“I want to create a movie that plays with perception again, like I did in Inception, but in a different way. A film where the audience never quite knows if the protagonist is experiencing reality or simply dreaming”, Nolan said, tapping his fingers against his cup of chai. 

I reply, intrigued, “I have just the thing for you”, and begin by giving the historical context of Buddhism.

The historical Buddha lived around 500 BCE. Following his death, three senior monks (arhats) recounted from memory the oral discourses delivered by the Buddha.

These teachings were eventually compiled into the Tripiṭaka (Three Baskets), believed to have been assembled around 240 BCE during the Third Council in Pāṭaliputra. The Tripiṭaka Pāli Canon consists of three distinct baskets: the Sutta (Sūtra) containing tales and discourses, the Vinaya covering monastic discipline, and the Abhidhamma  (Abhidharma) presenting doctrinal exposition. 

The Theravāda school, or School of the Elders, relies exclusively on the Pāli canon as authoritative scripture, whereas Mahāyāna Buddhism expanded by incorporating new texts. A key distinction is Theravāda's ideal of the Arhant, emphasising individual liberation, contrasted with Mahāyāna's Bodhisattva ideal, stressing universal liberation and compassion for all beings.

“Picture a protagonist in a philosophy class, deeply intellectually stimulated by Buddhist metaphysics but who returns home to struggle with depression and existential questions. In his dreams, the protagonist is shot by an arrow, symbolising the Buddha's parable that emphasises prioritising healing over unresolved metaphysical questions (avyākṛta)—such as the world's eternality or the existence of the self—which the Buddha considered distractions from the path to liberation. The Buddha himself then appears in the protagonist's dream to heal the wound and gives his essential teachings.”

Nolan sips his chai. “So what did the Buddha consider essential?” 

“He focused on the Four Noble Truths,” I say.

The first noble truth concerns the reality of suffering (duḥkha ). 
The second noble truth identifies suffering's cause (duḥkha-samudaya ). 
The third noble truth describes suffering's cessation (duḥkha-nirodha ).
The fourth noble truth presents the Eight-fold Path to cease suffering (duḥkha-nirodha-mārga ).

“Your protagonist could begin following this eightfold path after his dream experience,” I suggest, “yet struggle with faith. He wants to heal the arrow wound but only trusts it if he understands how the healing works.”

I pause thoughtfully. “Interestingly,” I continue, “the sophisticated philosophical exposition developed by later Buddhists is something I believe was uniquely fostered by the rigorous intellectual environment of ancient India. It arose precisely from questions similar to those troubling your protagonist. Although this speculative and metaphysical direction may seem to diverge from the Buddha’s fundamentally pragmatic stance, aimed primarily at liberation rather than abstract theorising, later Buddhists found such metaphysical truths necessary for addressing doubts and defending Buddhism against rival philosophical systems.”

“Let me set the stage by asking you a few questions,” I say, leaning forward slightly.

“Christopher, tell me, how did you get here today?”

“I came by car.”

“Alright, what exactly is this 'car'? Is it the wheels, the engine, the seats, the frame, or the steering wheel? Is it all of these parts combined, or something separate from these parts?”

“No, it's not any single part individually, nor all these parts merely lumped together, nor something completely separate.”

“So, despite examining every part, we can't seem to find your 'car.' If that's true, then isn't 'car' simply a sound—a convenient label? By your own logic, your statement that you arrived by car must also be false, for no real 'car' exists!”

“It's because of all these various components—the wheels, engine, seats, frame, and steering wheel—that we use the practical designation 'car'. It's just a commonly understood term.”
“Exactly. In the same way, because of your various components, you are referred to by the practical name 'Nolan.' Yet, ultimately, there is no permanent, individual self to whom the name truly refers.”

“This dialogue exemplifies the doctrine of anātman,” I explain. 

It posits that a person or self (pudgala/ātman) has no synchronic or diachronic essence. 'I' is just an empty word like 'car' or 'army'. A person comprises of five skandhas  or aggregates.

“So I do not exist as a real substance but am merely a combination of these five skandhas?” Nolan asks. “How, then, by that logic, do these five skandhas also exist? Surely they must also be empty words?”

“Yes, precisely,” I reply. “The skandhas are mere heaps—'aggregates' of dharmas.”

“So what are the dharmas?” Nolan asks.

Dharmas are the simplest, indivisible elements of reality. They are absolute simples from which everything else is composed. They are not qualities attached to substances, nor are they relations or quantities inherited from something else. Instead, Buddhism views reality as composed entirely of these momentary, simple units termed “property-particulars,” with each dharma representing an individual instance of a property rather than a substance that bears properties.

Accordingly, Buddhism teaches that the self is merely a collection of these dharmas, which means it lacks inherent existence. 

“So, do these dharmas last forever?” Nolan asks.

