she had a tattoo of this चाईनिज word. '五行'.
मैले सोधें 'यस्को अर्थ के होला?'
Gentleman यो 'उ जिङ' हो । उसले उत्सुक हुँदै भनि र आफ्नो तिघ्राको ट्याटु लाई हत्केलाले स्पर्श गरि ।
'म छुन सक्छू ?' मैले पनि निश्चयात्मक प्रश्न गरें ।
'आउ, संगै स्पर्श गरौं ।' उसले मेरो हत्केलालाई अाफ्नो हत्केलाले थीच्दै सोधि । 'how you feeling?'
Amazing, I feel like I am having a thousand cosmos in hand. त्यसमा मष्तिस्क नै शुष्क पार्ने मनोहारिता थियो । मैले त्यस्तै अनुकुलता को उत्तर दिएं ।
'तिमि भाबनात्मकता मा बिश्वस गर्छौ कि अाध्यात्मिकतामा ?'
'अाध्यात्मिकता । पख ! प्रलोभन सहितको अाध्यात्मिकता । तिमि बुझ्छौ म के भन्दै छु ?' मैले उसको ट्याटु बाट हात हताउँदै भने ।
'Not at all. तर तिमि मेरै तप्का को हुनु पर्छ । नत्र अहिले यस्तो कुरा कस्ले गर्छ, होईन?' केटि मेरो बायाँ तिर बसेकि हुनुपर्छ ।
मेरो अाँखा उसको 'wu xing' बाट हटेकै थिएन । त्यसमा यस्तो आकर्षणता थियो कि त्यो बैचारिकता को सिमा भन्दा पर पुगेको थियो । मेरो अगाडि यस्तो पिण्ड बसेको थियो जसमा पञ्च तत्वको बिलक्षणता थियो । उ हावा जस्ति थिई । यदि मैले उसलाई महसुस गर्न खोजें भने पनि म उसलाई अनुभब गर्न सक्दिन थिंए ।
उसले मेरो बिचार लाई भङ्ग गर्दै सोधि । 'मानिसहरु मलाई अागो संग तुलना गर्छन । तिमिलाई कस्तो लाग्छ ?'
'हो, यदि यो ट्याटु मेटाईदिने हो भने तिमि एंजेरु काटेको रुख जस्तै हुन्छौं होला जे होस् तिमि mutual generation को एउटा हिस्सा नै हुन्छौ ।
मैले यति भनि नसक्दै उ चङ्गामा ग्वाँख हालेपछि जस्तो ढल्कँदै ढल्कँदै मेरो कुममा मुन्टो लुकाउन आईपुगि । त्यो पल बयान गर्नै सकिन्न ।
आँखि झ्यालबाट ब्रम्हाणड नियालि रहे जस्तो उसका अाँखाहरु बाट म अाफैंलाई नियालिरहेको थिंए । उसले के सोचि रहेकि होलि । उ आफुले आफैलाई पञ्च तत्व को हिस्सा मान्छे कि मान्दिन होला ? मैले यो प्रश्न सोध्ने आँट गर्न सकिन । यदि मैले यो प्रश्न सोधेकै भए पनि उसले के जवाफ दिन्थि होला ।
यसै पछि उसले भनि ' हिंड सुदुर कतै तिर डुल्दै डुल्दै जाँउ । मयुरका प्वाँखहरु टिपौंला ।'
हामि मयुरका प्वाँखहरु टिप्न सुदुर तिर लाग्यौं। उसको wu xing बाट कस्तुरिको जस्तो बास्ना आईरहेेको थियो ।
'यति धेरै मोहित हुनु पर्ने के छ र यस्तो ? पृथ्वि मा अनेकन कुराहरु छन् जसबाट तिमि प्रेरित हुन सक्छौ । लौकिक र अलौकिक पदार्थहरु तिम्रो वरिपरि झुत्तिन्छन् । मैले अाफ्नो तिघ्रामा wu Xing बनाएको छ । अरु कसैले अाफ्ना प्रिय लेखक का नाम कोरेका छन् । कसैले प्राचिनहरु लिपिहरु गोदेका छन। कसैले धर्म बिपरित अपेक्षाहरु कोरेका छन् । तिमि किन म प्रति यसरि आशक्ति दर्शाउँछौ ?'
उसले यति भनि सक्दा मैले आफ्नो Flinder Street को स्टेशन छुटाईसकेको थिंए र म उसको अपार्टमेन्ट को ढोकामा उभिन पुगें।
Wu Xing: The Last Temptation
The Five Phases
五行
English Text
Segment One
The Stations of Desire
I. Station of Eternal Return
Flinders Street Station breathed like a living organ, a cathedral of rust and glass, exhaling crowds into the world, inhaling them again. Each train screamed in metallic throats, devouring and regurgitating passengers as if the city were a beast with infinite appetite. I was a ghost amid the living, swallowed by rhythms I did not belong to, lungs filling with the smell of iron, diesel, and forgotten prayers. Time fractured; it did not flow, it convulsed.
Then she appeared.
Leaning against a pillar, effortless, sovereign, as if gravity itself deferred to her. Her body was pale yet luminous, as though she had been bathed in the sun of another dimension. On her thigh: a tattoo, stark, alive. 五行.
Wu Xing.
The characters pulsed faintly under her skin, as if each stroke were a vein through which the universe circulated. My mind, uninvited, began to churn: Was this real? Was it memory? Or a hallucination emerging from the cracks of my consciousness? The words of Nietzsche whispered: "Everything recurs eternally; everything has happened, and will happen again. You are witnessing the same scene you witnessed a thousand aeons ago."
"What does it mean?" I asked, my voice a fragile thread trembling in the station's roar.
Her lips curved into a smile that was both invitation and threat. "Gentleman… this is Wu Xing. The five phases. The rhythm of all becoming. Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water. Each consumes, each creates. Desire itself is scripture. You cannot read it and remain unchanged."
