"You will burn in eternal hell-fire if you go on barking out such rubbish. Fear Allah's wrath and the Day of Judgment before you open your mouth wondering what reality is. Stay away from your accursed atheist uncle. Benazir Bhutto will die a dog's death with her band of sinners. She has converted my brother to supporting, Allah forbid, a woman's government. I will not let her destroy you. If I don't see you in the mosque from tomorrow on, I will break your legs. Thank God your mother is not alive. What would she think of you and your uncle?"
Imran was now used to his father's threatful outbursts, which could never materialize because the old man would leave for the mosque early in the morning and return late in the night. He never knew what his mother would have thought of him. She had died moments after his birth. But he did understand why his father, despite being the prayer leader of the neighboring mosque and a man of modest income, had allowed him to continue his studies in a liberal institution like the Government College: he wanted him to become a "government officer" after passing BA.
And yet despite the father, the mosque, the uncle, the mother and a woman's government the question was: "What is reality? Where can I find it?"
But no one had ever found reality. How could he?
Now Imran had reached a stage where every philosophical question would sizzle up into anti-space. His love of philosophy, no matter with a small "r" or the capital one, had led him to an inevitable cul-de-sac: "Whats" and "Whys" of reality were the constant brain-bogglers that would haul him from breakfast toast to midnight sleeping euphoria.
Ms Rani was by general consensus the most beautiful woman who had ever been in the Government College. She was a philosophy lecturer engaged exclusively in post- graduate teaching. She was known to be a feminist, an atheist and a close friend of Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto. Every male in the College, teacher or student, had a crush on her, but few ever dared get close to her. There were innumerable rumors circulating about her. She was not Imran's teacher, but one day he found himself in her room. He was not puzzled to find himself there. He was just there.
Ms Rani was very polite. Although Imran had seen her hundreds of times, it was for the first time that they were at such a close range. He saw a very sharp nose, long hazel eyes, two thick bows of eyebrows, well-chiseled lips, broad forehead, a well- carved chin, and two cheeks that would constantly concave into dimples in the middle. Her thick black hair provided a perfect background to a very fair skin. Her semi-lit room only enhanced her facial glow.
"Reality! Am I not a reality dear?" she replied looking into Imran's eyes; her tongue
varnished the upper lip.
He was lost for word, but he managed to squeak tentatively,
"Would you be saying the same thing twenty years from now?"
She gave a tinkling laugh.
"Well," she began, "You remind me of my own student days. I had fascination for so
many things. Tall men always attracted me. Then I went to London on a scholarship.
There were so many Asian girls around. Most of them wanted white male friends. They
believed that the whites were great and innovative in bed. They also believed that
unlike Asians, especially Pakistanis, if they had sex with whites, they would keep it
secret. Soon I got one, old enough to be my father. But walking about him hand-in-
hand gave me a great sense of pride and superiority over so many of them. That was a
complete reality for me. We got married, but there was nothing special about his ways.
I got divorce before returning to Pakistan. Then I started thinking about reality .
Anyway. I must answer your question. The reality is that two parallel lines do not
meet."
"Yes," Imran started after waiting so long, "you are right in that only if you are using
the Euclidean axiom of geometry. But if you use another axiom, you might prove
otherwise."
Ms Rani leaned forward to have a closer look at Imran. She must have been impressed
by his answer. She said,
"Don't you see the wonders of science my dear? Don't you think science is reality?"
To which Imran replied,
"Science's blunders are greater than its wonders. But what is science? There is not a
single definition of science. No two scientists agree on one definition. How can
something be real if you cannot define it properly and universally? Greek Sophists had
their own brand of science that they used to claim that reality was never of an absolute
nature. They could prove the milk was black if they were paid a few coins. Socratic
science of reality ran contrary to theirs. And what about mathematics, that perfect
branch of science? Experience has shown that at times mathematical truths are not
situational truths. "
The monologue would have delivered a metaphysical blow if it had been someone
other than Ms Rani. But she was a person with the right kind of understanding. She
gave a faint yet mischievous smile and said,
"Okay, I have got an answer to your question."
"Madame," said the young skeptic, his eyes flashing.
"Yes," began she, "The only reality.... I mean, history or the past is what we can regard
as reality. Everything is there---- in history. Whatever happens, whenever it does,
becomes a part of history. Every event is very much there, in history. It is real."
"History" replied Imran, "History is not reality; it cannot even be substituted for reality.
Humans record it, shape it, reshape it. History is distillation of rumor. It is built upon
bias and romanticism. As a historian you can transform a chicken into a lion. I can give
legions of examples to prove my point. For example...."
"No, no, no!" Ms Rani said hurriedly. She leaned backward, then leaned forward,
looked into Imran's eyes, and again leaned backward. She gave him a most attractive
smile, revealing two rows of white pearls.
"Well, well, well, young man. I really understand your problem now. Right. Now I
shall tell you the name of a thing which is really REAL, and that will end your search
for reality for life."
"What is reality, Madame," asked Imran, jubilant with his hands tucked in between his
thighs in excitement.
"Penis," replied Ms Rani with a smile and a soupcon of rancor.
Imran was stunned. He was gazing at her without blinking. No tongue could tell what he was feeling. After a while he rushed out of the room without looking back...
Imran loafed about on roads for hours, thinking and thinking and thinking. The sun had almost gone down, but he was walking and thinking. "Reality, Rani, Rani, Reality," were echoing and alternating in his mind. The sun had gone down now, and loudspeakers had started blurting out evening prayer call from innumerable mosques around. Imran was unaware of that. He did not realize that one of them was his father's voice calling upon the faithful to pray. Nor did he realize that he was now wandering near Low Street where Benazir Bhutto was inaugurating Pakistan's first Women's Police Station. Suddenly something zoomed through him. He stopped with a jolt.
He saw a very big and very healthy black horse standing by a cart, his penis erect. It was moving to and fro and then it came to a standstill: absolutely straight and oblique.
Imran forgot everything---- literally everything. He felt the oblique, standstill penis was beckoning to something.
Wasn't it real? A claimer to reality?
"Yes," yelled something in and around Imran. He drifted closer. Still closer. This circular, longish thing of flesh and blood was not a metaphysical construct, Imran thought. It was not a Platonic archetype existing somewhere. It was right there. Yes!
Then all of a sudden Imran felt bouts of excited languorous bliss flashing through his whole being. He felt exhausted, yet happy. Even if not reality itself, it was a REAL reference to it. Imran was overjoyed. He turned around to see from another angle this great reference---- though just an oblique reference....#