Academic Questions

It was the end of another hot and sticky day in Bangkok, the kind where humidity hung like wet silk, suspended in an olfactory cocktail of tropical blooms and diesel fumes. Cicadas performed in the temple trees as Oscar lounged in the open pavilion, the fading light turning his orange fur copper.

Outside the compound, daylife was moving seamlessly into nightlife. Neon signs with toothpaste advertisements competed for one’s attention with dangerous sidewalk potholes and endless street vendors selling everything from cassette tapes with pirated music to deep fried cockroach.

With his trusted bottle of Mekhong whisky within reach, and his snacks that reeked of fermented shrimp, Oscar was ready to receive his followers — those few who recognized him for who he was: Catguru, enlightened teacher.

Voices from the soap opera playing on the guard house TV drifted lazily into the Sala as a handful of seekers gathered in hope of receiving a teaching.

This evening there was a university professor among the small group that kneeled on the floor facing Oscar. The man’s starched linen shirt and gold-rimmed glasses seemed alien among the cheap wear of the others. He was clutching a leather notebook to his chest and had the look of a Muay Thai fighter about to enter the ring.

"Venerable Catguru," the professor hurriedly began before anyone else could think of speaking. His head made a little bow of reverence that couldn't hide his academic smugness. "I have questions about free will and determinism."

Oscar ignored him and started batting at a dried leaf that had blown in. It skittered across the tiles, its motion as uncaused and perfect as the motorbikes weaving through Bangkok traffic.

Undeterred, the professor consulted his notes, cleared his throat and tried again. "In your teachings on causality, when you say all actions arise spontaneously — how can there be moral responsibility without free will? Surely this implies ..."

"Meow," Oscar interrupted, reaching for the whisky.

"But the philosophical implications ..." the professor persisted, adjusting his glasses.

Suddenly, Oscar started hacking up a hairball with the guttural rhythm of a longboat engine. The sound echoed around the pavilion.

"Perhaps I can rephrase," the professor went on as soon as the display ended and the hairball lay there discarded like a dead mouse. "When you say there is no separate doer..."

"Hairball happens. Who did it?" His tail flicked toward the professor's chest. "Find the one who did the doing."

"But my question is precisely about this volition! My latest publication ..."

Oscar stretched, claws glinting. "Words spoil the fish curry."

"I don't understand these cryptic responses to perfectly valid questions about the moral consequences ..."

"Good! Understanding traps mice." Oscar's purr vibrated through the humid air. "And academics."

The professor flipped through his notebook, fingers trembling slightly. "If we could just establish a first principle ..."

Quick as a pickpocket, Oscar jumped towards him and snatched the notebook in his teeth. Leather binding tore like ripe mango skin as he bounded out into the courtyard where he began shredding pages like a mad kitten, a vortex of snippets building around him.

"My work!" the professor cried, voice cracking.

"Much better," Oscar purred, whiskers twitching. "No notebook, no mind. Come back when want to see no professor."

He jumped back into the pavilion to take another swig of whisky, amber liquid catching the glow from the candles at the entrance. Somehow, everyone knew the teaching was over.

The professor didn't return the next evening. Or the evening after that.

Three weeks later, Oscar was napping in a pool of lantern light when shouting erupted at the temple gate. The professor's voice cut through the night: "No, I refuse to answer! Questions are always the problem! Find the questioner!"

The professor stood nose-to-nose with a bewildered delivery man clutching a package of monk's robes. "Stop needing to know! There is no one to know anything!"

Oscar opened one amber eye. He saw the professor gesturing wildly, his shadow dancing like a puppet on the temple wall. The delivery man backed away, clutching his package to his chest like a shield.

With a soft chuff of amusement, Oscar tucked his nose beneath his tail. The best teachings were the ones that didn’t need a teacher.