Day or Night?

Minute's up! said the Geranium. Which are more numerous, the living or the dead?

Am I guessing the answer, or what the Gymnosophist said? I asked.

What he said, said the Geranium. Which?

The living, I said. Because the dead don't count.

Don't exist, corrected the Geranium.

No, I said, they do exist, otherwise why are plots in graveyards in short supply? After fifty years they dig you up, didn't you know?

Tell me about it, said the Geranium.

Sorry I forgot you were a Geranium. But my point is, it's a play on words. The dead don't count. Get it?

Well that's not the translation I read, said the Geranium.

But do you agree it makes more sense? I asked. And Alexander would have liked it?

I do agree, said the Geranium. But at this rate it is going to take us all afternoon to get through the ten questions. Shall I tell you the second one?

Go on.

The second Gymnosophist was asked whether the earth or the sea produce larger animals.

What did he answer?

The earth, because the sea is but part of the earth.

Very good. And the third?

Which animal is the most cunning?

The fox?

No! The Gymnosophist answered that it was the one that man had not yet discovered.

Oh ! Alexander would have liked that!

Yes, he did. Next he asked the fourth Gymnosophist why he supported the revolt. And he replied that he wished to either live nobly or die nobly.

Another tick from Alexander for that answer, I bet! and the fifth?

The fifth is my favourite , said the Geranium. Which is older, day or night?

Wow! I said, admiringly. Great question!

Alexander and the Geranium

It was obvious the Geranium knew very little about cars.

You don't know much about cars, I said. If you scraped off the bird shit you'd damage the paint.

What do I care? said the Geranium. I am not one for luxury. But I can understand why you don't like bird shit. I don't much like it myself.

Are you a Gymnosopher or not? I asked. You don't care for luxury, yet you don't like birdshit.

I'm a bit of a Gymnosopher, I suppose, said the Geranium. I stand on one foot, I stare at the sun, I don't spit. But I also like a little water now and then.

How reasonable, I said.

I like to think I'm reasonable, said the Geranium. By the way, have you read any Plutarch?

Not lately.

Then you may not know the famous passage in which Alexander the Great asks ten questions of ten Gymnosophists.

I don't. Why does he do it?

He's heard they are wise. He also wants to kill them because they have aided his enemies. So he says he will put to death the first one who gives him an incorrect answer.

Brilliant! What's the first question?

Which are more numerous, the living or the dead? said the Geranium. It's a tricky one. Do you want to know the answer?

No, I said, let me think about it for a minute.

The Potted Gymnosophist

I was out the front cleaning the car yesterday afternoon.

First I needed a bowl of water from the tap in the corner. I was bending down filling the bowl when a car pulled up. An old couple got out. They must have had a doctor's appointment.

What a lovely Gymnosophist you have in that pot, said the old woman. It looks so pretty with the pink and white flowers. She was talking to me.

Yes it is, I replied. But it wouldn't thank you for saying so. It doesn't hold with luxury, or compliments. I didn't look up. I didn't want to spill any water.

I poured some Wash 'n Wax into the bowl and began to wash the car with the giant yellow
sponge. There were big brown blobby bird droppings all over the bonnet. They broke up in the frothy water and drizzled down onto the front bumper.

This isn't how to wash a car, I thought. Why is it that sometimes I know how to do it, and sometimes I don't?

O Gymnosophist! I addressed the potted Gymnosophist under the window. Tell me, what is the proper order of things in the washing of a car?

Are you talking to me? said the Geranium. I'm a GERANIUM! But if you want my opinion I think you should scrape the shit off first.

No, That's Not It

Is it a sunflower? I asked.

Sunflowers don't have legs, said Pliny.

But it's the sort of thing you say in a riddle, I said. Nutella jars don't have hats.

That's what I thought, said Pliny. That was why I couldn't guess the answer.

So it's not a sunflower then. Don't tell me it's a race of people that stand on one leg?

You're getting close, said Pliny.

And they stare all day at the sun? I said.

Yes, said Pliny.

And they never spit, or get a headache?

Yes, said Pliny.

You haven't learnt, have you, I said. You've just listed their attributes without any riddling. Who are these people?

