Who Will Bury The Dead God?

By Ruman Neupane

Imagine a man straddling both sides of good and evil, struggling to regain his balance. He clutches onto both aspects with his bewildered mind, pondering his own senses. As he stands there, his mind races with questions. What is the meaning of his existence? Why has he been placed in this moment, at this time, with these thoughts and feelings? Is there a purpose to his life, or is it all just a random series of events?

‘I know God smells terribly bad, and I’m ready to bury him deep in the ground. But is this really the right thing to do? Is there a better solution? Should I try to make the smell more bearable, or is this the only course of action? I’m torn between doing what’s best for God and the reality of the situation,’ he thinks.

Has he fallen into the river of dilemma and been washed away from his suffering? Will this man unravel the mystery of his existence, or will he be swallowed up by the abyss of his own mind?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035831357

Ruman Neupane

Ruman Neupane was born in Bhaktapur, Nepal, a medieval town founded in the 12th century. Currently, he resides in Australia with his wife, Pratiksha, and son, Ryan. He is an avid reader and writer who is deeply influenced by Nietzschean philosophy. He is particularly drawn to the pessimistic style of Schopenhauerian writing, which he believes accurately reflects the human condition. Ruman has previously published two books, both of which were well received by readers and critics. This book is his third, and he hopes that it will be just as well received as his previous works. In his writing, Ruman combines elements of Hindu and Greek mythology to create a unique and compelling narrative. He is deeply interested in the philosophical dynamics of Hinduism, and this is reflected in his writing. His taste in music is eclectic, but he is a core follower of The Doors and Freddie Mercury.

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About the Author

Ruman Neupane was born in Bhaktapur, Nepal, a medieval town founded in the 12th century. Currently, he resides in Australia with his wife, Pratiksha, and son, Ryan.

He is an avid reader and writer who is deeply influenced by Nietzschean philosophy. He is particularly drawn to the pessimistic style of Schopenhauerian writing, which he believes accurately reflects the human condition.

Ruman has previously published two books, both of which were well received by readers and critics. This book is his third, and he hopes that it will be just as well received as his previous works. In his writing, Ruman combines elements of Hindu and Greek mythology to create a unique and compelling narrative. He is deeply interested in the philosophical dynamics of Hinduism, and this is reflected in his writing. His taste in music is eclectic, but he is a core follower of The Doors and Freddie Mercury.

Dedication

Morrison’s Music

Nietzsche

Freak words

Rush wind

Applause

Books

The poems of death

And you

Grace

Copyright Information ©

Ruman Neupane 2024

The right of Ruman Neupane to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035831340 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035831357 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Foreword

This book is like a headless worm, wiggling its way through the lives of its readers, leaving me in a half-body state. It is something special, something unique, and today I want to wish it a happy birthday. Go live with its readers, let them feel its presence and be sensual with them, allowing them to experience its full power. May it continue to make its own journey, bringing joy and pleasure to those who come across it.

Happy birthday headless worm!

Prelude

I do not remember my name—or myself.

Despair pulled me out of my shell, like an oyster has been pulled out of its hermit-shell by its chef—to be cooked. I was dry and ready to be cooked up.

At the last minute, I said to my chef, Wait a second, let me correct this. Let myself be out of redemption.

But I was not going to accept this grievous transformation in a simpleton way. As I was looking for a way out from the cauldron of life, I ran away with the thought that I may be better off dwelling inside the shell, as oysters do. But I knew, deep down, that I could not stay there forever, so I decided to find a way out. Pursuing Grace became my last resort—the woman that could save me from the hot cauldron of torment I was in. I was hoping that one day I could manage to leap out of this boiling water and find a way to be free.

And the primary cause of my despair, as far I am concerned, was the death of God and its vacancy.

