When one takes three philosophy classes in one semester, strange things may happen. When a hardcore fan fiction writer takes three philosophy classes (plus one recitation), strange fan fics may happen. When you see entire lines in italics, it was either taken from my notes or from Descartes himself. Those of you familiar with René Descartes will recognize this story as being based off of his first two Meditations on First Philosophy. Enjoy. (This takes place when Kartik first arrives at Spence, presumably while Gemma is at vespers. Much of the tone, especially the repeated lines, is sarcasm.)
Life is and endless string of bizarre moments, strung together by lapses in reality. Could it be perhaps that I am dreaming? That these green trees and pastel flowers are but an illusion, superimposed in my mind to cover what is really there – dusty ground and vibrant saris? To believe this would be easier to accept than the former. I'd rather not be in England, truthfully. It is familiar, yes, but in the sense a schoolroom grows to be. You know where everything is, but you don't want to be there.
I exist. I know I exist, for I am capable of thoughts and doubts, which proves I'm not a mindless zombie. But where am I exactly? What is this rolling lawn and stone fortress all about? One moment I am a happy, hopeful boy in India, the next, a confused, angry thing in England. What am I? I am not a mindless zombie. I am a being capable of thought. I think, therefore I exist!
Yes, thank you, Descartes. That is really helpful given my current situation. I now know that I can think. Lucky me, else I'd be a drooling, worthless, mindless zombie. But I am not.
Well that is a relief.
Let me jump ahead and pretend I've reached a level of ataraxia. Never mind the fact that I've never been in a less tranquil state, but for the sake of consideration, I shall pretend that all is well. Perhaps I accept the way things seem to be. Where does that put me?
England, at the foot of a monstrosity of a finishing school.
Regretfully, I'm somewhere I do not want to be. How exactly did I get here? Surely those stone gargoyles did not fly me here in a sac, like a stork delivers a baby. There must have been some logical explanation for my presence here.
There are only two things I can surely be certain about. I exist, and I think. There goes that reserve of good old Rakshana education again. I can do logarithms in my head, speak every romance language and then some fluently, play cricket with the best of them, and torture myself with skepticism. I've no apparent knowledge of truth, except for…yes, of course –
I exist, and I think. To elaborate, I can also add that I am not a mindless zombie, or rather, I am not a mindless anything.
I appear to be in England. I feel the evening chill, smell the damp, taste my lunch of Shepard's pie, hear the twittering of local birds, and see the traditional British architecture. These things just do not exist in India. It would appear that I am not in India, but in England. However, there is hope for me yet.
Information from our senses has deceived us in the past. I can recall the time I was asked to retrieve a globe from the back of the classroom for a lesson on geography. I was eight at the time, and not at my strongest. The globe proved heavier than it looked, for it was not hollow, but solid marble. I dropped it and was given lines for punishment, as well as an increase in physical training.
If something has deceived us in the past, for all we know, it might be deceiving us again now. My sight and perception have failed me before, such as with the globe, and they have failed me again after that. While writing page after page of lines as punishment for chipping the marble off of China, my hand inevitably cramped, and my childish cheek brought an innocent-looking, spindly stick of a pointer across my knuckles, stinging me more than perhaps a more rigid instrument.
Therefore, we don't know that what we perceive with our senses is really as we perceive them to be. Perhaps, with a bit of luck, my sight is failing me on a grander scale than misjudging the weight of a globe. Perhaps all of my senses have grown tired of me, and are rallying in protest, making me believe I am somewhere I do not want to be. Or perhaps I do not have senses. But according to my old friend René Descartes, the lack of senses would make me a mindless zombie, and I already know for certain that I am not.
Properly speaking, this is what in me is called "sensing". But this, precisely so taken, is nothing other than thinking.
I am thinking, and I am sensing. I am also searching for a bit of truth other than what I already inherently know. Why am I here? I already know why, but it hurts too much to delve into it yet. Perhaps I am content to crawl into my chaotic bubble of skepticism and doubt, instead of having to face and accept that which I cannot comprehend.
It is paradoxical that the task of creating an alternate reality of lies is easier and more inviting than just being content with the truth.
By my calculations, I should really like to tangle myself up within my happiest times. I am sixteen and I've just won a game of cricket against the man that coached me from childhood. My thesis on evolution and how it disturbs the delicate imbalances of numerous religions has been called ingenious by my renowned instructor. I am currently residing in Rome, studying ancient texts and perfecting the nuances of various dialects. My seemingly prodigious achievements have set all eyes on me, and I've heard rumors that I have potential to become one of the greatest men the Rakshana has ever seen.
Perhaps, if I concentrate hard enough, I can summon the surge of confidence and security I felt that year. The sort of high that never ends, until it does. I was called back from my studies in Rome, declared fully educated, and given my first assignment. It all happened very quickly, and I became resentful that I alone was pulled away from my fellow peers and friends, other boys like myself, and put to work straight away.
But I was also eager, for it was an honor that I was.
A few months passed and then…
My concentration is broken. No longer can I wander the tiled floors of Rome's greatest libraries and churches. I cannot even summon the potent smells of home, of curry and incense and hookah smoke. I am in England, truly, no matter how much I wish I wasn't. Illusions can only take you so far.
I am awake. I am thinking. I exist. I am recovering from yet another lapse in reality. What is real? My senses have never truly deceived me before. Lack of strength and experience, yes, they deceive, but my senses? Never. They are sharp and wary.
Who am I?
I am Kartik, loyal son of the Rakshana.
Where am I?
I am at Spence Academy for Young Ladies.
Why am I here?
The death of Order priestess Virginia Doyle has left her daughter and new priestess Gemma Doyle without a guardian. I have been deemed most suitable for the job.
If all of these things can be accepted as true, then I have reached ataraxia. Tranquility. In the philosophical sense, at least. Psychologically, I have never been more distraught. My brother is dead. I must accept this as true, for it is the foundation upon which my present state is built upon.
Had Amar never been murdered, then perhaps Virginia Doyle might not have been harmed. Gemma Doyle would not have been shipped away to boarding school, and I would not have followed her. We'd have all remained in Bombay. But this is not so. I am not in Bombay, unless my senses have failed me, and by previous experience, I know they have not.
I exist. I think. I am not a mindless zombie, nor am I being deceived. I have no reasons to ignore the truth, yet I can see no way around it.
My head hurts. My heart aches. The damp English air seeps beneath my clothing, mocking me as if to say, "Hah! I was right!"
A lapse in reality, a brief escape, a meditation on what I wish was true, and what I wish wasn't.
I love philosophy.
Allow me a moment of bragging that I hope will not take the focus off my story. I met Libba Bray on Sunday. I MET Libba Bray. She HUGGED me. She knew me from LiveJournal. She said "You're SpaceyCowgirl!" I died and went to heaven. First thing she did was give me a hug. First thing. Greeted me like a long lost friend. Signed my homework assignment book (I was an idiot and didn't bring one of my books) "To Catherine (aka SpaceyCowgirl) Love the shoes Love your posts Love YOU! You rock - xoxo Libba Bray"! I got a picture with her, and she even talked on MY CELLPHONE with my best friend that moved to Chicago and couldn't make it. And on top of all that, she confirmed that Amar and Kartik are blood related (not just Rakshana "brothers") and that Kartik's birthday is November 10th, making him a hot, steamy, sex-crazed Scorpio (look it up - Scorpio's are the sex-driven sign). All in favor of making it a holiday, say YAYAYAYA!
Is starstruck and extremely happy,
LunaEquus
(If you're philosophically inclined, please comment on my integration of Descartes and maybe give a bit of constructive criticism. Thanks!)