Keeping it Real

For my Introduction to Philosophy class we were asked to write a 350 word essay on "What is reality?". I decided to write a considerably longer short-story version. Even if Mrs. Hauftman doesn't accept it, here it is..enjoy.

Tushar walked down the path beyond the village with long determined strides. As the light of the campfire and the din of the feast faded behind him, the dim claustrophobia of the forest threatened to engulf him. But Tushar had walked this path hundreds of times in the past and he brushed off his fear as he reached the tiny hut. His feet had taken him where his eyes could not, and gratefully, he knocked at the door.

“Come in child,” said a voice from within. Tushar entered and saw the familiar figure of Shantiman sitting cross-legged on the floor with a hookah trailing from his lips and a lingering moist fume around him.

Tushar sat down and said, “Why didn’t you come to the ceremony.”

“You know I don’t care for that sort of thing anymore Tushar.”

“You know what Shantiman, I refuse to go about banging my stupid drum at these village ceremonies anymore!” Tushar burst out rather angrily.

“Why is that young one?”

“It makes no sense to me, these rituals. And the Chief’s sermons! They are horrible. I don’t see why I should believe his version of things if I haven’t seen them for myself. Sometimes I think he is just creating something for the villagers to believe in, just off the top of his head. He is just making up a reality as he goes along, his version of things. As long as his version and his theology are consistent, everyone seems fine with it. I am not!” said Tushar.

Throughout Tushar’s speech Shantiman had done little but nod. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. Tushar knew that Shantiman would get around to responding, but he was too fired up and impatient to wait on the old man’s quirks.

“Well? Is he right? Is all that mumbo jumbo true? Is that reality? What is reality Shantiman?”

Shantiman slowly opened his eyes, revealing their deep brown age as he said, “Those are big questions Tushar. Do you know what is speaking to me? Your discontentment. That is in no way a bad thing. For, from discontentment, do you know what arises? Questions. And do you know what makes you different from the rest of he village, different from the Chief?”

“What?”

“You have the courage to ask questions.”

“But will I get answers?” asked Tushar.

“Probably not. Reality is not some little book that no one but the Chief has access to. He doesn’t know any better than you or I, but he knows people better than we do. He is feeding their needs. But let him do what he is best at. What he has to say will not answer your questions.”

“Then what will Shantiman?”

“I told you already, nothing. Well, not fully at least.” Shantiman took another long puff from the hookah.

Tushar’s impatience was growing. He has learnt everything from fishing to how to thatch a roof from Shantiman, but Shantiman’s enigmatic responses were beginning to irritate him. He got up and began to pace around the tiny room.

“What do you mean, nothing? You’re beginning to sound like the Chief now.”

“What I mean is that reality can’t be experienced unless you ask those questions. The end is reality Tushar, and the means is to question. Don’t ever be content with someone else’s explanation of things, not even mine. But each time you question, you will see a little glimpse of reality revealed. Reality is not a static phenomenon, its personal and dynamic. The Chief’s words will only hide your own reality from you. The key to unlocking it is in the questions.”

“So you’re saying that I can keep questioning and never hope to get a full answer, just half truths?” asked Tushar.

“Not half-truths young one, glimpses.” Shantiman closed his eyes again, as if preparing for another long session of peaceful repose.

“Then what’s the use, if I can’t see the whole picture?”

“Now you sound like one of the villagers, lapping up the Chief’s words because they don’t know any better,” Shantiman replied. “Beware, by discontentment, I do not mean cynicism. Search, but believe that the search is worth something. To be blinded by one’s own cynicism is even more unfortunate than to be blinded by the ranting of the Chief.”

“So do you mean reality is nothing but questions?”

“Well, yes, something like that.”

“But how will I know when I’m actually seeing it?”

“How did you get here Tushar?”

“I walked.”

“Did you hesitate? Did you stumble? No. That’s because even though you could not see, your feet knew where to go. You trusted your feet to take you there, since you had walked that path, even in the dark, so many times. When you look for reality, don’t be afraid to let your feet do the searching, or your nose do the hearing. But be sure to let your mind do the questioning. The glimpses will come unexpectedly. The more you do it, the better you will become.”

Tushar paused for a moment. “But...Shantiman..”

“Tushar, I hate to be impolite, but I need some sleep. That ghastly drumming has kept me awake. Go home for now. Sleep on the matter. We’ll talk about it some more tomorrow.”

Tushar sighed as Shantiman set aside his hookah and lay down to sleep.

A New Country, A New College: The First Day

My first class today was of Economic ilk
An old cow of a teacher, Run of the Mil(k)
The blonde to my left, i will not maligne
But the beast to my right was eminently bovine.
Fenced in by cudders of aspects benign
Beware of the udders, I masticated my time
With talk of econ., micro and Smith, Adam
You bored my head to a snooze, dear Madam,
Or "ma'am", if you will, for the abbreviation-inclined
But whichever way I say it, I'm sure you wont mind.
One thing I find about these American teachers is that they are not too big on respect
You dont have to hail, salute, make appeasement sacrifices, wear sack cloth and ashes or genuflect
No curtsies, bows or such hullabaloo
A simple "hello" will do.

Thus did I come upon the one o' clock hour
With my expectations expectant and my mood, sour .
English one-oh-one, for the uninitaied
Involves writing and reading, opinionated
On matters of culture, politcs and race
While Ms. Cooper rattles on at a furious pace
On grading and points, negatives and plusses,
On detailed syllabi, or is it syllabusses ?
But whichever way its read, pronounced or defined
I'm sure Ms. Cooper won't mind.
One thing I have found about American teachers is that one's i's needn't be crossed, nor one's t's dotted
Nor must I read the chapters in advance, have them summarized and feverishly swotted
A decent grade point average will suffice.
You know, I think it could be quite nice.