Saturday, October 29, 2016


Hinduism is very simple.

None of the Gods are perfect. None of the 'asuras' are evil. Each one is flawed.
There is Dharma. And Dharma needs to be followed. If you do not follow Dharma, you perish. 

Ravana, the greatest of all sages, pays the price for abducting and desiring Sita. Rama prays the price for doubting her chastity and abandoning her.

Kauravas fall because of their greed. For desiring what was not theirs rightfully. Panadavas fall for they too stray away from Dharma, in the heat of the battle.
Even the puppeteer Sri Krishna suffers at the hands of Gandhari, for her faith in her dharma was unshaken.

Siva falls prey to lust and attachments ( neglecting the dharma of being a yogi). Mahakali succumbs to anger and destroys all She holds dear.

Take the storiy of any asura in Hindu mythology. It follows a common theme of a great man who performs severe austerities to get what he wants. Its only that that the he demands what is not his.

Simple as it may seem, this forms the crux of Hinduism.
In current times, when religion has become synonymous with hatred, caste and politics .. this needs to be understood even more.

- Akshay


Let's have sex tonight. We'll leave the flickering bulb on. Let the light seep into the crevices of your wrinkles. Highlight the stray gray hair. Play havoc on your chapped lips.

You can slip inside my skin. Snuggle. Your ribs against mine. 
Touch me. Not rub, not probe, not scratch, not grope. Touch me. Feel the thumping that is my madness.

Let loose my sanity. Tear off the robes of civility. The threadbare strips of morality.
Throttle me. Let my sins dance their macabre dance before my eyes.
Hold me down. Reign in my monsters. Let them gasp as you assault them.

Move in rhythm with the drums inside my head. Make love to the incessant shrieking. Bite down hard enough to make the scars disappear. Again. Over and over again. Until we are spent.
Or worse, quiet.

Let's have sex tonight.

- Akshay

The Art Of Eating Alone.

Of all the skills one must acquire over the years, the art of eating alone is an absolute necessity.

A book or magazine I would suggest. Although, one must avoid the phone. The ever devious phone ( with its tentacles embedded in every sphere of life) hardly leaves one 'alone'. One must first settle down comfortably. In a seat one likes. Not hide in a dimly lit cove, which would suggest that one is ashamed of eating alone. Except those wonderful wonderful introverted souls. What blessing it is indeed!

Then one may open a book, flip through a magazine or write. One may gaze into the surroundings ( short of looking desperate and creepy) too.
Concentrate on the food. Chew it, churn it, cherish it.
Fiddle with a pair of earphones and plug them in. Let music do the rest.
Your tongue will taste, your ears will hear, your eyes shall feast. And all will be in harmony.

You might also chance upon the fact that one is forever alone. And what a delighful pleasure that would be.
Almost an icing on the cake. Unless, you have a cake on the menu. I'd always suggest the latter.

Cakes taste best when tasted alone.


You can't

You Can't 

You can't get over depression. It won't let you.
Depression is the 4AM restlessness, the twists and turns. The tossing of the pillow. The whirring of the fan. The cupping of the eyes. The buzzing of the headache.

It's the nauseating feeling early in the morning. The headache when you pour water, the dreariness on the face in the mirror. The slowness of the fingers buttoning the shirt. And the heaviness of footsteps out of the door.

It's the thought lurking at the back of the mind. The stray comment that stings. The scenes that keep repeating. The work that piles up. The food that tastes like sand. The lonely corner that feels like home.

Its the dread of going home. The hollow room, the lumpy bed, the sight of clothes scattered, the tears you know are coming.

Its the eagerness for the sun to set. When darkness creeps in, mates with you and makes the thumping stop. The staring doesn't appears aimless. The phone can be switched off. Work can be slid to a far corner. And the cycle can be started off afresh next morning.

You can't get over depression. It won't let you.

- Akshay

gali ke muhane

गली के मुहाने पर 
एक बल्ब लटका करता था 
पिद्दी था, प्यादा था 
जंग लड़ने पर आमादा था 

धागे से तार पर
झूलता था मदमस्त
झिलमिलाता था, भुनभुनाता था
रात भर गश्त लगाता था

तस्कर था रोशनी का
सुराख की सुरंग से आर पार करता था
रसिक था परछाईयो का
कठपुतलियां बना व्यापार करता था

महफ़िल जमाता था झींगुरो संग
रूठता तो लुप्प हो जाता था
कभी यूँ ही खिलखिला उठता भोर सवेरे
कभी घुप्प अँधेरे में चुप हो जाता था

गली के मुहाने पर
एक बल्ब लटका करता था

- अक्षय

On a night

On a night like this
We cuddled
Eons ago
Or maybe it was yesterday
Hands entwined 
Shirts crumpled
Palms sweaty
Breathing rugged
It smelled of Old Spice
And Listerine
Horns beeped faraway
The bulb flickered
You snored
Blissfully oblivious
There was no movement
No adjusting
No fidgeting
We fell in place
Like the world around us

On a night like this
We cuddled

- Akshay

Friday, June 17, 2016

Two of them

Two Of Them

In the end, there were only two of them. The Blue Hued Lover and the Dark Gaunt Mother.