“Before answering this, I want you to familiarise yourself with the theory of dependent origination, of which you already had a glimpse in the second noble truth,” I respond.

Dependent origination (pratītya-samutpāda) means that all phenomena arise only through specific conditions and cease when those conditions vanish. Nothing exists independently or permanently.
Because everything depends on changing conditions, it follows that nothing remains stable—this is impermanence (anitya). Therefore, pratītyasamutpāda explains why everything is impermanent (anitya): no dharma has inherent stability. This interdependence ensures that reality itself is constantly in flux, each moment and state giving way immediately to the next, like a stream (santāna).

“Your protagonist could begin to see this chain of dependent origination in his dreams, with the Buddha appearing to explain these philosophical concepts whenever doubt arises,” I suggest. 

The two sub-schools of Sarvāstivādins (generally clubbed with Theravāda) disagree on the duration of dharmas. For the Vaibhāṣika, some dharmas must extend in time, passing through at least four moments: birth, duration, decay, and destruction. The Sautrāntika school, by contrast, maintains that external dharmas exist but only for an instant—this is their inherent nature (kṣaṇabhaṅgavāda). The Sautrāntikas also believe that the Vaibhāṣikas have been excessive in their enumeration of dharmas.

This obviously leads to an epistemological difference as well.

“Well then,” Nolan asks, “if everything is just composed of dharmas, why do I see something as being 'me,' 'you,' or a 'car'? Shouldn't I just be observing all the dharmas since they are what ultimately exist?”

The primary explanation is that we conceptualise (kalpanā) discrete dharmas and remain ignorant of the world's true nature, characterised by impermanence (anitya) and dependent origination (pratītyasamutpāda). 

There is a distinction between conventional truth (samvṛtisat), which includes entities like chariots and persons, and ultimate truth (paramārthasat), which concerns skandhas, dharmas, and so forth.
When we identify objects through perception (such as recognising “this is red”), both the Vaibhāṣika and Sautrāntika Buddhist schools argue that our determinate perceptions (savikalpaka) are partly erroneous. Genuine perception occurs only at the initial, indeterminate stage (nirvikalpaka), characterised by passive, raw sensory input of the bare, unrelated particular (sva-lakṣaṇa, e.g., the immediate sensation of redness). The subsequent stage of perception involves active mental elaboration (kalpanā), introducing conceptual attributes (sāmānya-lakṣaṇas, e.g., “redness”), which are merely mental constructions lacking authentic ontological status.

Yet the ontological commitments of these two schools lead to distinct theories of perception. The Vaibhāṣika asserts that dharmas extend in time, and thus, the sva-lakṣaṇa is directly perceived. In contrast, the Sautrāntika position, grounded in the doctrine of momentariness, considers dharmas instantaneous, implying objects can only be indirectly perceived (anumeya). 

For Sautrāntika, perception is an inference drawn from mental impressions left by a previous, already vanished instance within an object series. Thus, while the perceived object is real, it exists only in a prior moment and never concurrently with the act of perception. 

The Vaibhāṣika strongly rejects this stance, arguing it contradicts direct experiential knowledge (since they maintain dharmas endure over time), thereby undermining perception and, ultimately, the reliability of knowledge itself.

Despite these differences, both schools agree that genuine reality lies solely in the sva-lakṣaṇa, whereas conceptual features exist merely as pragmatic mental constructions.

“This is where it gets interesting for you,” I say. “I want you to know about the Yogācāra school, which will most fundamentally influence your movie and its focus on dreams.”

“I am excited,” Nolan responds.

While both Vaibhāṣika and Sautrāntika schools espouse pluralistic realism, the Yogācāra school, founded by Asaṅga and Vasubandhu around the 4th-5th century CE, takes a different approach. Yogācāra asserts a radical doctrine known as consciousness-only or vijñāna, holding that consciousness itself is the sole ultimate reality and that everything perceived as external content is false or illusory. 

Yogācāra denies reality to both subject (knower) and object (known). Instead, it reduces experience exclusively to a stream of momentary cognitive episodes. According to Yogācāra, perception does not arise from external objects but emerges internally through latent impressions or vāsanās, which are accumulated through past experiences in an infinite, beginningless (anādi) cycle. Cognition is thus self-generated, continuously triggered from within rather than externally stimulated. 

Central to Yogācāra's argument is the idea of self-aware cognition (svasaṃvedana), wherein cognition is intrinsically conscious of itself, demonstrating the inseparability or identity of knower and known. This principle is extended to all forms of experience, exemplified by the analogy of dreams, where apparent externality is proven unnecessary. 

Moreover, Yogācāra emphasises the principle of sahopalambha-niyama, or the invariable simultaneous appearance of cognition and its perceived content, further supporting the claim of their fundamental unity. Additionally, the relative variability of perception among individuals and even within a single individual at different times is presented as evidence against the objective reality of external objects possessing inherent characteristics (svabhāva).

