“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