ARTHUR Schopenhauer, the renowned 19th century German philosopher of pessimism, during his stay in Berlin, usually had his lunch in a certain restaurant, which was also frequented by a group of Englishmen, who happened to be staying nearby. As he sat down for his lunch, Schopenhauer was wont to take out a Gold Mark from his pocket and put it on the table. Then he slowly went through his meal, eating it amidst the ceaseless chatter of the irrepressible foreigners from Albion. Lunch finished, the gloomy philosopher put back the gold coin in his pocket and sauntered out of the eatery.
A puzzled waiter finally made bold to speak to the famous professor, respectfully seeking a clarification of this rather whimsical act of the learned man.
“My dear fiend,” reluctantly answered the great scholar with a wry smile, “you see those aliens — the English Herren — who are your customers like myself? Every time I come to your joint for lunch I make a bet with myself that if once I hear these distant cousins not talking about dogs, horses or their sissies, I shall contribute one Gold Mark to charity. Luckily, my gold piece is still with me.”
Walking in the footsteps of the formidable Prussian philosopher, I too have committed myself to a couple of wagers, risking a thousand rupees on each.
FIRST WAGER: I am watching a TV programme. An eminent religious authority, embodiment of piety and learning, is holding forth on a sublime topic. His rhyming and well-rehearsed discourse, cascading like a resonant Niagara of erudition, never fails to impress the listens — men and women, educated and the unlettered, young and old.
Fine and nice, but as I breathlessly listen to the spiritual luminary l make a wishful promise that if, per chance, I hear a word, even a casual or indirect one, from this noble cleric in favour of liberalism, enlightenment and women emancipation, or against feudalism, tribalism, and obscurantism, I shall donate rupees one thousand to the Sattar Edhi Trust.
And similarly so, if I hear his eminence conceding — however grudgingly — that the nation’s spiritual establishment has regrettably been derelict in its grand duty of paving the way for an egalitarian order by upholding women’s rights, and has thus unwittingly collaborated with the enemies of social justice, intellectual advancement and political reform, in entrenching a woefully unfair, repressive and gender-biased milieu, and that, in order to brighten the future for our new generations, a great historical amelioration is now the most pressing national need.
My blue legal tender is still with me because those anointed ones never deviate from their rigid stance and frozen screed.
And, to my further dismay, none of the listeners has ever shown the audacity to voice his or her concern. I shall happily part with my currency note if, once at least, some plucky citizen — a housewife, a professional man, a young student — politely confronts the exalted preacher with a few pointed questions relating to the overdue revolutionary changes in our social, political and economic set-up, our educational system, our mindset, our ethos, our psyche — changes that have beneficially been accepted by most of the other struggling nations of the East and the West.
Alas, both parties — the speakers and the listeners — are in cahoots with each other to deprive good old Sattar Bhai of my contribution.
SECOND WAGER: I am riding a minibus or coach, helplessly inhaling the acrid air thickened by a melange of smells, fumes, chemicals and oils.
My eardrums are pierced by a loud, grating sound of utterly indecent music, rising from the driver’s cassette player installed in the ladies’ section of the vehicle. (By the way, if you are perturbed by the women’s place in our society, you would certainly be disgusted by the women’s place in our public buses). Frequently, this offending music is further embellished by the horny and risque double-entendres of the theatre shows. A sampling:
Hero says to the heroine: O my sweetie, don’t forget to bring along your mom as well, for my dad also needs some fun.
O my lad, come, come; embrace me hard to free me from all worldly worries.
As I am crushed by the milling and jostling bus riders and appalled by the stoic submission of our citizenry, our middle class, our educated gentry, our office-goers, our ladies and gents, I come up with another wager. I undertake to give rupees one thousand to the Ansar Burney Trust, if, amidst this cacophony, I hear a single voice of protest — male or female, old or young — demanding the immediate stopping of this patently licentious, painful and illegal music. I am beaten once more. The bus-driver, the conductor, the passengers — uncomfortable ladies and sweating gents — join hands to defeat me and Ansar Burney.
All our tormentors, right from the denizens of Olympians heights to a lowly bus-driver, are blissfully safe and happy in this land of the pure, whilst the timid citizenry, the jittery hoi polloi, helplessly entangled in a thicket of manifold fears, invariably submits, surrenders and suffers.
So these are my Schopenhauerean wages, dear readers. Have you any of your own?
ARTHUR Schopenhauer, the renowned 19th century German philosopher of pessimism, during his stay in Berlin, usually had his lunch in a certain restaurant, which was also frequented by a group of Englishmen, who happened to be staying nearby. As he sat down for his lunch, Schopenhauer was wont to take out a Gold Mark from his pocket and put it on the table. Then he slowly went through his meal, eating it amidst the ceaseless chatter of the irrepressible foreigners from Albion. Lunch finished, the gloomy philosopher put back the gold coin in his pocket and sauntered out of the eatery.