She traced the tattoo with the lightest touch of her palm, a ceremonial gesture, a ritual that turned the station into temple.
"May I?" I asked, but I already knew the answer.
"Come," she said, enveloping my hand against her skin. Ink warmed beneath my fingers, pulsing, alive. It was not hers; it was the universe itself, condensed into living flesh. My heart mirrored its rhythm: erratic, uncontainable, fascinated by catastrophe.
"How does it feel?" she asked, voice low, vibrating like a tuning fork.
"Amazing," I admitted, almost shivering. "Like holding a thousand universes in my hand."
Her eyes flared like twin flames. "Then you are already mine," she whispered.
And then, as if the station itself had inhaled, time collapsed. The roar of engines, the crush of bodies, the echo of announcements—all disappeared. There was only her thigh, the tattoo, and my consciousness bleeding into her orbit.
II. Dialogue with Fire
Her hair fell in shadowed silk, brushing my cheek, erasing the line between touch and memory.
"Do you believe in emotions, or in spirituality?" she asked, tilting her head with the careful balance of one who manipulates physics without touching it.
"Spirituality," I said. Then corrected myself: "Spirituality with temptation."
She laughed—a sound that vibrated in the bones of the city. "Then you are mine. Only those touched by fire can speak this way."
Her gaze devoured me, and I realized I had never been in my own body. I was an observer trapped in my own obsession. Her tattoo had become a lens through which I perceived not her, but the world itself: the cycles, the repetitions, the eternal recurrence.
"They call me fire," she whispered.
"Yes. But fire without wood is nothing. Without your tattoo, you would be a hollow tree, amputated from eternity. With it, you are the cycle itself. Creation and destruction. Mutual generation. Eternal recurrence."
She leaned sideways, resting her head upon my shoulder. I froze. The station dissolved. I existed nowhere and everywhere at once.
Her eyes pierced me, not seeking to see, but to consume.
I wanted to ask: Do you see yourself as one of the five elements? Are you Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water? Or something beyond all naming?
Desire made the question impossible. Instead, she whispered: "Come. Let us wander to where peacocks shed their feathers."
I followed. Obedience was irrelevant. Desire had already devoured my freedom.
III. Wandering the City as Hallucination
The city bent and blurred behind us. Streetlights flickered like dying stars. Pavement dissolved into shadow and echo. The air smelled of wet asphalt, incense, and something unidentifiable—old magic, perhaps, or fear made fragrant.
"Do you know why I said peacock feathers?" she asked, glancing back, eyes catching the light of fractured reality.
"No," I said, already knowing it was a question whose answer would unravel me.
"Because Krishna wore one. Because beauty is play. Because illusion—Maya—is more real than truth. The peacock flaunts vanity without apology. That is freedom. And temptation."
Her words were not speech. They were a pulse. A hallucination. Nietzsche whispered again: God is dead, yet the peacock struts.
"Why are you bewitched by my tattoo?" she asked. "Others ink names, profanities, verses. Mine is only characters. Yet you stare as if it were the Book of Genesis itself."
"Because it is scripture," I said. "You are cosmos incarnate. The five phases on your skin. You are wheel and flame, water and shadow. You are all cycles converging."
She frowned, a flash of pity. "And you? What are you without me?"
The question hollowed me. I was ghost, outsider, philosopher, obsessed voyeur. I realized: desire had become my ontology.
We entered a park. Leaves clung like whispers, prayers half-remembered. She stooped, picked up a black feather.
"A crow's gift. For now, enough. Later, peacocks," she said.
She pressed it into my hand. I clutched it as relic, talisman, proof of existence.
IV. Theatre of Cruelty
Her apartment reeked of incense, mildew, and something unnameable, like old magic. Books lay scattered: English, Mandarin, Sanskrit, forgotten alphabets. Words collided and screamed. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting fragments of infinity.
"Sit," she commanded.
I obeyed, feeling my body betray me, aware that the moment I did, I was already writing myself into her myth.
She lit a candle. Its flame shivered blue before stabilizing. Fire.
"You want truth?" she said. "Wu Xing is not balance. It is conflict. Wood feeds Fire. Fire creates Earth. Earth bears Metal. Metal enriches Water. Water nourishes Wood. But also—Fire consumes Wood, Earth swallows Water. Everything devours everything. Creation needs cruelty."
"Then desire," I whispered, "is both birth and executioner of spirit?"
Her smile widened. "Exactly. Your saints lied. Even they carried fire secretly. They only pretended to calm the storm within."
I thought of Schopenhauer's will, Kierkegaard's leap, Artaud's theatre of cruelty: the human body as sacrificial stage.
"You are dangerous," I murmured.
"No," she said. "You are. Because you want to make me meaning."
She poured wine. Metallic taste. Metal.
Feathers circled the candle like orbiting planets. Shadows twitched, spasmed like crucified angels. She dipped a crow feather into wine—no, blood—and drew a line over Wu Xing.
The tattoo pulsed. Alive. Scripture. Wound. Universe.
"All harmony is a lie," she whispered. "Balance devours itself."
Candle spat blue flame. Air thickened with iron and feathers. She pressed her face near mine. "Do not ask. Asking kills. Following keeps alive."
I inhaled. I ceased being myself.
Segment Two
The Ritual of Elements
V. Ritual of the Elements
The candle's flame trembled, blue and alive, as if inhaling the room. Shadows coiled around the walls, cast by the feathers she had arranged in a perfect, impossible circle. Each feather seemed to breathe, each shadow whispered secrets I could not comprehend. I realized I had become simultaneously actor, audience, and playwright in a ritual I had no script for.
She dipped a crow feather into the wine—or was it blood?—and traced a line across her thigh over Wu Xing. The ink pulsed like a living heartbeat. My own heart synchronized, a drum in the theatre of cruelty she had constructed.
