Sermon on the Mount

"What is the meaning of life?", he asked.

"Do I lead your life?", the monk replied.

"What is the meaning of ALL life?"

"Do I lead everyone's lives?"

"Who the fuck taught you the Socratic method? You live on a bloody hilltop!"

"Who the fuck taught you the Socratic method? You're just a stupid urban hippie!"

"What's the point of this?"

"If you see no point, why are you doing this?"

The youth's mouth worked for a bit, but no suitable response came to his mind. He turned in a huff, and walked some distance from the Holy Man of the Mountain. Many of his friends had told him of the learned man who answered all questions put to him, but none had mentioned that he was incredibly annoying.

The Holy Man looked upon the back of the rich young boy and despaired. He didn't know why all these idiots came and asked him questions. He was just sitting up here, begging for alms. He'd sent a little boy to the village after paying him five rupees to entice rich travellers to come up the mountain. Tired of the annoying questions the first time, he'd responded rudely. Apparently, that boy had not wanted to look like a fool to the companion below; he'd pretended to have had an out of body experience and what not, and now these brats came to him regularly. He tried to get rid of them, but they all persisted. It had become so bad that he was considering shifting mountains, but he knew that there were four other Holy Men after his patch, and his stubborn possessive nature prevented him from moving into their hands.

He sighed, and wondered how he could get rid of these damn yuppies. Annoying kids with their flashy clothes. All he ever wanted was some food and alms, and not all these damned questions! He wondered why anyone would imagine he was wise, since he spent all his time on the mountain without doing anything particularly knowledgeable. He sighed, and remembered what this horribly stoned Israeli tourist had once explained to him while being incredibly grateful for the meagre amount of hashish the Holy Man had managed to procure and given to him.

"You! Brat!"
"Excuse me?"
"Stop being silly and listen!"
Despite himself, the youth did just that. All the thought of figuring out a fake story for his friends was exhausting his two brain cells, and he needed the break.
The Holy Man realised he had the brat's attention, and decided to end this properly.

"Take this."
"What is this?"
"Hashish."
"What's that?"
"You smoke it, it makes you happy. Er, Holy, also. Bob Marley said so."
"You mean Hash. You have HASH?! Why didn't you say so before?"

5 minutes later, the brat was quite mellow, in the afterglow of the Hash he'd been given. He sighed, and looked towards the Holy Man. The Holy Man looked extremely confused and perplexed. The Brat wondered why.

The Holy Man didn't know what to do beyond this point. He had hoped the drugs would be enough, but this brat was obviously persistent. He decided to take the initiative.

"What is your problem, basically?"
"I want to know the meaning of life!"
"Why?"
"Please don't start that again, I'm actually feeling good now!"
"Hm. Fine. Let's try again, shall we? What about the meaning of life is important?"
"Well, won't it explain who I am? What I am doing here?"
"What is your name?"
"How is that important?"
"Well, isn't that who you are?"
"Not that who I am. The real me. Who I want to be. Who I feel like being."
"Okay. Why are you asking me these questions? Why don't you know the answer?"
"I don't!"
"Fine. Have you heard of Occam's ... er, what was it? Hm. Blade? Something like that ... Come on, help me a little. Don't you know about this one?"
"No!"
"Fine. There was this Israeli gentleman named Occam, who had some trouble shaving, alright?"
"What kind of trouble?"
"Um. Wait, I knew this one. Yes! After the first time, the razor wouldn't shave right."
"Okay."
"So, he wondered what the solution was - and it came to him! What did he need? A razor which shaved only once. Then, you'd need a new razor. So, he invented disposable razors!"

Brat's drug addled mind couldn't quite grasp the earth-shattering implications yet. He was sailing the clouds, and had trouble grasping the importance of disposable razors, and their impact on the meaning of life. He stared at the Holy Man's earnest expression, and couldn't quite understand why this man was considered wise. As Brat thought about it, the situation became murkier - he didn't use disposable razors, he used those Mach III things, the red one with the hot girl in the advertisement. It was, he had been assured, the best a man could get. Clearly, Occam's Razor didn't have much of a presence in the Indian market; Brat considered, for a second, a business of importing these bloody razors. But a moment more of contemplation convinced him that this was far from the meaning of his life.

He chuckled at the Holy Man. All he needed was the meaning of life, and here this supposed wise man was, dithering about razors. He was so ... stupid and inefficient. Words that he'd learn to despise, while worshipping what he thought were their opposites, through his time in Business School - Wisdom and Efficiency. He chuckled some more.

At this point, the Holy Man was beginning to lose his patience. He looked upon the chuckling bandicoot of a brat with more than a little alarm. Not only had the Israeli gentleman's approach towards shaving problems not impressed the fool, he was now pointing at him and chuckling. The Holy Man realised that the Brat had now begun mumbling about how the Holy Man was Occam, and that he himself was Gillette. Now, the Holy Man was not ignorant of the ways of the world, and was aware of what Gillette was. What he could not understand was why the Brat would believe that he would need any of their products. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved, and he was rather proud of his long, matted and dirty beard. It took a lot of time to make it look professionally vagabond-ish. What was especially bothering him was that the Brat was now passing out, and that this meant more time spent with him.

The Brat was beyond cognitive thought now. He drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Israeli women, and wondering if he should go there and sell Mach IIIs, if they were so busy using substandard disposable razors. He giggled at the prospect.

The Holy Man sat on his haunches, in his default Holy-Man contemplating position. He had to make this worth his while, and somehow get rid of the Brat. He thought about it for a while, and considered what he needed, and how he must get it. Then it hit him - the perfect, and obvious solution. It was so simple! He couldn't think of anything simpler. He grinned.

Many hours later, the Brat awoke as the sun rose upon his prone form on top of the mountain. His head felt like several trucks had run it over, and he felt sick to his stomach. Wait, no. The sickness was rising from his stomach. After leaving a patch of the Himalayas bearing a part of his organic matter, the Brat looked around, trying to get his bearings, and trying to remember who he was, and how he got here. He began recalling the events of the last evening. He realised that instead of being on top of the mountain, he was in the valley. He felt his backpocket to feel his wallet - it was there, but it was considerably thinner. He pulled it out and looked at it, his panic rising.

Inside, the only things that were left were his credit cards, liscenses, and a little letter. It stated that following -

You are a brat, and that's what you are;
But for all that, one imagines you'll go far
In life, for it is made of the silly things,
One never knows why this happiness brings.

On the other hand, you feel dissatisfaction;
For you feel the need for immediate action
In life, for there is a lot you want to do,
One never knows why one is such a fool.

Just stop making your life complicated;
Do what you want and stop becoming inebriated
In life, there is little one can do,
But say - the simplest solution is always true.