The last thing I recall, I was standing at the Saint-Lazare station in Vernon, watching the hustle and bustle of the crowd. I had decided to take the shuttle to Giverny, and I was filled with anticipation as I stepped onto the bus and made my way towards my destination on the 20th of September 2020. As the bus journeyed onwards, I took in the sights of the French countryside, admiring the beautiful landscapes that surrounded me. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement as I thought about the wonderful adventure that lay ahead. I took the metro sharp at 9:20, listening to Jim Morrison from Paris to Vernon as I pondered my betrayal of him. After all, I had been a faithful fan since I discovered his music. Why then was I going to meet Claude Monet instead? I realised then that I had always chosen the founder of something—something supreme. For me, supreme was synonymous with Shrestha¹, the highest level of excellence. I realised that I had been drawn to the Monet exhibit, not only because of the artist’s awe-inspiring works but because I wanted to experience true excellence in art. It was a moment of clarity—I had made the right choice. I chose Monet—the founder of Impressionism—with the intention of leaving an impression before nature. He was driven by his natural inclination, naturally drawn to painting. On the other hand, Morrison is (he is still alive in my memory) the father of on-stage-masturbation. I was intrigued by this character and admired him too. Monet’s brush was incessant, striving for eternity like Morrison’s endeavour to celebrate music and masturbation. I desired to see his home, to observe the impression his hometown had on him, and the inspiration he derived from it. I wanted to understand the environment which had birthed both of these titans of the art world. To see the streets, the people, and the places which had shaped their creative self-expression. To see with my own eyes the places which had witnessed the formation of these two great minds. Saint-Lazare to Vernon; I had this strange feeling and that changed me somehow to a saint—a saint? Really? A commoner to saint. Yes, a saint or perhaps a sage or hermit or just a madman, I don’t remember. I was walking along this route and trying to remember how I had come to this point in my life. I had this Dioxane last moment with a heavy head and I thought I had gone mad in some way. However, being mad is not the same as being Dionysian, although both are insanely intoxicated. I found myself dragging my heavy head along this ecstatically journey, a journey which led me to discover that I was a lover of wisdom, a lover of the era, a lover of ecstatic junk, a lover of Morrison, and a lover of Impressionists. I had been transformed into something more than a commoner, something unseen and extraordinary. I had become a saint. Yes, a 21st century commoner had become a saint.

Lover of music.

Lover of madness.

And there is someone at my door, knocking on my conscience. A relentless, persistent knocking that echoes in my mind. I had no courage to answer it—though I called her in. She came in, and sat beside me. I was mesmerised by her presence, it was like a beacon of light, a golden circle weaving around her head like a halo of Virat Rup². Her face was so serene, and her eyes were so deep I felt like I could see into her soul. I felt a sense of calm wash over me. I was suddenly filled with a courage I had never known before, and I slowly and silently opened the doors of perception ³

Who are you? I asked her, feeling a strange sense of familiarity in her gaze.

She said, calmly as much as she could, lowering her voice, penetrating deep into my eyes—I am you.

I felt a chill run down my spine, a chill that I can only describe as being one with myself. And then it was black, a total eclipse. Nothing alive, nothing dead. I vs I—and I was just staring at her from atop, staring into the abyss. But one thing I am sure of wasn’t staring back at me. I felt a profound connection with her, a connection that I have never experienced before. That’s the last thing I remember—with her—with myself, the moment where plurality united. A moment of peace and solace that was so powerful that I cannot quite express it with the words man invented. I felt a oneness with myself that I never knew was possible.

---

¹ Shrestha—a Sanskrit word of ultimate power and strength, signifying the utmost importance of something to its owner. It is a word that can be used to describe a person, place, or thing that has a special, irreplaceable function in one’s life.

Whether it be a family member, a treasured possession, or a beloved place, the term Shrestha is used to express the utmost respect and admiration for its significance.

