Akashisms

I refuse to live in a world where Kim Kardashian’s ass hogs up 63% of cyber space.
If a child inside is alive dew drops are kaleidoscopes and clouds are white bunnies
This Valentine’s Day I will be on Ballentine’s . Hic
Can professor X mentally undress a woman
When God was in 4th grade, he got a F- for drawing the octopus
At the pinnacle of Art and Science everything spirals down to complete subjectivity
You can’t do complete random work and pass it on avant garde or experimental work
Akash is listening to DJ Baby Doll Natkhat Remix Volume 1
My ideal ldeal life partner should resemble The Goblin Shark, ugly maybe but an evolutionary success
If the Aids Monkey theory is correct, who fucked the monkey?
Hearts feel entrapment in a rib cage
January is baby making month.
That moment when your dog starts air humping your leg in front of your parents.
I am the master of air guitaring
Drunk Zen master is drinking Chullu while performing Druken Monkey Kung Fu
Whenever some snot nosed kid says My Life, My Rulez, I think poor kind doesn’t know jack shit about life.
The look in a cow’s eyes , I feel they keep stoning, they are so peaceful
Ideal punishment should be making one sit of a wild cactus
Porcupines in pants, now how does that feel?

Akash Sinha

Dear Depression

AKASH SINHA·SATURDAY, AUGUST 27, 2016
So you drag your lead heavy feet sloppily across the hall, yeah you have to carry your body when you are depressed, and Im not talking about your cat died, or you lost your day job kind of depression. That’s not even real depression, thats just life being her usual cunty self. Im talking about clinical depression. The condition you have when your serotonin receptors are not sucking in the right levels of happy. So when you are depressed you have to carry your body, its like your soul called in sick for the day, and left with all the vitality. So there you go, you drag your slob of decaying organic matter ( what you call yourself ) down the hall to forcibly attend a family gathering. On the way you notice everything, you notice the coagulated mass of heavy existential inertness hanging over your head, you see the water turning into morbid yellow in the flower vase, you see the monotone sadness of the walls, you feel pointless, you anticipate an endless parade of days of forcibly brushing, swallowing tasteless potato mash, lying awake at 3 am, being sucked into the botomless pit of void and emptiness that lives underneath your rib cage, and you emperically know nothing reaches anywhere. Despite all the chaotic flurry of our lives, none of us reach anywhere.
So you drag yourself to the party, only to be asked “ Whats wrong ? “. Everybody’s busy giving you unsolicited advice. All kinds of crap and junk pseudo science. The most common is “ Be Positive “. Well how? “ Think positive thoughts “. These idiots dont know that thoughts happen to you, and there is no way to avoid thinking about something. They havent heard of the Pink Elephant thought supression experiment. Others will offer everything from homeopathy, diet charts, bad motivational guru type speeches, blind dates to learning a language. The amount of unscientific bullshit that comes from thier mouths, makes you want to stick a sharp knife in thier throats. Just about everyone starts judging you.

10 Reasons why Kolkata Metro Sucks

Ten reasons why Kolkata metro sucks.
2.1 Kolkata Metro is thought to be a one way portal to the other side by the depressed. Suicide is a common occurrence in Kolkata Metro. Not being nihilistic or insensitive but I have heard people cussing the deceased, for the inconvenience caused. We need better systems to manage mental health issues.
2.2 The rush hour crowd. During the peak hours you don’t have to move, you just align yourself in the direction you want to go and the crowd does the rest. You suffocate, your body twists in various acrobatic positions. You wonder if all these Yogic postures can make you a ninja?
2.3 The dread of summer humidity filled evenings. Men hanging on railings, sweating profusely in non AC metros, the sight is almost kafkesque.
2.4 That silent fart explosion , by an anonymous man. Or bearing the smelly armpits of your co passengers.
2.5 Our Kolkata metro expansion is like Waiting for Godot. You wait forever and ever. It’s a never ending project.
2.6 Currently Kolkata metro only runs through the spine of the city. The scope and area covered by the metro is very limited.
2.7 That creepy guy in metro who quietly merges in the crowd. Swings in the pushes and pulls of the jerking metro, and takes advantage to rub against women. The infamous bum pinch, the awkward leaning, and rubbing of bodies.
2.8 What do you do you get natures call unexpectedly? Beads of sweat appear on your forehead, the hellish pressure builds in your intestines , and by god you have to go. What do you do? You get off at the next station? But Alas there is no toilet in metro stations. We need well maintained toilets at each metro station.
2.9 You are eagerly waiting for your friend to turn up. Or you have an emergency message to convey to your loved one who is currently travelling on the metro, our you want to know the status of the current location of your friend. But you cant do all of the above cause you don’t get signal inside the tunnel.
3.0 The security guard who checks the baggage, or monitors security concerns does it so casually that it seems he is least concerned. The pot bellied security guard’s eyes are nearly drooping after the post lunch lull and lyadh ( bengali term for lazy sloth like behavior ). If anybody ever decides to blow up Kolkata, he can easily slip in explosives in the metro.

