They oohed and aahed at his clothes and his clean, shiny skin that they, in hindsight, should have recognized as plastic. But they couldn't have known. It had been a long time since they had met a real human being - the kind untouched by peril, unscathed by the atrocities of this cataclysmic world. Someone who hadn't been flayed raw or had his guts turned inside out. Someone with the innocence of a child.

Of course he was a robot.

It took Farid four decades to fix Sana. These days, Anwar's children played outside after dark. The crime lords had either been silently executed or rehabilitated. The fences were replaced by a fortress. People were vaccinated against all kinds of diseases. The soil had been replenished, and water treatment plants had been built. Life was no longer a struggle and you didn't go to bed thinking it was your last day on the planet.

There was one catch: we couldn't talk about Farid. More specifically, what he was. At first, the townsfolk wrote off all his quirks as their own ignorance. It had been a long time since they themselves had behaved like humans.

But once their lives improved, they began noticing peculiarities in Farid that simply couldn't be ignored, mostly because they had the time to entertain such casual misgivings.

Like when they realized he didn't need to eat or drink. Or that he hadn't aged a day in forty years. Or when they saw him lift a four-thousand pound truck with one hand, or when he detached an arm to beat up a gang of fifty criminals. Or when he flew up in the air, uprooted a nearby fifty-foot-tree and planted it into the ground with one hand.

Yes. We had noticed something was off, but we stayed silent. It was the only rule: to not talk about Farid being a robot. In fact, the word "robot" or any other variant of the word was stricken from our vocabularies. Over time, the word "robot" got shortened to "bot" which was then misspoken as "boat". After four decades of hushed whispers, the most common way of expressing the sentiment became "Don't trigger the boats".

If people didn't acquiesce, they would be removed from the town to be "rehabilitated". Over the years, it became quite common for people to disappear.

The townspeople eventually yielded. It wasn't too much to ask for. After all, they had been given a second shot at life. So who cared if Farid detached his head when he went to sleep? When the head was screwed back on, he was as human as they were, maybe even a tad bit more. Thus, Farid was anointed their leader, bestowed with the highest respect, and treated like a human being.

But soon, there were more Farids. At first, there were little ones, then big ones. Each had a different face but the same plastic skin and cheesy grin.

Everyone knew they were robots, but once again, people weren't allowed to talk about it. They had to turn their heads the other way each time they saw them doing something unnatural.

But the problem arose when the newer models began to look more lifelike. It became impossible for the townsfolk to tell them apart from the actual humans. The robots infiltrated their lives to such an extent that they feared they would pose a threat to their freedom. The time had finally arrived to confront them.

But first, they had to find a way to talk about them.

So the town asked Anwar to come up with a workaround.

-----

It was late in the night when Anwar crept in through the back door of the decrepit town hall. A small group of elderly townspeople had gathered in a dingy room under candlelight to discuss some secret matters. When Anwar walked in, their whispers had become so low that the owls hooted louder.

When the elders saw Anwar walk in, they stopped whispering. Each of them got up from their seat, shook his hand and slightly bowed their heads.

"Did you consult your new pyjamas?" asked Juanita, who was the principal at their newly built school.

"Maybe I flew. I ejected a shower." replied Anwar.

"So you built a carrot then. With or without the rusty birthday cake?" asked another grey haired gentleman, sat to his right.

"I marry the mountains today and love the monkeys tomorrow." replied Anwar to the gentleman.

There was a collective gasp of relief. Some even applauded.

"So my sun has spots in the dishes." concluded Juanita and sat back with her hands folded, seemingly content with the news she just received.

To a casual observer, this conversation might have sounded bonkers. There was no rhyme nor reason to it. They were not talking in metaphors nor were they replacing words. Their sentences, although grammatically correct, didn't make an ounce of sense. It was obvious that you couldn't build a carrot and you couldn't marry a mountain.

But this was the ingenious code that Anwar had devised in order to workaround the famous problem of not being able to talk about the robots.

Anwar knew that the robots could always tell when they talked about them. Their listening sonars were constantly scanning every word spoken in the town. 

But it didn't take long for Anwar to realize that it wasn't necessarily the words that were setting off the alarm but the context in which they were spoken. 

For instance, even if one were to speak about "that" or "them", it would trigger their alerts.  

So Anwar designed an entirely new dictionary that would simply alter the context of what was spoken, making it impossible for the robots to understand. In other words, everything was spoken out of context.

Anwar had just cryptographically confirmed to the elderly townspeople that it had been six months since their new coded system had been implemented and no alarms had yet been triggered, allowing them to finally confirm that the new system worked.

Now that they had discovered a secret language to talk about the robots, the next step was to actually talk about it.

What the townspeople had forgotten along the way was that when conversation dies, so does thought. No one had any ideas about Farid and the robots, because no one had talked about robots in four decades, not even on the down low, since no one wanted to take an unnecessary risk.

So Anwar and the townspeople started at the source. They asked themselves, what is a robot? What is it made of? And who could have built them?

Several months of discussions in an unfamiliar language yielded mixed results. Some suggested the possibility that they were creatures once built by humans who had achieved sentience (a concept that was difficult to convey out of context).

Some had a more positive outlook and argued that the robots were built by scientists who were fixing the world, one town at a time. Others took a more extreme stance and put forward the idea that they might be aliens.

When the discussions led nowhere, Anwar realized it was time to go back to the source: Farid Tarini.