Mad, mischievous, mundane masqueraders.
The One who lured them with love. Seduced them with smiles and then made them whirl to his flute.
And the One who danced Herself to the sound of her ghouls screaming. Who fed upon the Despair of those at Her feet.

The two who turned men into monsters. Who roused such passion and devotion .. That anything short of insanity felt trivial.
The ones who turned away and had to be coaxed. Had to be fed, to be reassured.

The ones who demanded love and bred poetry. And were satisfied with neither.

In the end, there were only two of them. The Blue Hued Lover and The Dark Gaunt Mother.


Why, mother? Why is the sky blue?

He is a lousy writer, child. He spills his ink pot almost every time.

- Akshay



In a way, those first mornings were special. The Way you woke up to the alarm. Unfazed, excited, non-grumpy.

The struggle to find the specs. Unfamiliar surfaces. Untouched corners. Cardboard boxes strewn about. Life, messy and comfortable.

The first splash of water in the basin. The first aroma of tea gurgling and boiling. The first newspaper. The first gush of wind through the windows thrown open.

The cacophony of neighbors, the echoes of past. The buzz of the television next door. The tinkling of nostalgia in musty nooks.

The knob that wouldn't turn. The lock that took ages to click. The switch that refuses to budge. The bell that chimes way longer than necessary.
The first guest. The last occupant.

In a way, those first mornings were special.
- Akshay

The God Of The Schizophrenic 

Let's say that you are a schizophrenic in ancient India. 
Not the raving kinds. A milder variety. With pleasant auditory hallucinations. 
You hear a voice telling you things. You hear it. In time, you start conversing with it. 

You have no idea as to who owns the voice. You attribute it to a higher source. Since the voice knows all about you, you assume that it knows the Truth.

You see visions. Of the entire world in the mouth of children. Of thousand headed Gods and
monsters who sprout from their own shed blood.

You pen it down. Discuss it with people around you. Unfortunately, they haven't heard of schizophrenia either. Your shared psychosis spreads.

Over the years, there are others like you. Who put their conversations to paper. Since most hallucinations of schizophrenia are similar, the similar content consolidates the belief.

Learned rishis ponder over it.
Since their view of science is trough the looking glass of religion, they meditate upon it and draw conclusions.

Your hallucinations are now part of a thick book. Accepted. Revered. Carried forward.

The God of the Schizophrenics is now God.

- Akshay


He looked beyond the barbed wires. There was beauty.

He drank it all in. His fingers stiff against the metal.

- Akshay

high tide

Waiting for the high tide. 
Aren't we all?


Let's imagine that you are a woman in ancient India ( BC or AD, take your pick).
You are going through your menses. Sanitary pads haven't been invented. So, you have to make do with cotton strips.
Anti-spasmodics haven't been invented. So, you'll have to just bear the pain. Drainage and water supply is unheard of. So, I guess you'll be lugging vessels of water for miles. No stove. Kindling fire is your only option.
Birth control is unheard of. You have a litter of kids demanding attention. Also, your husband isn't very knowledgable about science.
So, he might demand sex.
What would you prefer? Going out there and facing all that. Or, being by yourself in a separate quarter. Where you can rest, be away from infection and not be troubled.
That is what ancient India prescribed. A scientific principle, which ( unfortunately) needed the seal of religion.
Women on their menses were considered charged, according to tantric principles. ( hormonal changes? )
When any woman reaches such a state, it is difficult for Her to perform yogic tasks ( even the simple task of praying).
When Goddess Kamakhya undergoes Her yearly menstruation, Her doors are closed. Maa is left to Herself, to rest and recuperate.
Red strips of clothes are distributed as a part of the blessings and the Devi's menstrual flow is celebrated.
Religion created rules to make science palatable. Over the years, chauvinists and political activists twisted them to their own will and fantasy.
Modern day 'feminists' are doing the same.
Understand before you rebel. Know whom to blame.
- Akshay