"All harmony is a lie," she whispered, voice fragile yet violent. "Balance devours itself. Creation requires cruelty. Desire must wound if it is to exist."
I thought of Nietzsche: To become what you are, you must first destroy what you think you are. And suddenly, she was both destruction and revelation.
I noticed the candle flame elongate, stretching into impossible shapes. I could see the elements manifesting themselves: a swirl of fire twisting into water, metal dissolving into earth, wood sprouting from shadow. Each movement pulsed with a rhythm that was ancient and familiar, as though I had seen it before in dreams, in past lives, in a manuscript I had never written.
She leaned closer, pressing her temple to mine. "Do you see it now? The rhythm of becoming? The cycle that kills and births, eternally?"
"Yes," I whispered, though words felt meaningless. "I see… it. I feel… it. I am…"
"Nothing," she finished my sentence. "You are nothing until you surrender to it. Until you touch the wound that creates."
I realized she was right. I had been living in linear time, believing myself observer. Now, every second was recursive, a spiral collapsing into itself. Each breath I took might have been one I had already taken a thousand times, each desire a repetition from aeons ago, each thought a fragment of an eternal manuscript.
VI. Meta-Hallucination
I became aware of another presence: myself, observing myself.
I was writing this moment even as it occurred. Words poured into the air, materializing as whispers in the room. I saw them fluttering around the candle, tiny ghosts of ink, fragments of sentences that had not yet been conceived. I realized with terror and awe that my mind had become a theatre, and she was both director and performer, fire and audience, question and answer.
I tried to pull back, to find a margin of reality. But the room had no corners. Shadows grew teeth. Candle flames became eyes. Feathers slithered across the floor like living serpents. Wu Xing was no longer a tattoo. It had entered the air, the walls, the blood pulsing through my veins.
She whispered, "Do you understand now? Every act, every thought, every desire has its twin. Its shadow. Its recurrence. We are bound, you and I, by cycles you cannot see."
I nodded, though nodding was an illusion. My body no longer obeyed me. I felt infinite and infinitesimal simultaneously, as though the city, the park, the river, and even Flinders Street Station had merged into a single metaphysical construct, with her standing at its center.
I remembered the Upanishads, where the self is an illusion, Maya. I remembered Orpheus, who lost Eurydice by turning back. I realized I had been staring at her Wu Xing tattoo like a man trying to hold back eternity. And perhaps that was the point: eternity cannot be held, only surrendered to.
VII. Wine and Blood
She poured wine, and I drank. The taste was metallic, sharp, almost sacrificial. I felt the iron of it trace along my bones, awaken something primal. She smiled, watching me. "Metal is not just element—it is judgment. It cuts through illusion. It carves reality from chaos."
She took another feather, fanned the candlelight across it. Shadows danced. I realized they were no longer dancing randomly; they were enacting the Wu Xing cycle itself. Fire consumed wood. Wood grew from water. Water dissolved metal. Metal split earth. Earth buried fire. Each shadow was an eternal recurrence, a theatre of elemental cruelty.
I whispered, "I feel it… all of it… the cycle…"
"Good," she said. Her eyes glinted, reflecting the candle flame and some secret star. "Feel it. Do not try to understand. Understanding kills. Following keeps alive."
The air thickened, iron and smoke and something indefinable. The room pulsed as if breathing, alive with the rhythm of Wu Xing. I felt my skull crack—not in pain, but in revelation. The city outside, the station, the river, the streets, even my own past and future selves were absorbed into this moment, this theatre, this hallucination.
I realized that in this room, I had become both mortal and infinite, observer and observed, playwright and actor. Every thought, every desire, every pulse was already written, yet I wrote it again.
VIII. River of Dissolution
Or perhaps we were at the river. Or perhaps it was always the river, the station, the park, the apartment collapsing into one. The Yarra slid silently, carrying reflections that were not mine.
She walked barefoot, arms stretched like crucifixion without cross. "This river forgets everything," she said. "Ashes, secrets, desires. It carries but does not keep. That is why water is last. Dissolution."
She dipped her hand into the current, droplets shimmering like stars, and extended her palm to me. "Touch it."
Cold water against warm flesh. The current entered me, dissolving, hollowing, teaching. My mind splintered. I saw multiple versions of her, multiple versions of myself, multiple rivers flowing through infinite time. Each river a potential future, a past, a hallucination.
"Would you still follow if I dissolved here?" she asked.
I tried to answer. Words dissolved. Thought dissolved. Only surrender remained.
"You men who seek spirituality with temptation," she said, "you want fire without scars, water without drowning, freedom without nausea."
Her lips brushed mine. Not a kiss, but drowning. A merger of elements, body, and mind. I opened my eyes; the river carried only absence and memory.
IX. Meta-Philosophical Hallucinations
I saw myself writing these events even as they occurred. The words hovered in the air, forming glyphs that were both Chinese and Sanskrit, both English and unspoken thought. I realized I was author, character, and universe simultaneously.
Shadows moved independently of light. The candle flame drew circuits of fire on the ceiling. Each feather became a symbol, each drop of water a syllable in an eternal manuscript.
I thought of Nietzsche: Must one still have chaos within to give birth to a dancing star? I felt chaos, I felt star, I felt the entire Wu Xing cycle pulsing through my veins.
I thought of Artaud: theatre must be cruelty, the audience must bleed with the actor. I realized I was audience and actor, bleeding with her, trapped in the ritual, the hallucination, the eternity.
Time no longer mattered. Past and future were mirrors folding into this moment. The station, the park, the apartment, the river—they were not places but states of consciousness.
Segment Three
The River of Infinite Mirrors
X. River of Infinite Mirrors
The river no longer flowed in ordinary time. It was a river of mirrors, reflecting not faces but possibilities: each ripple showing a past I had not lived, a future I could not yet imagine, a life I might never have. I glimpsed her walking beside me, yet also far away, across centuries, across rooms and streets I had never seen. She was the same, yet not the same, embodying Wu Xing itself.