However, Farid had, over the years, become increasingly isolated. He had neither been seen nor heard from in years. Many even thought he had left, especially since his town was flourishing and there were a dozen new robots to keep it in check.

Anwar therefore tried to set up a meeting with their flamboyant leader under the pretext of writing a book about Sana. He must have tapped into some human weakness in Farid, since he agreed, and Anwar got his prized appointment.

On the day of the meeting, Anwar mounted his bicycle and rode all the way to the edge of town, where Farid had built himself the most outrageously opulent mansion. For a robot, he sure did have some things in common with humans.

The mansion was wider than a football field, bathed in white, and so ridiculously large that it cast a shadow on the nearby houses. Legend had it that Farid had built the entire mansion on his own, brick by brick.

Anwar didn't know why Farid needed to put up such an ostentatious display of wealth, but he imagined it was to give people something to aspire to.

Anwar was welcomed at the door by another robot, dressed in a butler's outfit and wearing long white gloves. Its head was held rather high, as though looking at Anwar would besmirch its honor. The robot reluctantly guided him into the mansion.

When Anwar walked into the great hall, he was floored by its grandeur. Highly decorative glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting light on the intricately embroidered silken carpets that made his feet feel like he was floating. Gold handles graced every door and the walls were adorned with exquisite paintings and sculptures.

Anwar was ushered into the living room by the pretentious robot that still had its nose up in the air. It announced Anwar's presence and quickly exited the room.

The room was an immaculately decorated, pristine, living space with plenty of velvety cushions and canapés scattered around. Dark green velour curtains draped the windows, and a golden bar full of strange-looking liquors was setup in one corner. Rows and rows of books lined tall wooden cupboards that adorned each wall. The room had a peculiar scent: a blend of coffee and spice.

Farid was seated in a heavyset armchair when Anwar entered. He remained seated but looked up and grinned at him.

"Welcome, Anwar Malik. I understand you are writing a book. Please have a seat on one of the many comfortable chairs laid out in front of you," said Farid with his usual cheerful grin.

Anwar looked around the room and noticed several dozen chairs. He opted for the one closest to Farid.

Anwar only remembered meeting Farid once in his life. He must have been rather young as well, maybe ten or twelve years old. Strangely, Farid seemed much smaller now. 

Anwar still remembered the moment he had heard about Farid as a six-year-old. They would later describe him as an angel that had dropped from the sky.

Throughout his life, Anwar had pictured Farid as a ten-foot-tall powerful robot who could crush his skull in his palms. Yet, here he was - a feeble man who appeared neither strong nor powerful to him.

"Yes Mr Tarini. I am writing a book on the history of our town. I have been doing my research and I am at the point where you arrived in Sana. I was wondering if you could shed some light on it."

Farid gazed at him intently, his eyes scanning Anwar so intensely that he thought Farid might be reading his mind. The silence was only broken when the butler walked into the room carrying a tray of refreshments.

Anwar accepted the cup of coffee in good faith but didn't fail to notice that Farid did not drink, even though two cups were laid out.

"Aren't you going to have one?"

The butler gasped as though Anwar had dared to speak the unthinkable, but Farid raised his hand at him.

"I try not to have coffee too late these days. It affects my sleep. I am getting old you know." replied Farid nonchalantly.

"Nevertheless, I would say you don't look a day older than 41."

The butler gasped again, and this time he was furious. He brusquely moved towards Anwar to grab hold of him, but Farid got up and shooed him out of the room. Anwar knew he was pushing his luck and wondered at which point he was going to be 'rehabilitated'.

"You have to excuse my butler. He is a bit 'particular'. So you were saying. Ah! I don't look a day older than 41. Well, thank you! Of course I cannot take credit for it. I am a robot, after all. I don't age!"

The butler barged into the room. Anwar's tea cup now lay shattered on the floor, his jaw hanging open in shock.

The butler quickly cleaned up the mess, while Farid kept grinning at a stunned Anwar. He then promptly left the room, as though this was a common occurrence in the mansion.

"What did you say?" asked Anwar in what was barely a whisper.

"I am a robot. So naturally, I don't age. But I am still prone to wear and tear, so we do age in that sense. And coffee certainly doesn't help my circuits," he replied, almost as though he were speaking to himself.

"But...I...How....I thought."

Farid broke out into a fit of laughter. He got up from his seat and moved towards the window, where the sunlight hit his plastic cheeks at an awkward angle.

"You thought you couldn't talk about robots? Or might I say "boats"? Haha!" he continued laughing uproariously.

"I was nevertheless impressed by your ingenuity in developing 'the new language'. Or shall I say 'The oven mitts are hydrating'?"

Anwar was now on his feet, both terrified and confused at the same time. He wanted to leave the mansion, and yet stay to ask more questions.

"You knew about it?" he exclaimed.

"Of course. It didn't take us too long either."

"If you knew, why didn't you do something about it?"

"Do what Mr Malik?"

Anwar hesitated to say it out loud, but Farid had already read his mind by then.

"Do not worry. Your life is not in danger. I agreed to meet with you to help you with your book. Nothing else."

"I don't understand. I thought we weren't allowed to talk about you being a robot. In the past, you made all those people disappear!" Anwar said, his voice quickly rising in panic.

Farid laughed out loud again, this time in a much more condescending way.

"My dear boy. Why would I make them disappear?"

"Then who did?"

"Why, you did."

"Me?"

"All of you did. You stopped them yourselves. It's part of your programming, after all."