“Your protagonist could be meditating on these teachings,” I tell Nolan, “moving from basic concepts toward the increasingly sophisticated ideas of Yogācāra idealism. The film could end as he finally realises that there is no distinction between dream and non-dream cognition.”

“While the Yogācāra school maintains that at least knowledge (or the 'subject-series') is real, the Mādhyamika school, with Nāgārjuna as its primary teacher, argues that knowledge itself is fraught with contradictions. However, that is a discussion for another day.”

“That's exactly the kind of philosophical tension I look for in my films,” Nolan says thoughtfully.



The Arrow in the Dream: A Buddhist Exploration of Self and Reality

I awaken, disoriented in a haze of swirling lavender. The world around me shimmers with ephemeral geometry, as though I have stumbled into the very skeleton of creation. Before me looms a colossal form that is radiant with countless eyes and has its luminous limbs reaching beyond the horizon. Fractured shards of light pierce out and pulse in sync with a heartbeat. I sense an ancient presence orchestrating these transformations like a cosmic sacrifice. I rub my eyes in disbelief, confident that I am merely trapped in a vivid dream, for how could the infinite stand so clearly before me?   

Abruptly, I jolt awake in a dimly lit room, breath ragged. The memory of that unfathomable figure lingers with its vastness undermining my grip on reality. Four tall bookshelves occupy each wall, loaded with worn volumes. A lone circular desk stands in the centre, polished yet forbidding. No windows, no doors, no exit. I circle the room in alarm, my heart thumping. Could this still be a dream?

A voice whispers, "Read", though I cannot locate its source. Reluctantly, I approach one bookshelf bearing gilt letters: "Ṛgveda Saṁhitā." The others, also Saṁhitās, read "Yajurveda", "Sāmaveda", and "Atharvaveda". I possess only rudimentary Sanskrit skills, yet these ancient texts seem entirely legible. Over countless days, I consume every hymn. I neither hunger nor thirst. My only craving is knowledge. At last, I replace the final book onto its shelf, and the entire room dissolves.

I now stand in an immense courtroom, columns stretching into a sky etched with shifting script. Seated at the centre is Varuṇa, draped in oceanic blue and gold, a luminous noose in his hand. He poses a single question, his voice resonating in my core: "What manner of theism do the Vedas uphold?"

Before I can respond, Varuṇa's form glitches into Indra, then Mitra, then Agni, then Yama, each flickering like flames. In that wave of transformations, I sense they are many yet one: henotheism, gods converging on a single divine essence. At once, the cosmic court shatters, and I find myself back in the same room, but the shelves are different.
 
They now house the Brāhmaṇas, elaborate commentaries explaining the force of Vedic mantras. Alongside them appear the six Vedāṅgas: Śikṣā, Vyākaraṇa, Chandas, Nirukta, Kalpa, and Jyotiṣa. As I read the Brāhmaṇas, understanding dawns like a slow-burning flame. The mantras I hold are not just words, they are power, woven into the very fabric of ṛta, the cosmic order. With the knowledge of the auxiliary texts, I am no longer a mere observer. I can compel the gods I met earlier, bend the forces that govern existence. Gold, grain, prosperity, they are no longer beyond my reach. Yet my confinement remains. What use is such power if I cannot escape?
  
The shelves vanish, replaced by a corridor lined with narrow windows. Through each pane, I see a horrifying vision unfold. First, I witness a hundred sages chanting around a fire, the same mantras now etched into my mind. Their unified voice fuses with the dancing flames, pulsing in ancient rhythm. I blink. The image warps into a chain of dogs, each biting another's tail, locked in ceaseless, mindless pursuit. Suddenly, a shrill cry redirects me.
 
On the other side, I see a blood-soaked horse sacrifice, princes cheering the violent ritual. Another blink and the horse transforms into a cosmic being with dawn as its head, sun as its eye, air as its breath, and time as its body. A cosmic principle emerges: these rites are not mere acts but living symbols that must be internalised, not just observed.
 
The corridor narrows into a twilight forest inhabited by the Āraṇyakas, bridging outward ritual and inward exploration. Past that, I plummet into star-filled space. The Upaniṣads float before me with their luminous verses that capture the ultimate truth. Touching them floods me with insight, culminating in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, the last of the texts I seize. At once, the cosmic tableau rearranges.
 
Varuṇa reappears, and asks me about Brahman: "What is it? How does it manifest?" "Brahman… is that which expands. It is the principle from which all emerges, into which all dissolves. It is the unseen force that manifests as the universe itself.", I reply. I mention the saprapañca conception from the Chāndogya Upaniṣad, describing Brahman's real transformation into the world, and niṣprapañca from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka, revealing Brahman as utterly transcendent and its transformation being only apparent.
 
