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.