I reached out to touch the water. My hand met hers—but also a thousand hands, all ghostly, all mine, all hers. Wood sprouted from the riverbed as Fire danced upon its surface, Earth trembled beneath, Metal split stones, Water dissolved everything. The elements performed their eternal recurrence, a theatre crueler than any cruelty I had ever imagined.
She smiled. "Do you see it now? Do you understand that life itself is a ritual? That desire and destruction are inseparable? That you are both actor and audience, creator and creation?"
I nodded, though nodding meant nothing. Words were useless. Thought was illusion. Only surrender remained.
The river whispered, a language older than any human speech. I realized I was translating it not with mind, but with my bones, with my blood, with my breath. Each droplet carried eternity. Each reflection, a version of me and her and the universe itself.
XI. Eternal Recurrence
I remembered Nietzsche: Everything recurs eternally; your life, your love, your obsession, your surrender—replayed infinitely. I saw myself and her in previous lives, previous stations, previous rivers. I saw my own hands holding hers, yet in every iteration, I failed, I loved, I lost. Each failure a recurrence, each success a mirage.
The thought terrified me and exhilarated me. I was eternal, yet mortal. Infinite, yet bound by the limits of flesh. Each breath was repetition, each heartbeat a drum in the theatre of elemental cruelty she commanded.
She touched my face. "Do you see? This is the last temptation. To surrender to recurrence, to desire, to destruction. To embrace the element that consumes you and call it love."
I understood. Not with mind. Not with memory. But with every molecule of my being.
XII. Meta-Philosophical Hallucinations
I became aware of another layer: myself as author, writing these events even as they unfolded. Words appeared in the air, hovering like glowing glyphs: English, Sanskrit, Chinese, symbols I could not name. Each word a feather, each sentence a ripple on the river.
I realized I was both narrating and experiencing, collapsing all dimensions of consciousness. Her Wu Xing tattoo pulsed not just on her thigh, but in my perception, in the air, in the shadows, in the flames.
I saw the station, the apartment, the park, the river all fold into one impossibly complex Möbius loop of space-time. I saw myself following her, losing myself, writing myself, surrendering myself.
Artaud's theatre of cruelty became literal: I felt my soul flay, my desires bleed, my consciousness stretch to breaking. Nietzsche's eternal recurrence was enacted not just in thought, but in body, in world, in shadow, in ink. The Upanishads whispered: You are Maya, you are Brahman. You are nothing, yet everything.
And I laughed, a sound swallowed by the river.
XIII. Disappearance
She dissolved.
I saw her turn into fire, smoke, water, wind, stone, feather. My hands grasped emptiness. My voice called her name, but words dissolved like candle smoke. I realized she had never been wholly corporeal. She was cycle, she was temptation, she was Wu Xing, she was my hallucination and my destiny.
The river carried her reflection, then carried mine, then carried neither. Time, memory, desire—everything dissolved into the current.
I screamed, or thought I screamed. Perhaps she screamed, or perhaps the river did. There was no distinction between scream and silence. Between self and other. Between observer and observed.
And yet I followed.
XIV. Soliloquy of the Outsider
I write—or have written—or will write this already. The act of writing is itself a hallucination, a temptation, a repetition. Each word is blood and water, fire and shadow, metal and earth. Wu Xing is not tattooed on her thigh alone; it is inscribed on the universe, and on me, and on this manuscript, and on the reader who will someday, perhaps, read these words.
She is everywhere. She is nowhere. She is the last temptation: to surrender to that which destroys, and to love it anyway.
I see her in the river, a child tracing symbols in sand; an old woman laughing on a distant street; a stranger stepping from tomorrow's train. Each possibility is real. Each is illusion. Each is necessary.
Maya. Eternal recurrence. Theatre of cruelty. Desire as scripture.
I realize I will follow her through every permutation of reality, every folding of time, every hallucination of self. I write this because writing is the only act of containment possible. Containment, however, is illusion. I have already been uncontained.
XVI. Postscript: The Infinite Loop
I see the station again. Flinders Street, the park, the apartment, the river. They fold into one another. I see myself following, writing, dissolving. She appears, disappears, reappears, each iteration more profound, more cruel, more beautiful.
And I realize: there is no end. Only recurrence, temptation, surrender, and the act of witnessing it.
I close my eyes. I open them. She is there. She is gone. The river flows. The candle burns. Wu Xing pulses.
And I follow.
