So-not long enough

More ranting and tears after a long break…

I tried writing. Tried. But I really, really badly didn’t want to write. I sat in front of the laptop and wanted to type but didn’t know what to say. Then I picked up my phone and looked for things on various social media platforms to give attention. I even thought about how tacky it was that I wanted to do something just so I could write about it. I never actually tried, tried writing. But I did think about trying to write. It was exhausting. I even made a list of things I’d write about

  1. The movies I keep going back to
  2. TV shows that I’ve been binge watching
  3. then I add something else and forget all about it

Because I was making all these lists in my head… And then I forgot.

But these are things that are…

© Vinay Green, 2017
My work space

I decided to watch Captain America Civil war, finally. Captain is my favourite superhero despite my disapproval of the things he represents at least in the first movie. I love the way his character is developed over the each film and through the series of three films. It’s a great watch and beautiful distraction from my thoughts that don’t let me sleep each night.

My blog has enough substance to have been running by itself for the last few months even without posting its generating 50-100 views a month and none of them is me! It’s something to be proud of but these posts are embarrassing and private thoughts that I put out for the world to see. I’m probably going to wait for the right push and delete the site after backing it up, hopefully. Or just archive it. I finally did manage to do some of the hard ones from my to-do list. Maybe I can finish more of them before I leave the city that I’ve always lived in.

© Vinay Green, 2017
A summer afternoon on the streets of Bangalore

I did a month of superb standard of socialising that I usually seem to muster in the months of summer when the sunshine is impossible to miss. Now the clouds are here and I’ve begun to ware out and my socialising strength is dying and I just want to rot. I’ve been constantly told, “You love to feel bad for yourself. Stop doing it to yourself.” and a bunch of other things that belittled my barley and vaguely existent self-esteem. I have whined through my blog and I seem to whine always and so much it was a joke to call me Whine-ay. Apparently, it’s very funny. I don’t see it because it’s at my expense but whatever. My whining is my call for help and I’ve been childish in dealing with it but that’s what happens when children are indulged.

Being called a creep wasn’t bad enough because I still didn’t stop trying to impress someone who only wanted to detest me. I have always loved the approval of a superior, teacher or anyone in the authority figures place and Freud calls it daddy issues and he’s probably not wrong. I was trying to compensate for all the attention daddy wasn’t giving. These were times where I was very impressionable like I have been my entire life and I meet people that I want to be like or please or am jealous of because they seem to please the people I bend head over heels to please. Now this obviously drives me insane but I manage to hold on to my sanity or whatever passes of for sanity these day to function like I’m normal.

Self portrait
Self portrait- a pink attempt.

To me trying to impress was an epic fail of historic proportion. In the end I was the reliable guy, dependable but not good enough to be what I aspired to be for two years. Moments like these are when my life flashes in front of me and the numerous times I wasn’t good enough or wasn’t white enough, pretty enough, smart enough, rich enough and maybe even upper caste enough. I do want attention and I’ve never had a second thought in asking for it but I was never going to beg for it. When I knew something was over, it was over. I wasn’t going to pretend like it’s fixed but doesn’t mean I’d go around being silly childlike about it except when I’m “Whinay-ing” about it to a friend.

What will it take an individual to realise they are being a bully. Just because you were bullied doesn’t mean you can’t be bully. My degree in Psychology has helped me access information and valid proof that proves a dominant power position is all that takes to make an individual from a sweet, sullen and potentially harmless to a vicious and savage creature capable of monstrous things. And this transformation is so subtle that it’s impossible to spot it even when it’s painted red and right in front.

The beast
A kitty that can claw your eyes out.

I feel heavy at heart because a lot of hate was brewed against me. People who acted as friends were the ones after getting into troubles and graves that I didn’t even dig. I slowly learnt my lesson and by then I had found bigger fish that were taking bigger bites of my soul and flesh. I by now had entangled myself into a web that I had cast to catch dreams but it managed to pick all my nightmares and magnified them to an extent where I only wanted to kill myself because it was the easiest way out of here.