With a deep, spiritual connotation, the word Shrestha is often used to express the highest level of reverence and admiration.↩︎

² Virat Rup—Lord Krishna revealed his Virat Rup in the Bhagavad Gita, a manifestation that awed Arjuna. This phenomenon, known as Virat Rup, was a display of the entire universe behind his head, a demonstration that he was the ultimate existence mankind had ever known. Through the power of his Virat Rup, Lord Krishna showed Arjuna the means to fight against the forces of evil and injustice. He revealed the grandness of existence and taught Arjuna the importance of waging a righteous battle.↩︎

Doors of Perception--book of Aldous Huxley.↩︎

1. What Else Is Coming

I woke up the next morning with a headache. Streaks of sunlight were peeking through the heavy drapes, making the room glow somehow. My head was splitting in two. I awoke and drew back the large window curtains of Le Grand Hotel de Normandie. It is the right time to nomenclature us as a parasite because we have lost all the powers of being human; we have now become parasites. Every time I reached out to gain knowledge, I felt paralysed. Is virtue knowledge? Why then, have we been paralysed? I wish I could escape from Tartarus¹ one fine day and restore the ‘lost’ past, or glory. I walked through the balcony and saw outside; morning despair sprouting on the grass.

How did Draupadi² save her honour? Faith or reason? Did she have faith in the Pandavas³ or did she have a ‘reason’ of her own regarding ‘Chirharan’⁴? I always have this kind of myth in the back of my head. I recall Draupadi standing in a hall full of princes and ministers, all ready to see her nakedness. I compare this myth to Socrates, who was standing in front of five hundred Athenians at the assembly to be condemned. What was Socrates thinking? What was Draupadi thinking? Both were standing in front of decadent humanity.

They were reasoning…Fuck me, human! You have lost your REASON…and your excellency.

At that time of the morning, standing on my balcony, seeing lustful men out in the garden, I was feeling striped off—I lost my reason too.

Our life is confusing and terrifying, like Polyphemus’⁵ scream: Nobody’s killing me. Nobody!

No one would listen to our voices. I suddenly felt like I was in the same cave with Polyphemus, screaming in pain. I tried to move the boulders from the cave’s entrance but to no avail. I was terrified by his loud yelling and suffering. We men are looking for a RAM who will help us to escape from this terrorising earth.

Where should I go? Most of the time I think of changing myself into an insect…some soil-ridden, dirty insect so I can dig into the earth and hide myself from unreasonable men and women. I want to push away the ‘consciousness’ and pull ‘ignorance’ closer to me. Resentments and humiliations are just a cart full of things in my ‘thinking basement’…how ironic! The cart had just one wheel! Rationality gives you the harder choice; absurdity gives you the vivid images of life. I pulled the drape down. People were on the lawn, laughing and having breakfast tea. I still hesitated to go down and mix with their so-called spontaneity. Our modern society misunderstood one thing; knowledge is making them weak and creating more of them as bellua—beasts. What was the origin of morality? Of novelty? It was not education or intelligence that was the origin of altruism. Rather, it was stupidity, chaos, and Dionysian thinking. The more one thinks of a lawful society, the less valuable they become to society, and the less altruistic they become.

Every day I learn new things; new horizons, new visions of a deprecated life. I was walking, crossing the roads, watching the traffic lights…I feel like the sphinx, who teaches us riddles. He is in the traffic lights or at the end of the zebra crossing, laughing at me with his divine riddles. I feel humiliated and resentful of all the beginnings…and I think, ’I question myself…why would I be lost in the aisles of the chemist warehouse too…and defeated!’ There is nothing more humiliating or hurtful than defeating oneself. There is always a confusing nuance of not-knowing or can’t knowing! And the differences could make you live or die! Of course, die. Would I be able to unravel my pretentious judgments of myself, ever…would the sphinx teach me how to solve the problems too? Would I ever see the beauty of your sphere! Soul cries! God, let me dive into your divine cleavage of nature, beauty and sublimity.

Your soul cries when nature shows her privacy at its best and you can’t even intrude on it. I better go with Bazarov⁶ and have coffee with him. There could be no apple, no Heraclitus, no purpose, no Athens, no Kurukshetra…there is one thing for certain which is ‘aloneness’…you. Others are just a thought of yourself; you cannot go along with uncertainty, either you must abandon yourself or your thoughts and either way you are doomed.

"Through faith I renounce nothing…"

But you would get nothing in return as well. So, what is the purpose of this ‘faith’?