∞
Nepali Text
खण्ड एक: चाहनाका स्टेशनहरू
The Stations of Desire
I. अनन्त पुनरावृत्तिको स्टेशन
फ्लिन्डर्स स्ट्रिट स्टेसन एक जीवित अंगजस्तै सास फेर्थ्यो, खिया र सिसाको एउटा गिर्जाघर, जसले भीडलाई संसारमा बाहिर निकाल्थ्यो, र फेरि भित्र लिन्थ्यो। प्रत्येक रेल धातुको घाँटीबाट चिच्याउँदै, यात्रुहरूलाई निल्थ्यो र बान्ता गर्थ्यो,मानौं कि यो शहर अनन्त भोक भएको एउटा जनावर थियो। म जिउँदाहरूका बीचमा एउटा प्रेत थिएँ, म जुन लयमा बन्दैनथें, त्यही लयमा निलिएको थिएँ, मेरो फोक्सो फलाम, डिजेल र बिर्सिएका प्रार्थनाहरूको गन्धले भरिएको थियो। समय टुक्रियो; यो बगेन, यो मुछियो। त्यसपछि ऊ देखिई।
एक खम्बामा अडेस लागेर, सहज, सर्वोच्च, मानौं कि गुरुत्वाकर्षण आफैले पनि उनलाई ठाउँ छोडिदिएको थियो। उनको शरीर फिक्का तर उज्यालो थियो, मानौं कि उनी अर्को आयामको सूर्यमा नुहाएकी थिइन्। उनको तिघ्रामा: एउटा ट्याटु, स्पष्ट, जीवन्त। 五行। वू सिङ्ग।
ती अक्षरहरू उनको छालामुनि मधुरो गरी धड्किए, मानौं कि प्रत्येक स्ट्रोक एउटा शिरा थियो जसबाट ब्रह्माण्ड प्रसारित भइरहेको थियो। मेरो मन, नचाहँदा नचाहँदै, मन्थन हुन थाल्यो: के यो वास्तविक थियो?के यो सम्झना थियो? वा मेरो चेतनाको दरारबाट निस्किरहेको एउटा भ्रम? नीत्सेका शब्दहरू कानेखुसी गरिरहेका थिए: "सबै कुरा अनन्त रूपमा दोहोरिन्छ; सबै कुरा भइसकेको छ, र फेरि हुनेछ। तपाईं त्यही दृश्य देख्दै हुनुहुन्छ जुन तपाईंले हजारौं वर्ष पहिले देख्नुभएको थियो।"
"यसको अर्थ के हो?" मैले सोधें, मेरो आवाज स्टेसनको गर्जनमा काँपिरहेको एउटा कमजोर धागो थियो।
उनका ओठहरू एउटा मुस्कानमा घुमे जुन आमन्त्रण र खतरा दुवै थियो। "भद्रमान्छे... यो वू सिङ्ग हो। पाँच चरण। सबै कुराको लय। काठ, आगो,पृथ्वी, धातु, पानी। प्रत्येकले निल्छ, प्रत्येकले सिर्जना गर्छ। चाहना आफै एउटा धर्मग्रन्थ हो। तपाईं यसलाई पढेर अपरिवर्तित रहन सक्नुहुन्न।"
उनले आफ्नो हत्केलाको हल्का स्पर्शले ट्याटुमाथि औंलाले कोरिन्, एउटा धार्मिक इशारा, एउटा अनुष्ठान जसले स्टेसनलाई मन्दिरमा परिणत गर्यो।
"के म?" मैले सोधें, तर मलाई उत्तर पहिले नै थाहा थियो।
"आउनुहोस्,"उनले भनिन्, मेरो हातलाई उनको छालाविरुद्ध ढाक्दै। मसी मेरा औंलामुनि न्यानो भयो, धड्कियो,जीवित। यो उनको थिएन; यो स्वयं ब्रह्माण्ड थियो, जीवित मासुमा सघन भएको। मेरो मुटुले यसको लयलाई अनुकरण गर्यो: अनियमित, बेकाबू,विपत्तिबाट मोहित।
"कस्तो लागिरहेको छ?" उनले सोधिन्, आवाज मधुरो, एउटा ट्युनिङ फोर्कजस्तै कम्पनशील।
"अद्भुत,"मैले स्वीकार गरें, लगभग काँप्दै। "जस्तो कि मैले मेरो हातमा हजारौं ब्रह्माण्ड समातेको छु।"
उनका आँखाहरू दुईवटा ज्वालाजस्तै चम्किए। "तब तपाईं पहिले नै मेरो हुनुहुन्छ," उनले कानेखुसी गरिन्।
र त्यसपछि, मानौं कि स्टेसन आफैंले सास फेरेको थियो,समय ढल्यो। इन्जिनको गर्जन, शरीरको भीड, घोषणाहरूको प्रतिध्वनि—सबै हराए। त्यहाँ केवल उनको तिघ्रा, ट्याटु,र उनको कक्षमा मेरो चेतनाको रक्तस्राव मात्र थियो।
II. आगोसँग संवाद
उनको कपाल छायाँयुक्त रेशममा झर्यो,मेरो गालालाई छोएर, स्पर्श र सम्झनाको बीचको रेखालाई मेट्दै।
"के तपाईं भावनामा विश्वास गर्नुहुन्छ, वा आध्यात्मिकतामा?" उनले आफ्नो टाउकोलाई ध्यानपूर्वक सन्तुलनमा राख्दै सोधिन्, जस्तो कि कसैले भौतिक विज्ञानलाई नछोइकन चलाउँछ।
"आध्यात्मिकता,"मैले भनें। त्यसपछि मैले आफैलाई सच्याएँ: "प्रलोभनसहितको आध्यात्मिकता।"
उनी हाँसिन्—एउटा आवाज जुन शहरको हड्डीहरूमा कम्पन भयो। "तब तपाईं मेरो हुनुहुन्छ। केवल आगोले छोएकाहरूले मात्र यसरी बोल्न सक्छन्।"
