I am not virtuous; I am not good. Truth is, I’m not even sure if I can qualify as a decent human being. Half the time, my contemptible thoughts scare me. Earlier this morning, I was sitting in a crowded public place, and luckily, I managed to find an isolated seat. A victory in my books. But unfortunately, the victory was short-lived. Some people, escorting a person with disabilities, came over to where I was sitting in their grand quest to find a seat. And of course, they found an empty seat right next to me, or shall I say, to my left. The boy, who was being escorted, must have been in his early to mid-twenties, roughly my age. The right side of his body seemed to be partially paralysed. When he finally sat beside me, that’s when my frustration surfaced. Due to his condition, he could only sit leaning heavily on my side. It annoyed me immensely. Of course, I didn’t act on my annoyance, partly because there was nothing he could have done and partly because I was afraid of public scrutiny. Yet, it made me question my “elitist” thoughts. Just because I was born in fortunate circumstances, what right do I have to view those who weren’t as lucky any differently? And not only that, but to feel frustrated because that person couldn’t sit upright. If there were an Olympic event for intrusive thoughts, I would probably medal every time.
See? This is me, annoyed by someone who couldn’t sit straight. That’s the point of this rambling. I am the last person who should be talking about morality. Hence, this is precisely why I’ll talk about it! Silence leaves the stage to hypocrites, and I would rather be contemptible than silent. Call it arrogance, call it elitism, but I prefer to call it honesty.

If there is one thing that ruined me, it’s philosophy. Life would probably be easy if I just studied hard, took up a job, and found a relationship. But a part of me dreams of utopia. To live somewhere deep in the mountains, grow my own food, and talk only to a handful of people. I don’t know if either of these paths is better than the other. Perhaps, neither is. Maybe the question itself is a trap. Perhaps, this is what philosophy does. Ruining simplicity! And so, I keep thinking. Thinking about the hypocrisy of societal morality. Everywhere I look, it’s a theatre. A theatre of morals, ethics, and even education. I remember an anecdote from my university class. Professors were highly unhappy with the way the students in my class dressed. Which in itself is a pretty pointless issue to be unhappy about, but never mind. So, to make the professors happy, the ‘academics’ of my class decided to ask permission to attend a week-long panel discussion being organised in the university. Now, I personally don’t think there is anything wrong with attending panel discussions. I might even say it is a commendable commitment. But was the motive for attending this event to gain knowledge for my peers, or was it for mere optics? I’ll go with the latter. They do not attend these events to learn, but to be seen learning. They wear values just like an actor wears a costume. Useful only until the curtain falls. Unfortunately, the optics are not limited to the students. Professors are in on it as well. There used to be an Instagram confessional page of the department I study in. Sounds harmless enough? It wasn’t. There were instances of students getting ruthlessly bullied by anonymous confessors. And the administration? Stayed silent. Dismissed it as light-hearted fun. But the moment there came a negative review for a professor, it wasn’t light-hearted fun anymore. We were instructed to unfollow the page or face public shaming. A very medieval kind of threat, but whatever works. Morality was activated only when power was threatened. Now, I’m willing to give the benefit of the doubt to the professors. They might not know that students were being bullied on an Instagram confession page. It might be weird for a professor to follow a student-led page after all. Hence, their information about the happenings might be coming from student informants. But then again, this makes me question the moral values of those students. Those bootlickers, who were silent when their peers were the target, but turned into guardians of morality when it was their masters being trolled. Why would they do so, I ask myself? Perhaps just to score brownie points. Maybe this is what education has become. Not a pursuit of truth, but a scramble to look good in front of the right people.

The theatre isn’t limited to just academia. I have seen it in the streets, in religion, and even in compassion itself. There exists a priest I came to know of. He feeds the poor, completely free of cost. An act of compassion worthy of the highest admiration. But his compassion comes with terms and conditions. The priest vehemently denies food to the drunkard. Unbothered by what circumstances led that person to be a drunkard, the priest passes judgment. The sheer arrogance of deciding who is worthy of compassion. Shouldn’t compassion just be given, and not administered? How does compassion become conditional when filtered through the lens of purity? Is compassion itself hypocritical? I call myself contemptible, then what do I call these people? The entire play disgusts me. And the disgust lingers, like a dirty stain on a white shirt. Not because I am like them, but because I think I am better than them! I keep thinking I’m righteous, but it makes everything heavier. Why? Because people can’t act with conviction? Or is my conviction itself a façade? I don’t know. I do have truly contemptible thoughts, but I wouldn’t differentiate between the bullying of a student and the mocking of a professor. I would probably ignore both of them. Down bad, I know. But at least I am consistent in my indecency. I would rather not indulge in compassion than to judge who is worthy of it.  I would rather be called out for not dressing right than pretend obedience for little approval. Because if compassion is selective, then it isn’t compassion. And if morality is convenient, then it isn’t morality. Still, even after all my indignation, there comes a point where the absurdity of it all weakens me. I realise that rage is just another mask we wear before exhaustion strips it off, and all we are left with is something embarrassingly human.

I started writing this piece with the purpose of portraying my rage. Rage towards society, my peers, and myself. Yet, what I’m left with is exhaustion and poignancy. No matter how angry people make me, when I look at them, stripping them of every societal mask they wear, all I see is a human trying to survive, and it makes me calm. My heart aches with them when they feel worthless because society thinks they are lacking. Or when they couldn’t get what they so dearly wanted. And I wonder what a privilege it might be to feel so emotionally attached to something that not having it shatters you. And then, I understand why everyone is an actor. I understand why life is their play. The more I stay true to my conviction, the smaller I feel. Maybe it isn’t conviction, but just stubbornness. Conviction feels overrated anyway. It’s almost funny how I hold absurdity to be the highest truth, yet while writing this piece, the universe decided to teach me tenderness. As if it knew what I needed to learn. If this isn’t absurd, then I don’t know what is. Non-absurd absurdity, perhaps.

By the time I am done writing this piece, I almost want to thank that stranger who leaned on me. Thank him for reminding me that morality doesn’t exist in confessional pages or philosophical books. It lives in the moments we are forced to confront our own absurdity. And perhaps this is the greatest cosmic joke. We spend our lives pretending to be moral, or maybe not. While the universe softly whispers something embarrassingly simple, “Just be a human. Not flawless, not righteous, just human.” And perhaps this is enough. Nothing truly makes sense. Not morality, not hypocrisy, not even my own reactions. If absurdity is the only truth, then sincerity is the only rebellion. Not purity, not optics. Just the quiet admission that all of us are stumbling, judging, hurting, hoping, and surviving. And maybe this is where true morality begins. I’ll never know for sure, and honestly, I don’t even care anymore.