They are the Indian Gymnosophists, said Pliny. Perhaps you have heard of them. They live in India. They are over seven feet high. They never spit, or get a headache, or a toothache, or a pain in the eyes, or any other part. They are hardened by the heat of the sun. They are called Gymnosophists, or naked philosophers, and they remain standing from sunrise to sunset while looking fixedly at the sun, resting first on one foot, then the other.

Philosophers? I said, surprised. What kind of philosophy is that?

The philosophy of needing nothing, said Pliny. It is a philosophy that I admire. As you know I do not hold with luxury.

Except the luxury of relying on secondary sources, I said, unkindly.

That's It

So, said Pliny the Elder. It is a jar of Nutella. But a jar of Nutella unlike any jar of Nutella I have ever seen.

It was a particular jar, I admitted.

Indeed, said Pliny. Pray tell me about the icons and runes depicting heroism and despair.

It was a long time ago, I said. But I think that on one side of the glass Homer Simpson was about to swing his club heroically at the golf ball. On the other side he was grimacing because he had taken out a chunk of dirt instead.

I see, said Pliny. That can happen. But what was the hat of white?

The lid of the jar, I said.

And the paper coat of many colours?

A removable label.

I see, said Pliny.

He thought for a while.

I think I am ready to try another riddle, he said.

I don't have one, I said.

No, I have one, he said. See if you can guess it:

I stand upon one leg,
And stare all day at the sun
I never spit
Or get a headache
That's it
What am I ?

An Ethiopian? I guessed.

Why do we always think the answer to a riddle might be an Ethiopian? asked Pliny.

I don't know, I said. Is it the answer?

No, said Pliny. It never is.

Not an Ethiopian

Pliny, I said, you have no idea of the art of riddling. The idea is to think of something ordinary, then describe it in a rhyme, in such a way as to make it hard for anyone to guess what it is.

I did, said Pliny.

No you didn't. You took a piece of misinformation, wrote it down almost verbatim, and then expected me to guess what the piece of misinformation referred to. It's not the same thing.

Are you saying I didn't make it hard enough for you to guess what it was? asked Pliny.

No! If you hadn't told me the answer was the opposite of what I might expect I never would have got it. I'll give you a proper riddle. One I made up years ago. See if you can guess it:

My body is soft and dark and sweet
And coveted by folk with silver knives;
My outer shell is brittle hard and clear
I wear upon my head a hat of white;
My skin is painted with icons and runes
Depicting heroism and despair,
A yellow man, a green, ravaged earth, you will see there;
Protecting these from prying human eyes
A paper coat of many colours I do wear.

WHAT AM I ?

An intriguing riddle, said Pliny. Is it....an Ethiopian?

No of course not. It's a thing.

Is it an egg?

No. Do you want a clue?

Yes.

It's something inside something else. And there is something on the outside too.

This is most perplexing.

It's meant to be. Shall I give you the answer?

Please do.

The answer is: A jar of Nutella, with Homer Simpson playing golf painted on the glass.

Pliny looked puzzled.

Is there such a thing? he asked.

Of course there is, I said.

Exchanges

Ethiopians? I guessed again.

No, said Pliny. It was the Chinese.

What! I exclaimed. But the Chinese don't have hair of gold and eyes of blue. And they aren't taller than average. Do you mean to say they were like that in your day?

Not exactly, said Pliny. Perhaps you might like to read page 68 now.

I read page 68. I learned that the king of Taprobane, or modern day Sri Lanka, had sent four envoys to Rome, led by one Rachias, who had provided the following information about the Chinese. Namely, his father had travelled to China as a trader. That the Chinese always met them on the beach. The Chinese were above average height with golden coloured hair, blue eyes and harsh voices, although no conversation was had with them.

You see, said Pliny.

I see, I said. You got it wrong. But it wasn't your fault entirely. You were just relating what the Taprobanian envoy's dad had said. But didn't your Roman merchants deal directly with the Chinese too? Didn't they know what they looked like?

No, said Pliny. According to our merchants' accounts, they would leave their goods on the riverbank next to those put out for sale. If the Chinese liked the exchange they took the goods away. Our merchants did not see them.

Oh, I said. Well, I suppose you are exonerated. Is that why you made up the riddle?

I sought to divert your attention, said Pliny.

It didn't work, I said. It drew my attention. But it was an impossible riddle.

It wasn't, said Pliny. I knew the answer.

But the answer was wrong, I said. Wasn't it?

That was it's comical aspect, said Pliny.