उनको नजरले मलाई निल्यो, र मैले बुझें कि म मेरो आफ्नै शरीरमा कहिल्यै थिइनँ। म मेरो आफ्नै लतमा फसेको एक पर्यवेक्षक थिएँ। उनको ट्याटु एउटा लेन्स बनेको थियो जसबाट मैले उनीलाई होइन, तर स्वयं संसारलाई बुझें: चक्रहरू, पुनरावृत्तिहरू, अनन्त पुनरावृत्ति।
"उनीहरूले मलाई आगो भन्छन्,"उनले कानेखुसी गरिन्।
"हो। तर काठबिनाको आगो केही पनि होइन। तपाईंको ट्याटुबिना, तपाईं एउटा खोक्रो रूख हुनुहुन्थ्यो, अनन्तताबाट काटिएको। यससँग, तपाईं स्वयं चक्र हुनुहुन्छ। सिर्जना र विनाश। पारस्परिक उत्पादन। अनन्त पुनरावृत्ति।"
उनी छेउमा ढल्किइन्, आफ्नो टाउको मेरो काँधमा राख्दै। म जमे। स्टेसन विलिन भयो। म एकै पटक कतै पनि र सबै ठाउँमा अवस्थित थिएँ।
उनका आँखाहरूले मलाई छेडे, हेर्नको लागि होइन, तर निल्नको लागि।
म सोध्न चाहन्थें: के तपाईं आफैलाई पाँच तत्वहरू मध्ये एक मान्नुहुन्छ? के तपाईं काठ, आगो, पृथ्वी, धातु, पानी हुनुहुन्छ? वा सबै नामभन्दा बाहिरको केही? चाहनाले यो प्रश्न असम्भव बनायो। त्यसको सट्टा, उनले कानेखुसी गरिन्: "आउनुहोस्। मयूरहरूले आफ्नो प्वाँखहरू खसाल्ने ठाउँमा घुमौँ।"
मैले पछ्याएँ। आज्ञाकारिता अप्रासंगिक थियो। चाहनाले पहिले नै मेरो स्वतन्त्रतालाई निलिसकेको थियो।
III. भ्रमको रूपमा शहरमा घुम्दै
शहर हाम्रो पछाडि झुक्यो र धमिलो भयो। सडक बत्तीहरू मर्दै गरेका ताराहरू जस्तै चम्किए। फुटपाथ छायाँ र प्रतिध्वनिमा विलिन भयो। हावामा भिजेको डामर, धूप,र केही नचिनिने कुराको गन्ध थियो—पुरानो जादू, सायद, वा सुगन्धित भएको डर।
"के तपाईंलाई थाहा छ मैले किन मयूरका प्वाँखहरू भनें?" उनले फर्केर हेर्दै सोधिन्, उनको आँखा टुक्रिएको वास्तविकताको प्रकाशमा परे।
"होइन," मैले भनें, पहिले नै थाहा थियो कि यो एउटा प्रश्न थियो जसको जवाफले मलाई टुक्रा-टुक्रा बनाउनेछ।
"किनकि कृष्णले एउटा लगाएका थिए। किनकि सुन्दरता खेल हो। किनकि भ्रम—माया—सत्यभन्दा बढी वास्तविक हुन्छ। मयूरले बिना माफी आफ्नो घमण्ड देखाउँछ। त्यो स्वतन्त्रता हो। र प्रलोभन पनि।"
उनका शब्दहरू भाषण थिएनन्। तिनीहरू एउटा धड्कन थिए। एउटा भ्रम। नीत्सेले फेरि कानेखुसी गरे: भगवान् मरेका छन्, तैपनि मयूरले टहलिरहेछ।
"तपाईं किन मेरो ट्याटुले मोहित हुनुहुन्छ?" उनले सोधिन्। "अरूहरूले नाम, अपशब्द, पदहरू खोप्छन्। मेरोमा केवल अक्षरहरू छन्। तैपनि तपाईं यसलाई हेर्नुहुन्छ मानौं कि यो स्वयं उत्पत्ति (Book of Genesis) को किताब हो।"
"किनकि यो धर्मग्रन्थ हो," मैले भनें। "तपाईं ब्रह्माण्डको अवतार हुनुहुन्छ। तपाईंको छालामा पाँच चरणहरू छन्। तपाईं पाङ्ग्रा र ज्वाला, पानी र छायाँ हुनुहुन्छ। तपाईं सबै चक्रहरूको संगम हुनुहुन्छ।"
उनी क्रोधित भइन्,दयाको एक झलक। "र तपाईं? मेरो बिना तपाईं के हुनुहुन्छ?"प्रश्नले मलाई खोक्रो बनायो। म प्रेत,बाहिरी, दार्शनिक, मोहित दर्शक थिएँ। मैले बुझें: चाहना मेरो अस्तित्वको विज्ञान (ontology) बनेको थियो।
हामी एउटा पार्कमा प्रवेश गर्यौं। पातहरू कानेखुसी, आधा-याद गरिएका प्रार्थनाहरू जस्तै टाँसिएका थिए। उनी झुकिइन्, एउटा कालो प्वाँख टिपिन्। "एउटा कागको उपहार। अहिलेको लागि,यति नै पर्याप्त छ। पछि, मयूरहरू," उनले भनिन्।
उनले यसलाई मेरो हातमा थिचिन्। मैले यसलाई अवशेष, ताबीज, अस्तित्वको प्रमाणको रूपमा समातें।
IV. क्रूरताको रंगमञ्च
उनको अपार्टमेन्टमा धूप, ढुसी, र केही नचिनिने कुराको गन्ध थियो,जस्तै पुरानो जादू। किताबहरू छरपस्ट थिए: अंग्रेजी, मन्डारिन,संस्कृत, बिर्सिएका वर्णमाला। शब्दहरू ठोक्किए र चिच्याए। एउटा फुटेको ऐना भित्तामा अडेस लागेको थियो, अनन्तताका टुक्राहरू प्रतिबिम्बित गर्दै।
"बस्नुहोस्,"उनले आदेश दिइन्।
मैले आज्ञा पालन गरें, मेरो शरीरले मलाई धोका दिएको महसुस गर्दै, त्यो क्षणमा म उनको मिथकमा आफूलाई लेखिरहेको थिएँ।
