Let that cosmic tragedy befall upon this tragic man

Yuba Raj Koirala

"Dare to live the life of a tragic man and you will be redeemed." so spoke our good old Zarathustra once. I often ponder upon what he said and with what intent? Looking at what’s going around this temporal milieu and seeing how a vast pedigree of this human flock is rapidly degenerating into a mere third class species and how rapidly it is sinking into that opprobrious abyss from where neither it is possible for him to proclaim the heavenly shore nor could he seek any refuge, for he has already consumed more than what was consigned to him. The relentless pursuit to be consumed every second is what seems to have remained on stock for this man. The absence of any tiniest degree of moral agency in him suggests that he has long been deceased but the wish to consume more alone is what keeps him scrolling through this heap of debris he has accumulated throughout all the time and ages. The story of this tragic man seen here and there and everywhere therefore bears the testimony of our times that perhaps no philosophy, no faith, no religion nor even any kind of a divine degree can now deter this mortal from perishing altogether. This tragic man today sits comfortably in the midst of modernity and rejoices his essence in search of something more consumable and something that is more degrading to his soul. To him, Every hour is an opportunity to commit sins and every single day is a sojourn to accumulate guilt. The night is the aeon for him, for this is during this time that he crosses that hellish ocean soaked with guilt and flooded with blood. He regrets not what ought to have been and confesses no wickedness as if what mattered most in life was the veil of ignorance and protracted stupidity wherein he can go on indulging himself until he feels satisfied with his utter thirst for fleshly gratification. Once satisfied, he then either retires in contentment or else goes on to indulging himself in this worldly quarantine where he finds company among the beast of pleasure seekers.

What led man to this tragic destiny? What made this tragic man to abandoned the idea of self-perversion altogether? Where are those men once found roaming alone in the thickest of forest and solitude renouncing the worldly pleasure in search of something eternal and sublime? Where are those men once seen and heard of who gave up the entire worldly pleasure at their disposal in order to drink for a second the divine nectar? Where are those sages and rishis who once took upon themselves to go through that painful endurance and hardship in order just to see that others could live happily? Gita, Kuran, Bible, Dhammapada, seem to remain just like reference books being cited once in a while, that too, when their gospels are convenient enough to attack others in a manner which can hurt another’s feeling and faiths. If they can not provide enough references to remedy our ills, if they cannot help us preserve something that is more meaningful and fulfilling to our life, if they don’t help us stop butchering one another every minute or the other, then what is the use of either being a Hindu, Muslim, Christian, and a Buddhists for that matter? The answers are to be found nowhere but in the face of this tragic Men today, seen here, there and everywhere, whose very look resembles the very prototype of that hellish creature who was once said to have become so engrossed in consuming and gratifying his fleshly desires that the seven seas above the heaven mourn and dried themselves down; but shed a drop of tear in mercy to atone his earthly son so he may be able to re proclaim his heavenly shore again for He had created this tragic man in his own image.

I shall keep on pondering upon the fate of this tragic man later on, provided I myself don’t become consumed in the process. But for now, I wish to leave the readers with the following poem.

Immoral Mortals

Darkness, soaked with guilt,

Consumed and content,

in death and with decay.

The mortal ploughs the field

dampens his shadow.

Nearing the night to its close,

Crosses the ocean blood red rose.

Twisting and turning,

passeth the aeon.

marvelous o marvelous,

how much consumed

Ye are o man.

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