The Mountain, the River the Sun, and the Mercedes-Benz

O Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?

Siddhartha smiled, ferrying a merchant who once bartered silks for souls.

He’d known the taste of coin and concubine, but now he watched the ripples write verses on the river. His prayer was silence, and his vehicle — wood.

All my friends drive Porsches, I must make amends.

Meursault squinted into the sun, shot a man without reason, and faced the court with nothing but his honesty.

The prosecutor demanded remorse, but the crime, like the universe, was cause-less. He would take no refuge in remorse.

Meanwhile, a triangle bumped into a square, and the human mind cried, “Murderer!” “Victim!” “Love triangle!” It was just geometry.

But Kahneman, floating above the scene like a god of biases, noted the System 1 impulse: confabulate, narrate, moralize.

My bank has gone bust, and my friends gone to dust, the blues singer sobbed,

and the river kept flowing.

Somewhere on the bank, a retired cognitive psychologist tapped a notebook and murmured, “Anchoring bias. That chorus, again and again…”

But Siddhartha did not correct her. He handed her the oar. “Row,” he said, “but not toward riches.” “Row toward understanding.”

And Camus? He sat under the same sun, rolling a stone up a hill, singing softly:

Freedom’s not found in the stars. It is not found in systems of thought. It is found in shrugging, smiling, and lighting a cigarette before the guillotine falls.

Kahneman on piano, methodical, tapping time,

Camus on saxophone, mournful and defiant,

Siddhartha on sitar or silence, letting the notes hang and vanish.

And in the background —

Janis, barefoot and laughing. She asks the Lord for luxury, but she knows deep down the boat won’t take a Benz. It only takes the self, if you’re ready to lose it.

• The Mountain, the River the Sun, the Sea and the Mercedes-Benz
• Alaknanda: The River Older Than the Mountain
• In the Northern Reaches of Himachal
• Another Hunt
• Ferments