Akash Sinha.

Mushy cards

I’ll let this card do the talking, easier for my nerves; maybe last night we had a moment. Lets multiply that over time.
There is no way to avoid the cheese, but in my head you are summer, daffodils and marshmallows.
We know the nurse is cute, but you need to be here. Get well soon.
I know it’s been rough, but at least you are not a Iguana. Cheer Up.
Life is complicated like entangled earphones, but you can hear the music anyway somehow without straitening it out.
You and me. We are separated Siamese twins. You are not alone. I’m equally weird. We got this.
This is a failed attempt, to write something deep and profound, but hey I still tried for you.

Akash Sinha

Chidhood

Catalogue of childhood memories.
1. Remember putting your finger in the candle flame trying to figure out how long before it starts burning?
2. When your attention naturally drifted towards the bird singing outside, while the teacher was explaining trigonometry.
3. Speaking loudly near an old table fan and the fan morphs that sound into a robotic one.
4. When Mom would hold your jaw tightly to keep your head steady while she combed your hair.
5. When your popularity in school depended on the number of WWE cards you had or your Tazo and superhero card collection.
6. Hearing the roaring of waves when you placed your ears near a Sea Conch.
7. The instant comeback: Whatever you say goes back to you multiplied by a 100 times.
8. Kicking the coconut shell all the way back home after school.
9. Licking ‘ Churan ‘ and ‘Aamla slices’; buying them from the veteran vendor outside school.
10. Marveling on the genius of Helium Balloons and wondering if you could use them for your own Anti Gravity flying machine.

My Childhood memories
Memory 1:
I distinctly remember ,I used to come back home by myself after school. The walk back home was tiring; Calcutta summers are infamous for their humidity and sultry weather conditions. A heavy lull covered the afternoons, nothing seemed to move, and the leaves were motionless. The city on such afternoons slowly drifted itself into static. It seemed like a heavy blanket of sweat and dripping discomfort covered the city. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, you could see the occasional street food vendor or the cotton candy man braving the heat, you heard only the whirring of fans and old grandma’s snoring.
It was around these years that Indian television saw the influx of American superhero characters, post the liberalization of 1990. There was something about Superman that kindled my boyhood aspirations. Was it the superhuman strength, the striking red cape, the blue suit or him being a Good Samaritan? I couldn’t tell. But I never missed the 3:30 pm show post lunch.
Every day I saw a local glucose drink ad commercial strategically inserted during the Superman show. He came, offered the tiered school boy the glucose drink and drank a glass of it himself. Magically they were both revitalized in a jiffy. Superman flew away gleaming and refreshed after the drink. He soared in the sky.
One such afternoon I had an idea, an epiphany. I figured if I offered Superman the glucose drink I could get to meet him. I waited patiently after lunch; I waited for everybody at home to sleep. It was my secret project and if everything went well Superman would be my secret powerful friend. When I was convinced my mother was fast asleep I tip toed to the kitchen. Carefully picked a cup made of China clay, poured water and stirred two tablespoons of Glucose powder in it. I quietly went outside and placed the cup on the porch. I waited for about half an hour there before I was dragged away for my tuitions. Nobody noticed the cup. The cup rested naturally waiting for Superman.
I rushed back home after tuitions to see what had happened. To my surprise the cup was half empty. A quiet feeling of contentment welled up within me. Surely Superman drank it. We are friends now I said to myself. My gift has been accepted.
Years later I understood that sparrows drank the glucose water that afternoon. I smile whenever I think of this cause I now know that all sparrows are Supermen.

X to the power 3

The morphine drips, in my veins, No spring or mother’s bosom can now rewind the clock. In green fungus walls I stored my memories. Remember that night when mother gave you cough syrup even when both of you had tuberculosis. I collected clocks, stamps, yellow old photographs, pills and poems thrown in the waste bin. I pondered long and hard on my deathbed, the problem always was choice. I dreamed of homes in absinthe bottles, meadows and transcendentalist novel tree homes. After all we are all hypocrites and liars. we speak in tongues and trade in coins and self deceit. On the waterfall of near death experience, I wish I could again touch, the winter sunlight, mom’s shawl, and smell cheap tobacco. But all that is slipping now. No dear reader this is not a poem about regret but a song of new journey. The drummer shall keep playing the eternal beat, but some of us shall break free from time’s metronome and dance to our own tunes. That’s it, I’m finally dying. Oh what I see, white blinding love filled light. Akash Sinha

Boat Ride on Ganga.

Boat Ride on Ganga.

Ripples on elastic water

Silver serpent of light wriggles on it

Why can't I rest?

