This piece is part of an on-going series of blogposts from the frontlines of Startup Tunnel, a new incubator based in New Delhi. You might also want to check out dispatches one, two, three and four.
Having commissioned a new suit of armor, the emperor Akbar was now in the process of inspecting it. Installed upon a stone mannequin in the armory workshop, black bell metal and brass accents gleamed back upon the badshah and his vazir Birbal. Fresh from recent campaigns, the emperor now said he wanted to be sure of the quality of protection it offered. And so he called for a lance, with which he reared back and then charged upon the mannequin. He was able, after a few tries, to pierce all the small slits of the helmet. He asked for a sword and tore apart the subtle slits between the body armor and the helmet. He asked for a mace and went at the now headless mannequin and cracked the chain metal links all around its torso. Even now that it had fallen upon the floor of the workshop, Akbar was still working out his PTSD on that prone suit of armor and the lifeless dummy within. When he was done, he looked up and declared it to be a lousy suit, practically the same as wearing nothing at all.
Perhaps you already know the end of this parable? Perhaps you have heard some other version of it? I'm not sure when I first encountered it, either at the back of an Amar Chitra Katha or else perhaps among a collection of stories from Iran. Either way, it has stuck in the mind, long awaiting the unraveling. There is something so shocking about seeing a new suit of armor being destroyed like that, something like a medieval crash test. One knows not what to make of what is going on, nor even how to respond to Akbar's judgement. Is a suit of armor really useless if it cannot survive many minutes of the untamed rage of a battle hardened king?
The badshah is about turn his fury onto his smith, when Birbal suggests that they give him a sharp warning and a week to build another prototype. The next week, when Akbar returns to the workshop to inspect the new piece he finds Birbal already there, wearing the emperor's battle armor and spoiling for sport. It is new and improved, he says, have at me and I'll show you. Akbar is eventually goaded into picking up a lance. He makes straight for Birbal, who steps lithely aside, pulls the lance forward, tripping Akbar forward and landing him on all four. Now that someone's wearing it, he grins, it's begun working pretty well.
On the face of it, this would seem to be a parable about how an artifact changes with use — an early instance of user-centered thinking about human artifacts. But there's something a bit tricky about how a suit of armor is best used and what its function really is. Birbal's response is cryptic, and it forces you to think about the whole the point of battle armor: it must not only resist onslaught, but allow its wearer to move about and conduct battle. This little fable sticks in the mind is because of the way it shifts between offence and defence, between object and agent. That little shift of the mind, between a closed and essentially reactive reference frame and a horizon of open possibilities is sudden and complete. It cannot arise gradually and it has no continuity with that earlier way of thinking.
You will remember, reader, that I've signed up to share a more prosaic kind of story, about the setting up of a new kind of business in a more prosaic time in a global city whose air is already thick with pollution and corruption and crony capitalism.