Love me

Love me.
Love me. Hold my hand and promise you'll be there for eternity. Then stab me. Deep.
Bite my lips hard and feel my soul exhale into your being.
Play something dreadful in the background. Hold my stiff hand and waltz through the room. Let my blood draw patterns to divine our future.
Lie next to me. Inhale what's left of me. Let your warm hands explore and invade my cold crevices. Make me shudder. So deep that I rattle the others in the closet.
Make love to me. Let the shovel drown us in a shower. Interlock your fingers with mine. Infact, crucify me with your nails. And let the sands of time be the balm.
Love me.
- Akshay

Not Mad

You see, you're not mad.
You will be born. You will squeak, baulk, pee, poop and watch dumb cartoons. You'll fall in love with superheroes, believe that WWE is real, idolise movie stars and somehow manage to hit puberty.
You'll want to be special. Look tragically at your childhood and pat yourself for being brave. For surviving it all.
You'll have breakups. You'll dabble in alcohol, cigarettes and drugs. You'll experiment with sexuality, religion, spirituality, morality and what not. Try to find your 'groove'.
You'll think you are a rebel. You'll make resolutions, believe in true love and dance to whateer crap the dj plays. And then keep dancing.
Meanwhile, age will hit you. The salary cheques will get thicker. So will the belly. You'll accept your position as a corporate slave. Or, toe whatever invisible line your parents drew for you.
Kids will happen. Divorce will happen. What will not happen, is the miracle you were hoping for.
You know why? Coz you are not mad.
You'll never know what obsessive love is. Tbe blood rush to the head when the inner psycho takes over.
You'll never know what unbridled sexuality is. The feel of leather on flesh. Blasphemous fantasies. Bitter fruits.
You'll never pant after that punishing workout. Never get up so sore that you cannot move.
You'll never shudder at the thought of voices. Never shut your ears and beg them to stop.
You'll never know magic. Hell ! You'll never know faith. Surrender. Acceptance. Belief.
Coz you see, you're not mad.
- Akshay

The dancer

The Dancer.
The Mother won't dance.
She must be invited. Called upon. Pleaded with. Awakened. Invoked. Even seduced.
The Dark Mother dances to the beats of pain. Nerve wrecking calls of the demons she hold dear. Her naked fury must be bathed in sweat. Adorned with pieces torn off your soul. And reek of your blood.
She dances to pull off your heads one by one. Stamp in fury and bathe in blood that worthless piece of Ego that you contain within. She slashes, She gulps, She transforms.
Once aroused, The Dark Mother dances Her way to Ecstasy.

Friday, March 25, 2016



It's a Disease, I tell you. It's most certainly a Disease. They just haven't labeled it yet.
I can't move. I can push my palms against the bed and heave. Then look down upon the pillow from dizzying heights. And fall. Flop, actually. Flop and feel my saliva spill forth all over the velvety cushions.
I can't breathe. I clench my fists and constrict my nose. I feel my lips part and shudder. Their dryness and their chapped crevices. I remind myself to suck it in. Poof! That's all I get.
I can't feel. I watch happiness blaring. Like cheap commercials after 11pm. The kinds that make eyes water and foreheads ache. I feel it trying to rouse me. Hit me on the head. Buzz in my ears.
I feel sadness trying to creep inside. Dig it's claws beneath my skeletal frame. Nothing.
I Can't wake up. Can't stop dreaming. Can't walk. Can't stop stumbling. Can't scream. Can't stop thinking. Can't can't can't. Absolutely cannot.
It's a Disease, I tell you. It's most certainly a Disease. They just haven't labeled it yet.
- Akshay
( Photograph by Simon Rutter)



You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I've known a ghost.

Known might not be the right word. We were acquaintances. The kinds that smile at each other every evening at the bus stop.
It was closer than that, to be true. He came over. Slept on the couch. Made green tea. Did the dishes. Broke them too. Then stabbed me with the pointed ends and washed my blood off the cermaic. Such a gentleman.

He left the lingering smell of smoke after he left. It seeped into the crevices of the sofa. Nestled into the frilly ends of the pillow I used to stuff into my mouth.
He'd cuddle. Softly. You know how ghosts are. You could pass your arm through his hollowness and feel the jittery shiver run up your spine. There was no love making. Just the occasional ghostly fuck.

He left. Or probably just died all over again.
Can one miss a ghost? Can the body crave possession?

I still feel him sometimes, though. Or maybe it's a different ghost. You know how ghosts are. Flimsy.

You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I used to know a ghost. - Akshay

That's the thing about depression. It drapes itself in black and never lets you see how fragile and serene it is. 

It's perfection. The absolute nothings come together and play a concerto. You cannot move.cannot think. Cannot feel. 