Bodies come and go on the burning ghats.

We search for new homes.

 

But this transcendental moment is neither temporary nor permanent

As we slide under the abandoned bridge

Rusty, stained and forgotten

covered in sphagnum moss

where once shoes filled with restless hearts did tread.

 

Iron chains on the harbour

fail to keep the land and river together

however hard they try

foolish fighting ferrous hands

so unaware of the law of separation

they never learnt to let go

 

Boatmen are homeless agents of motion

under the white full moon.

Mystery, Infinite mystery

Mystery, Infinte Mystery
AKASH SINHA·THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 2017
A solitary star
In the soft twilight sliding between evening and night.
Someone’s dips into his ink pot and carefully shades the sky
in a black orangish tinge
Science says the star I see today , is only a dream from the past
Light took eons to travel through space.
The question then emerges: What is real?
The flux of time and causality , the events and seasons in a man.
What ontological ground of Truth do they stand on?
Is not the passage of tearful evenings, lonely nights, joyous mornings and lazy noons
Only a dreamscape?
When I look down from the window.
Blackness slides through closed rusty iron grill. Old wires remain lifeless and entangled like human bodies.
Some ancient windows remain half open, holding fables and cinema montage of unfulfilled abandoned spirits.
In slumber of dreamless sleep, they flutter, pant and curse unaware.
Thick layer of dust, a heap of ancient stones and foul garbage lie below.
Broken egg shells, rotting left – over food and lumps of septic flesh.
Show the grotesque wound in my mind.
The black shadow like vacuum in the empty water tank
gives me a taste of my suspended loneliness.
Mystery, Infinite Mystery down below.
When I look up at the sky , the expanse of space ( Akasha ) heals me.
releases my heart which is trapped in my mortal rib cage.
A cool unspeakable silence. A dissolution of self in the cosmic unknown.
Again Mystery, Infinite Mystery, Up High.

Akash Sinha

Mountain girl’s song by the pond.

Mountain girl’s song by the pond.
AKASH SINHA·THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15, 2016
Mountain girl with unkempt hair, some mornings your hair is a sparrow nest full of love eggs.
Have you seen the spring night under the full moon?
celestial musk aroma stirs in ether unseen
only smelt by mad indigo children
who live in the Hridayam ( the heart of Lord’s love )
Vine creepers rest in the feminine surrender on the ever solid trunk of Shiva’s non dual blue lips.
One afternoon, you said to me, that mountains complete your craving for a cosmic masculine partner. Those mountains are Shiva’s ash smeared dreadlocks.
Seek not the love of finality in men of flesh and dirty blood, rather seek your man in the mountains. The Himalaya will never abandon you, but only if you never abandon yourself.
Sometimes the humming magic of body less love shines in the mortal eyes of a young man, but that shining is only to deflect you back in the moonlit luminescence of your own heart and spirit.
Night falls quietly, ever cautious of her footsteps, draping the village in her purple black shawl.
So that the marching ants in the minds of toiling men return to cosmic slumber.
Men and women twist and turn, unable to rest, due to attachment and unceasing hellish fire in their bellies. Only the children who are still lost in innocence and trust God sleep like tomorrow is a myth.
Children and old people are only deserving of true rest. Old people wrinkled in creased skin, creaking in their bones, unsure of another sunrise, but accepting of death’s concentrated water which washes away memory and heartache.
Some mornings in your late twenties, the road will take you to a pond on daybreak. Stand mute in surrender and observe with your mad gleaming eyes.
How the morning breeze sends shivers on the water surface, creating ripples on phenomenal worlds. How the mysterious water snake slithers cutting water, making its way to the unknowable unknown. How bubbles rise upon the transparent water surface from the mouths of hungry ghost fishes.
How in the nowness of the eternal present moment, the tall coconut trees sway like mad love drunk Bauls. How the fisherman throes his net foolishly trying to capture fishes of happiness in this temporal world.
How the thick orange sun bedazzles the morning air through photo- electric shock waves. How opium sleep slowly leaves the slender Kajal lined eyes of the newly wed bride, dripping drowsiness on organic mud below.
How fables are written each morning and by dusk, the Kings, cattle and shepherds return home. How no hypnotic poetry can capture the elusive universal beauty. How no sharp logic of philosophical thought or ontological symmetric design can awake in the prism of the psychedelic rose.
How cow dung reaches village huts to light the stove yet another night. How the candy man like the Pied Piper leads a swarm of dew eyed children to simple joys. How the sour of yellow lemon is reminiscent of life’s trials and tribulations.
How all that is immortal and liberating is felt by the soft glowing warmth of honey love in surrendering to the infinite cosmic wave. How the farthest far and the nearest near can be met in a blink of an eye, by your delicate eyelashes.
By Akash Sinha
15/12/2016.