I came to the last leg of the race and I stopped caring, there were too many frivolous complexities that I had managed to build but couldn’t break so I let them all stay.  But I managed to build up so much hate, fear, contempt and just plain sorry for myself that it’s over flowing through me and I need to end this disgustingly heavy weight inside of me by setting on fire and purging this pain.

I’d forgotten what it felt like when a tear rolled down my cheek leaving behind a moist trail. (As it manages to curve down my 12 O clock shadow and jump on to my neck.)

 All the Pictures on this post belong to me.

© Vinay Green, 2017


My life is a series of bad days… Bad decisions, awful music, terrible haircuts, ugly clothes, stupid choices, dead- plants, pets and brothers.

And then the bad days go out on a vacation and I have the time of my life because I don’t have demons to fight, arrows and bullets to dodge. These are ice cream like days of my ice cream like (short)6 adult life (one year, because I’m 22) that are between a series of bad or awful ones. On days like these I’m sitting with a friend(s) at a café or bar, sipping my drink, crunching food modestly and messily as I talked and listened. Days like these I cherish because they are the ones I use to cast my patronus against them demontors.

I’m a gladiator but without my armour, shield or sword, I’m fucking useless because my physical strength isn’t very reliable.

Pic Cred:

My physical strength is a sad joke, and that’s the last thing I can rely on not like there is anything else to rely on when my mental strength fails. And my mental strength and ability, constantly gets fried and fails because of how much I overwork it. I guess life. There are questions that haunt me, which form to become my demontors and demons:

“Does X love me?”

“Why does Y hate me?”

“How can I make Z like me?”

“Why am I so unattractive?”

“Would life be easier if I was fair, pretty and athletic?”

“Why can’t I love?”

“What is life even?”

“Why am I so Whiny?”

I’m a very whiny person, like clearly. It’s my 200th blogpost and this one like the last 100-150 or more blog posts is my whining and complaining. I’ve realised I whine even when I’m happy and love something, so whining is a constant state of being and living.

Since puberty hit me like a truck in the face 9-10 years ago, body images have only grown. Meeting new people, making new friends and building a support system has only helped me see that I’m not unattractive. To say this and believe it are still not easy but it’s possible to make the effort.

You get perks if you’re good looking, that’s no secret but it doesn’t mean life is a cakewalk. There is work that goes into looking a certain way, this means gym, clothes, make-up, food etc. Which too is a challenge.

I can’t help people who hate me for who I am. It took me a lot to get here, won’t be jumping planes or plates in the direction the wind sways. Will hold my ground and stay firm as I take each step, hopefully to go ahead.


I want to be admitted to a hospital. No, not a mental hospital, visiting hours there is horrible. I want to be admitted for something physical like a broken bone, appendicitis or some other surgery because we’re not equipped to deal with the injuries to mental health.

After the surgery I’d be placed in an semiprivate ward, where there would be another patient and his family, with whom we’d make a single serving friendship. We’d share meals, gossip, dark secretes (not that dark also) and phone numbers that we’d never use.

After the surgery I’d have all my relatives, family and friends (if I have managed to not piss them off) waiting to see me. I’d be passed out and under observation in the ICU or if it’s nothing that major I’d bed in a ward bed couple of hours later. Once I regain consciousness I’ll be flocked by a lot of family members, aunts, uncles, both my great aunts, my mother’s oldest brother (for as long as he lived), my brothers (when they were still alive), and sister. My grand mother didn’t ever show up, and nobody ever complained.

The many white polythene bags will be filled with fruits, bread and rusk. Sometimes smaller paper bags carrying sapota or grapes fills the room up with it’s aroma. There would be another big jute bag from Anugraha / Anuyogya (clothes stores my family shopped frequently from) or some clothing store with two steel plates, spoons, a bowl, blanket, towels, steel water glasses, knife, Thermos, clothes, and anything else they felt would be required for someone who’d be staying the night.

