Fake Lies | Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Rohan Parikh (Junior Correspondent at Free Press Pvt. Ltd.)

Fake Lies is a satire and humor series about Ashokan life and culture (or lack thereof).

Last Thursday was unlike any other at Hoshak University. In the wee hours of the morning, long after the case-by-case students had been carted back to the University and the lightweights had passed out, the mythic figure of Zarathustra appeared on the dingy dance-floor of the Sobriety is Sadism Point (SSP).

Hoshakans drunk on love and spiked alcohol stared as the bearded man with a snake coiled around his staff and eagle perched on his shoulder stepped into the light. A vegan began commenting on animal cruelty but Zarathustra silenced her merely with his steely gaze.

Thus spoke Zarathustra, “I come to you at this hour for you are all seriously jacked up. This is probably the only time you will listen without interrupting.” He looked around and grimaced. “Hoshakans, there is much in you that is contemptible, base, and downright laughable.”

A student whispered to her friend, “Fuckin’ first years.”

“No!” boomed Zarathustra, “Everyone is responsible for this filth. The highest among you cower beneath a glass ceiling ten inches high. But you are not yet doomed. Hoshakans, I teach you the Overachiever. You are but a bridge, an overcoming, to the Overachiever.”

Upon being met with puzzled expressions, Zarathustra continued, “The University belongs to the Overachiever. The Overachiever laughs at you, Hoshakans, the way you laugh at the degenerates that live a few kilometers down south. The night is inky black, and the Overachiever is your pole star.”

At this point, a few couples scoffed and resumed making out. Some began haggling over the speakers. An indolent third-year student took a drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke right onto Zarathustra’s face. “We are the best of the country,” she proclaimed. “We don’t need no teachin’, Mr. Wannabe Jesus.”

Zarathustra sighed. “I have spent far too long in the mountains, listening to the brooks and the trees. My words are not for these pseudo-intellectuals. Must I smash their portable speakers before they listen? Must I put real lenses into their spectacles before they see? Or do they only believe gossip mongers like the PrEdict?”

Thus spoke Zarathustra, “Let me teach you the Last-waker. They are the fleas that hop about on campus, looking for walls to scribble on; they are the pests that go knocking on doors begging for free food; they are the vermin that steal WiFi passwords and ID cards. The Last-waker romps on campus in large groups, applies too much cologne or makeup, and thinks to spend five hundred bucks a day is ‘living cheaply’. Hoshakans, I see restlessness in your souls. Overcome, or you shall be condemned to be the despicable Last-waker.”

The Hoshakans blinked.

“Give us the Last-waker, O Zarathustra,” shouted someone, “and we shall make you a gift of the Overachiever.” And they laughed and clucked their tongues.

Zarathustra shook his head. “I am too early. My time has not yet arrived. Perhaps after the HoR collapses into irrelevance, after the Administration spends lakhs on purchasing some more pointless sculptures, after mere anarchy is loosed upon campus, I shall return.”

A heavily intoxicated student looking contemptuously at Zarathustra shouted, “Zarathustra, why are you so mean? Are we not doing enough already? You’re taut like a bow. Learn to relax. You should drink and enjoy like us. Just be happy.”

“What use have I of happiness?” spoke Zarathustra, “I have my work.”

A heavy silence befell the place. Zarathustra saw his words had an impact, for even the alcoholics put down their paper cups. They gathered around him. They realized Zarathustra was here for a purpose. He was not just a philosophy major on drugs.

“Why do you come to us, Zarathustra? Where are we headed?” someone asked from the herd.

Thus spoke Zarathustra, “I come to prevent you from heading towards the valley of the Last-waker, where you shall be a mere shadow of your true selves. There, in the valley, Hoshak will become the hedonist’s paradise, where work will be shunned and professors will be asked to give good grades regardless of performance. Individuals will feel safe speaking out only in anonymity, and tasks will be undertaken only so that they can be ended as soon as possible. When Hoshakans want to feel fraternity, they will create an Inclusivity Ministry, and when they want to feel love, they will consume substance. Respect will be superficial and camaraderie mere convenience.”

The music beats thrummed listlessly in the background, now just white noise. Hoshakans stood there, bewildered. What were they but the loud-mouthed, entitled, and snobby crowd that had successfully converted a space of radical development into a mere cog of the very mediocre system they claimed to hate so much?

“The Overachiever is your answer, Hoshakans,” boomed Zarathustra, “Become who you are!”

The first rays of sunlight pierced the scanty cloud cover and illuminated the shanty. Empty beer bottles and cigarette butts lay scattered on the ground. Fifty red-eyed Hoshakans stood transfixed on their spots. “O Zarathustra, does your Overachiever have a name? Whom do we aspire to?”

The serpent coiled on the staff hissed and the eagle perched on his shoulders spread its wings. Zarathustra slammed his staff on the ground.

“Yes, yes the Overachiever has a name. You shall overcome, and when you do, you shall be called Ashokans.”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.