War is good. Death is always measured against forgiveness—whether you die in battle or die in peace.

I could hear a soft melancholy in the distance. War was probably coming. She was probably coming again. I had an involuntary thought for a second. Who was she? Had I ever met her before—in my writing? Or in my reading? Or in my drinking? Maybe I had seen her sitting beside my desk, somehow. In the ancient Vedic world, people believed there was SOMA that could alter one’s psychology. Soma was the liquid of heaven, the liquid of madness. Was she Soma? It was so ancient. It was an immemorial liquid, served by God. When I reached the Garden, I felt the same anandamide—intoxicated with divine SOMA. Her shadow was following me. I remember one word that perfectly fit this matter—Aphantasia. I could feel her, but I could not visualise her. Her senses had given me an immaculate burden, yet as sweet dopamine. For me, it was like a war to stand in front of them in the garden. I felt nauseated seeing them, and talking to them about the arts, AI, the future of human society, or the upcoming election. I feel like my stomach is doing somersaults and I’m about to be sick—listening to all this mindless human jargon that’s being spouted off here. It’s almost as if I’m being subjected to a barrage of empty words that just don’t mean anything. I’m so fed up with this kind of language, it’s making me feel nauseous.

I went to the nearest coffee shop to have my favourite three-shot latte. A strange thing happened. I checked my coffee and it was perfect. I had lost my conscience and saw someone coming nearer to me. Some moments I thought, ‘It is not a big deal,’ and many more moments, I thought,’it is a big deal.’ In the deep chasm of those two quotes, you will find dark dalliance which makes many people’s lives more affordable, more sensual, and more pleasurable. I had a rope with a thousand knots in between its ‘end’ and ‘start’. Whenever I took the journey to the end of the chasm, I forgot to unknot them. I could not reach the bottom because of a short rope. If I unknotted it, the rope could be longer…I wanted to reach into the deep gorges and unearth those miraculously beautiful jewels. This musing made me mad and depressed every moment! I had never reached the bottom of these two quotes.

The creature was next to me, riding a mule. He looked like Sancho Panza—I shouted—Sancho, my little squire, where have you been?

He descended from the abyss of the ass’ back. The man handed me the tickets and said, I was shouting on your back, you might be lost in your thoughts, sir.

That poor man followed me half a mile to hand over my forgotten tickets to Giverny. I can’t remember thanking him, but he left, and I busied myself looking for Dulcinea, because I had a four-hour journey to Giverny by shuttle and did not want to be alone. I needed a companion. I looked around the café. They were all drinking silently—sage, perhaps. They were all lovers of enlightenment like me, waiting for the shuttle. The interior of the café was gloomy, saddened, and loathsome. Like us.

I am a bad writer, a bad reader, a bad onlooker, and a bad whimperer and a bad father. Although my thinking is not as complex as an arabesque, the method has a damp end…I love to hide my words and sensations behind a heavily etched whiskey decanter; one can see the aesthetics from the outside but hardly can think of the inside…which horrific liquids are holding my thoughts. From the beginning, plays or stories have adopted the ‘tragic’ as a fantasy of human romance. ‘Tragedy’ used to be a fancy word for nobles. History treated this term as something beautiful or great—or sublime tragic hero. They stood up and applauded, their hearts and souls constrained but with immense joy. How could they forget the origin of the tragedy?

How could they unsee the bitter truths behind those souls? I have been experiencing something very different lately. People walking backward, people eating backward, people talking backward. How would music sound if it played backward? How beautiful it would be if we went backward to the ‘ultimate source’…Avyakt⁷? I can hear the clamouring of cutlery from the kitchen. I can hear a man whispering to his woman ‘Monet’s Neighbours Weren’t Fans of His Garden’.

But we are, said his woman.

My quest for Dulcinea ended in the far corner of the café, where she was sitting. I looked at her face, how a serene smile had settled on her lips. The man next to her seemed to be captivated by her charm. ’He could be her husband,’ I thought. She noticed me staring at her. Her long, graceful