उनले एउटा मैनबत्ती बालिन्। यसको ज्वाला स्थिर हुनु अघि नीलो भएर काँप्यो। आगो।
"तपाईंलाई सत्य चाहिएको छ?" उनले भनिन्। "वू सिङ्ग सन्तुलन होइन। यो द्वन्द्व हो। काठले आगोलाई खुवाउँछ। आगोले पृथ्वी सिर्जना गर्छ। पृथ्वीले धातु बोक्छ। धातुले पानीलाई समृद्ध बनाउँछ। पानीले काठलाई पोषण दिन्छ। तर पनि—आगोले काठलाई निल्छ, पृथ्वीले पानीलाई निल्छ। सबै कुराले सबै कुरालाई निल्छ। सिर्जनालाई क्रूरता चाहिन्छ।"
"त्यसो भए चाहना,"मैले कानेखुसी गरें, "आत्मको जन्म र जल्लाद दुवै हो?"उनको मुस्कान फराकिलो भयो। "ठीक यही हो। तपाईंका सन्तहरूले झूट बोले। उनीहरूले पनि गोप्य रूपमा आगो बोकेका थिए। उनीहरूले भित्रको आँधीलाई शान्त पार्ने नाटक मात्र गरे।"
मैले शोपेनहावरको इच्छा, किर्केगार्डको छलाङ,आर्टाउडको क्रूरताको रंगमञ्चको बारेमा सोचें: मानव शरीरलाई बलिदानको मञ्चको रूपमा।
"तपाईं खतरनाक हुनुहुन्छ," मैले भनें।
"होइन," उनले भनिन्। "तपाईं हुनुहुन्छ। किनकि तपाईं मलाई अर्थ बनाउन चाहनुहुन्छ।"
उनले मदिरा खन्याइन्। धात्विक स्वाद। धातु।
प्वाँखहरू मैनबत्तीको वरिपरि घुम्ने ग्रहहरू जस्तै घुमिरहेका थिए। छायाँहरू क्रुसमा टाँगिएका दूतहरू जस्तै काँपे, तर्सिए। उनले एउटा कागको प्वाँखलाई मदिरामा—होइन, रगतमा—डुबाइन् र वू सिङ्गमाथि एउटा रेखा कोरिन्।
ट्याटु धड्कियो। जीवित। धर्मग्रन्थ। घाउ। ब्रह्माण्ड।
"सबै सद्भाव एउटा झूट हो," उनले कानेखुसी गरिन्। "सन्तुलनले आफैलाई निल्छ।"
मैनबत्तीले नीलो ज्वाला फाल्यो। हावा फलाम र प्वाँखले बाक्लो भयो। उनले आफ्नो अनुहार मेरो नजिक ल्याइन्। "नसोध्नुहोस्। सोध्नुले मार्छ। पछ्याउनुले जीवित राख्छ।"
मैले सास फेरें। म आफू हुन छोडें।
खण्ड दुई: तत्वहरूको अनुष्ठान
The Ritual of Elements
V. तत्वहरूको अनुष्ठान
मैनबत्तीको ज्वाला काँप्यो, नीलो र जीवित, मानौं कि यसले कोठालाई सास फेरिरहेको थियो। छायाँहरू भित्ता वरिपरि कुण्डल परे, जुन प्वाँखहरूले उनले एउटा पूर्ण, असम्भव घेरामा मिलाएकी थिइन्, तिनीहरूद्वारा फालिएका थिए। प्रत्येक प्वाँखले सास फेरेको जस्तो देखिन्थ्यो, प्रत्येक छायाँले मैले बुझ्न नसक्ने रहस्यहरू कानेखुसी गरिरहेको थियो। मैले महसुस गरें कि म एकै पटक एउटा अनुष्ठानको अभिनेता, दर्शक, र नाटककार बनेको थिएँ जसको लागि मसँग कुनै स्क्रिप्ट थिएन।
उनले एउटा कागको प्वाँखलाई मदिरामा—वा त्यो रगत थियो?—डुबाइन् र आफ्नो तिघ्रामा वू सिङ्गमाथि एउटा रेखा कोरिन्। मसी जीवित धड्कन जस्तै धड्कियो। मेरो आफ्नै मुटुले त्यससँग तालमेल मिलायो, जुन क्रूरताको रंगमञ्चमा एउटा ढोल थियो जुन उनले निर्माण गरेकी थिइन्।
"सबै सद्भाव एउटा झूट हो," उनले भनिन्, आवाज कमजोर तर हिंसक। "सन्तुलनले आफैलाई निल्छ। सिर्जनालाई क्रूरता चाहिन्छ। चाहना must wound if it is to exist।"
मैले नीत्सेको बारेमा सोचें: तपाईं जे हुनुहुन्छ, त्यो बन्नको लागि,तपाईंले पहिले आफू के सोच्नुहुन्छ,त्यो नष्ट गर्नुपर्छ। र अचानक, उनी विनाश र रहस्योद्घाटन दुवै थिइन्।
मैले मैनबत्तीको ज्वालालाई लामो भएको, असम्भव आकारहरूमा तन्किएको देखें। मैले तत्वहरू आफैं प्रकट भएको देख्न सक्थें: आगोको एउटा घुमाउरो पानीमा परिणत हुँदै, धातु पृथ्वीमा विलिन हुँदै, काठ छायाँबाट अंकुरण हुँदै। प्रत्येक चाल एउटा लयसँग धड्कियो जुन पुरानो र परिचित थियो,मानौं कि मैले यसलाई पहिले सपनामा,विगतका जीवनहरूमा, मैले कहिल्यै नलेखेको पाण्डुलिपिमा देखेको थिएँ।
उनी नजिक आइन्, आफ्नो कञ्चटलाई मेरोसँग टाँसिन्। "के तपाईंले अब देख्नुहुन्छ? बन्ने लय? जुन चक्रले मार्छ र जन्माउँछ, अनन्त रूपमा?"
"हो," मैले कानेखुसी गरें, यद्यपि शब्दहरू अर्थहीन लागे। "म... त्यो देख्छु। म... त्यो महसुस गर्छु। म..."