"And what of Ātman?", Agni asks. I inhale sharply. “It is the self, the essence within. The Upaniṣads say the search for the ultimate truth is not merely outward, but inward. The Taittirīya Upaniṣad describes five sheaths, but beyond all these is Ātman itself. It is not seen, but it sees. Not heard, but it hears. Not thought, but it thinks.”
 
A final question by Yama: "What is the ultimate truth?" "That Brahman and Ātman are one," I say, the words coming as though not from me, but through me. "Tat tvam asi. Aham brahmāsmi. The fullness beyond and the fullness within are not two, but one."
 
Gods vanish like doused flames, the courtroom collapses, and I awaken again to shattering glass.
 
My friend stands over me, holding in his hands a shattered phone. He claims I was out for twenty minutes. I recoil: aeons of cosmic exploration squeezed into that span. He laments lost photos and data and mentions something about being in the middle of watching an anime about someone trapped in philosophical interrogation. My mind lurches, questioning whether that was me or if I still remain trapped in overlapping illusions. The edges of my awareness blur.

A soft chuckle sounds. Ādi Śaṅkara stands before us, his presence serene yet commanding. My friend gapes at him. He explains that according to Advaita Vedānta, only Brahman is sat, the absolute, unchanging reality. Mere non-existence, or asat, has never been real at any point. The world, however, is sad-asad-vilakṣaṇa, distinct from both reality and non-reality, it functions within empirical experience but lacks absolute permanence. This appearance arises due to māyā, which veils Brahman, and avidyā, the ignorance that binds individuals to illusion. He further elaborates that all Vedāntic schools derive from the same Prasthāna-trayī: the Upaniṣads, the Bhagavadgītā, and the Vedānta-Sūtra. Yet, their interpretations differ as Advaita asserts non-duality, while Dvaita affirm real distinctions.

I asked him if the vivid dream, which felt so real before I woke up, was just as illusory as what I am experiencing right now. He smiles and explains that while all experiences lie within the realm of sad-asad-vilakṣaṇa, experiences such as dreams are considered prātibhāsika, sublated the moment one awakens. My friend counters that his broken phone feels concrete. Śaṅkara confirms daily life is vyāvahārika, where cause and effect operate. Yet from the pāramārthika level, distinctions vanish into nirguṇa Brahman, free of any attribute. Saguṇa Brahman, endowed with qualities, is how the limited mind conceptualises the absolute under the veil of māyā. Prayer, devotion, or moral duty revolve around saguṇa Brahman, which remains valuable for spiritual growth.
 
At this point, my friend's eyes light up with curiosity: "What are the two views on cause and effect?"
 
Śaṅkara inclines his head. "Satkāryavāda, which Advaita Vedānta accepts, holds that the effect pre-exists in its cause in a subtle form. Asatkāryavāda, favoured by Nyāya-Vaiśeṣika, contends the effect is produced anew, not latent in the cause." He conjures two more terms: pariṇāmavāda (Sāṃkhya) and vivartavāda (Advaita). "In pariṇāmavāda, the substance actually transforms. In vivartavāda, the change is an appearance. The rope never becomes a snake; perception alone shifts." My friend, seeking confirmation, asks "So Brahman doesn't literally become the universe, it just appears so?" "Precisely," Śaṅkara confirms. "Brahman remains unaltered, while forms are mere vivarta."
 
Śaṅkara expounds on adhyāsa, superimposition, which is the process by which an individual mistakes one thing for another by projecting certain qualities onto what is actually there. In the context of the Self, adhyāsa involves ascribing non-self qualities (like bodily attributes, emotions, or limitations) onto the pure consciousness that is one's true nature. We discuss spiritual practice. Śaṅkara outlines the path of śravaṇa (listening), manana (reflecting), and nididhyāsana (meditating), culminating in the direct realisation of "tat tvam asi".
 
My friend wonders if calling the world an appearance excuses moral disregard. Śaṅkara clarifies that true realisation fosters empathy, seeing all beings as the one Self. Only a superficial reading would produce apathy. Authentic knowledge, anchored in the scriptural basis, intensifies compassion.
 
His words trail off. I sense a faint fragrance of sandalwood. Then Ādi Śaṅkara vanishes like a candle flame in the wind. My friend and I lock eyes. The phone's shattered screen glints on the floor, a testament to vyāvahārika reality. Yet an undercurrent of something vast hums around us, reminding me of the corridor of cosmic illusions, the swirling galaxies of knowledge.
 
We gather the phone shards, preparing for the mundane task ahead, every motion echoing with the truth we have tasted: that behind every fleeting form lies the eternal Brahman.
 


Philosophical Fiction

The Arrow in the Dream: A Buddhist Exploration of Self and Reality

A Dream of Eternity, A Conversation Beyond Time