In that one hollow vaccum of a moment, you are dust. Nothing. A pile of sobs, smelly clothes, crumpled sheets, stinking dishes, scattered moldering junk. The world loses it's power over you. You lose your power over you. Thoughts, emotions, opinions, expectations, motivation and bullshit.

Hopelessness strums in the background and pain fiddles with the strings. And before you know, you are the puppet dangling from those strings.
And what a macabre performance you give. Your uninhibited unadulterated best!

Remember. Serenity, not sanity.
- Akshay


Sex with me. Not fuck. Not mate. Not cuddle. Sex!
Strip me down. Tear off my clothes. Then claw your way through my skin. Dig in your teeth so deep that you manage to carve out my bones. 

Sex with me. The hollow vacuum that I am. Moan with the screams that resound inside my head. Hold down my demons and thrust in unison with their cult ceremonies.
Eat me out. Watch me sprout from my own leftover.

Orgasm! Orgasm, burst and make me whole. Or, shudder into a million fragments and become one with my nothingness.

Sex with me. Please.

- Akshay

( Painting by Georgia o'Keeffe)



That's the thing with depression. It sneaks in.

No sirens. No banners. No trumpets. Just a slither. A soft, hair raising slither. Of an old friend who has risen from the dead.

It whispers on those initial sleepless nights. Creaks on tossing pillows and crumpled sheets. Whirrs as thoughts after thoughts race and maul each other.

It rattles with the memory that comes back. It tinkers with the words that poke n scab. It lets itself slide to the floor and break down as the symphony of raking claws plays on in the background.

It bites down hard on the lips. Clutches at folds of clothing. Heaves down chests and creeps down the spine.

That's the thing with depression. It sneaks in.

- Akshay.


That's why it's easy for you to call people 'fat'. You don't know.

You dont know about squeezing yourself in school uniforms. About sweaty shirts, strangling tie knots and red welts on the waist. 
You dont know about catcalls and nicknames. About snide comments and you being used as an example whenever a fat reference came up in the textbook.

You don't know about huffing and puffing PT periods. About shoving, pinching and the humilIation of finishing last. About relatives who comment and best friends who join in the laughter to look cool.

You don't know about friends getting curves and cuts as puberty hits. About looking down at your lumps and the pains of the first 'fat' rejection.

You certainly dont know about using humour as a shield and then breaking down as soon as one reaches home.
You don't know about the the insecurities of college life. About self degrading relationships and being the doormat.

There is no way you know can know about starving and diets. About counting calories and dreading looking at that taunting weight scale. And about giving in and hogging to overcome the sinking feeling within.

About realising that even after you become thin, the demons persist.

You know why else is it easier for you to call someone 'fat'?
Because deep down, you are way more unhappy and insecure than they are.

- Akshay


Seduction lies deep.

Seduction lies beyond flattering eyelashes, glistening nail paint, ruby lips and pulsating hearts.

Seduction is surrender. Sublime, subtle, surreal.

The booming music that sends blood gushing to the head, the pen that mauls the paper and paints the fingers inky.
The thundering of the bike engine as wind whiplashes one's face. The first gush of the blood as the scalpel pushes in deep.

The idea that enslaves, the desire that dominates. The feet that move in rhythm with your inner chaos.
The sodden earth, the camphor on fire, the sodden spluttering wood, the indecent untamed air.

The lies one believes. The sacrifices one makes. The sore wounds. The self inflicted cuts.

Seduction is the three-breasted Goddess that surrenders at the feet of the Lord. The Lord that submits before the maddened enraged Mother.

The whirling dervish's ecstasy. The monk's eternal silence.

Seduction lies deep.

- Akshay
( Art by Taren Machem)

Sunday, January 24, 2016



मंत्र  है, मूलमंत्र  है, स्वधा है, स्वाहा है |
जीव्हा की प्रत्यंचा पर चढ़े तो विष बुझा बाण है |
आहुति में भस्म हो जाए तो तपस्या |

कला है, कटाक्ष है, क्रीड़ा है, कथा है |
दवात की स्याही में घुल जाए तो महाकाव्य है |
सुरों से अठखेलियां करे तो राग   |

क्षमा  है, शौर्य है , रास है, रहस्य है |
हकलाते तुतलाते कंठ से अंकुरित हो तो वासल्य है | 
किसी दूर देस में टकरा जाए तो विषाद |

पहेली है, पद्धति है, चुटकुला है, चातुर्य है !
आड़े तिरछे अक्षर मिल बैठे तो अनर्गल प्रलाप है |
मंच पर गूंजे तो प्रेरणा |

नींव है |  निषकर्ष है | 
आदि है | अनंत है | 

- अक्षय सिंह