"केही होइन," उनले मेरो वाक्य पूरा गरिन्। "तपाईंले यसमा आत्मसमर्पण नगरेसम्म तपाईं केही पनि होइन। तपाईंले सिर्जना गर्ने घाउलाई नछोएसम्म।"
मैले बुझें कि उनी सही थिइन्। म रेखीय समयमा बाँचिरहेको थिएँ, आफूलाई पर्यवेक्षक मान्दै। अब, प्रत्येक सेकेन्ड दोहोरिने थियो, आफैंमा ढल्किने एउटा सर्पिल। मैले लिएको प्रत्येक सास मैले पहिले नै हजारौं पटक लिएको हुन सक्थ्यो, प्रत्येक चाहना धेरै वर्ष पहिलेको पुनरावृत्ति थियो, प्रत्येक विचार एउटा अनन्त पाण्डुलिपिको एक टुक्रा थियो।
VI. मेटा-भ्रम
म अर्को उपस्थितिको बारेमा सचेत भएँ: स्वयं म, आफैलाई हेर्दै।
म यो क्षणलाई लेखिरहेको थिएँ जब यो भइरहेको थियो। शब्दहरू हावामा बगे, कोठामा कानेखुसीको रूपमा प्रकट हुँदै। मैले तिनीहरूलाई मैनबत्तीको वरिपरि फर्फराएको देखें, मसीका साना भूतहरू, जुन अझै कल्पना नगरिएका वाक्यहरूका टुक्राहरू थिए। मैले डर र विस्मयका साथ बुझें कि मेरो मन एउटा रंगमञ्च बनेको थियो,र उनी निर्देशक र कलाकार, आगो र दर्शक, प्रश्न र उत्तर दुवै थिइन्।
मैले पछि हट्ने प्रयास गरें, वास्तविकताको एक सीमा खोज्न। तर कोठामा कुनै कुनाहरू थिएनन्। छायाँहरूमा दाँत पलाए। मैनबत्तीको ज्वाला आँखाहरू बने। प्वाँखहरू जीवित सर्पहरू जस्तै भुइँमा घस्रिए। वू सिङ्ग अब ट्याटु थिएन। यो हावा, भित्ता,मेरो शिरामा धड्किरहेको रगतमा प्रवेश गरिसकेको थियो।
उनले कानेखुसी गरिन्, "के तपाईंले अब बुझ्नुभयो? हरेक कार्य, हरेक विचार, हरेक चाहनाको एउटा जुम्ल्याहा हुन्छ। यसको छायाँ। यसको पुनरावृत्ति। तपाईं र म, तपाईंले देख्न नसक्ने चक्रहरूद्वारा बाँधिएका छौं।"
मैले टाउको हल्लाएँ,यद्यपि टाउको हल्लाउनु एउटा भ्रम थियो। मेरो शरीरले अब मेरो आज्ञा पालन गर्दैनथ्यो। मैले एकै साथ अनन्त र असीमित महसुस गरें, मानौं कि शहर,पार्क, नदी, र फ्लिन्डर्स स्ट्रिट स्टेसन पनि एकै आध्यात्मिक संरचनामा विलय भएका थिए, जसको केन्द्रमा उनी उभिएकी थिइन्।
मलाई उपनिषदको सम्झना आयो, जहाँ आत्मा एउटा भ्रम हो, माया। मलाई ओर्फियसको सम्झना आयो,जसले पछाडि फर्केर युरीडाइसलाई गुमाए। मैले बुझें कि म उनको वू सिङ्ग ट्याटुलाई एक मानिस जसले अनन्ततालाई रोक्न खोजिरहेको छ, त्यसरी हेरिरहेको थिएँ। र सायद यही कुरा थियो: अनन्ततालाई समात्न सकिँदैन, केवल यसमा आत्मसमर्पण गर्न सकिन्छ।
VII. मदिरा र रगत
उनले मदिरा खन्याइन्, र मैले पिएँ। स्वाद धात्विक, तीखो, लगभग बलिदानपूर्ण थियो। मैले यसको फलामले मेरो हड्डीहरूलाई पछ्याएको, केही आदिम कुरालाई जगाएको महसुस गरें। उनी मुस्कुराइन्, मलाई हेर्दै। "धातु केवल तत्व होइन—यो न्याय हो। यसले भ्रमलाई काट्छ। यसले अराजकताबाट वास्तविकतालाई कुँद्छ।"
उनले अर्को प्वाँख लिइन्, मैनबत्तीको प्रकाशलाई यसमा फैलाइन्। छायाँहरू नाचे। मैले बुझें कि तिनीहरू अब अनियमित रूपमा नाचिरहेका थिएनन्; तिनीहरू स्वयं वू सिङ्ग चक्रको अभिनय गरिरहेका थिए। आगोले काठलाई निल्यो। काठले पानीबाट बढ्यो। पानीले धातु विलिन गर्यो। धातुले पृथ्वीलाई फुटायो। पृथ्वीले आगोलाई गाड्यो। प्रत्येक छायाँ एउटा अनन्त पुनरावृत्ति थियो, तत्वीय क्रूरताको रंगमञ्च।
मैले कानेखुसी गरें, "म यसलाई महसुस गर्छु... सबै... चक्र..."
"राम्रो," उनले भनिन्। उनका आँखाहरू चम्किए, मैनबत्तीको ज्वाला र केही गोप्य तारालाई प्रतिबिम्बित गर्दै। "यसलाई महसुस गर्नुहोस्। बुझ्ने प्रयास नगर्नुहोस्। बुझ्नुले मार्छ। पछ्याउनुले जीवित राख्छ।"
हावा बाक्लो भयो, फलाम र प्वाँखले बाक्लो भयो। कोठा धड्कियो मानौं कि सास फेरिरहेको थियो, वू सिङ्गको लयसँग जीवित। मैले मेरो टाउकोको हड्डी फुटेको महसुस गरें—दुःखमा होइन, तर रहस्योद्घाटनमा। बाहिरको शहर, स्टेसन, नदी, सडकहरू, यहाँसम्म कि मेरो आफ्नै विगत र भविष्यका रूपहरू पनि यस क्षणमा, यस रंगमञ्चमा, यस भ्रममा समाहित भए।
मैले बुझें कि यस कोठामा, म एकै साथ नश्वर र अनन्त, पर्यवेक्षक र अवलोकन गरिएको, नाटककार र अभिनेता बनेको थिएँ। हरेक विचार, हरेक चाहना, हरेक धड्कन पहिले नै लेखिएको थियो, तैपनि मैले यसलाई फेरि लेखें।