I have watched my mother or aunt (Dad’s older brother’s wife) pack such bag on multiple occasions for the night because someone met with an accident, tried to kill themselves (has happened often), is having a surgery, or giving birth. My aunt with the hardened facial expressions, moving around the house and packing things or my mom is panic or grief stricken and deals with the moment by distracting herself with the packing and making calls regularly.

It wasn’t scary or worry some as a kid because I was very confident the adults would fix it, because adults and they could fix everything, right?
My fear for hospitals only arrived with an awareness towards death, simply that people who die don’t come back and if I miss someone who’s dead I can’t just call them up, listen to their voice and feel okay, because…

This fear gained more strength when my brother died, I sat with his lifeless body in the ambulance while everybody else was crying, shrieking, and getting things in place for the funeral. I cried too, to my hearts content and this is probably the only reason I’ve been able to accept he’s dead and not try to reason that his death is a conspiracy theory.
I wish as kids we weren’t inculcated with this awkwardness for touch, because I’ve never hugged my brother but once on my birthday he held me awkwardly and that’s the only thing I have to hug.

The fear of hospitals only got worse when my Uncle (mum’s oldest brother) suffering from liver cirrhosis was in the hospital. Looking at him as anything less than his grand and majestic self seemed was too painful, so I never visited him at the hospital.

Hospitals and I shared a very awkward relationship, I’d go to one only if I was too sick to go ahead with daily routine. Then I visited a friend at a hospital and it was so hard to keep myself together and not fall apart.

But days later I constantly put myself in a hospital and realised how much I miss some of aunt’s or uncle’s who won’t come under the same roof without bickering unless someone died, is dying or hospitalised.

Travel bug


A sudden urge to want to pee hit me along with the cold as I was staring outside the KSRTC bus from Kolar to Bangalore. I put on my tattered, faded, orange-black jacket, front side back and the sleeves hung limp and empty on my back because the zippier was broken.

I like all the songs on my playlist, just not at the same time.

My uncle (mom’s third oldest brother) with whom I started the journey this morning wanted to sit next to the bus drivers seat and watch the road back to the city. A few months later I find out he has motion sickness and was sitting there to avoid it. He told how it’s been twenty years since he last bus ride, his wife and him were going to Darmasthala after their wedding. Like a lot of love stories from my family, theirs too was filmy. There was drama, romance, violence and even eloping. My family belongs to a lower caste and my aunt belongs to the upper caste, her family was against it, and that’s different story for another time.

The cold seemed to be making my hands numb, the songs on the playlist reminded me of car journeys with my family during family vacations where I’d sleeping on my mother’s lap. Either exhausted from all the puking because of motion sickness or trying to not let the motion sickness get to me. They were good times, the relationship with parents was simpler, life was easier, and the most complicated thing then was how to ask my crush out.

“ಗಲಾಸ್ ಹಾಕ ಅಪಾ”
The man sitting behind me in a sweater, looked at me through his monkey cap, patted my head and asked me to shut the window. My seat was next to the bus window where two windows meet, so I didn’t have a one but two windows but most of my view gets cut off. I looked for a colour about this memory that would strike my memory like hammer when walking down memory lane. But everything and everybody was black except for all the yellow handles that were strapped from a rod that ran on the centre of the bus and was illuminated by headlights of the vehicles behind the bus.

All the flashes of colour from the decorated cows from my farm, the shades of green, red and yellow in the vegetable and flower were like a pretty salad in a bowl. I feel very proud of the pictures I took today.

I heard voices, so I took my earphones off and looked behind and heard two men talking to each other. I turned around and found myself staring at the two empty seats next to me for the sixth or seventh time and realised how it and laughed at the universe for trying to tell me to move on or just laughing at me because it’s funny.

The lights in the bus got turned on, the man in the monkey cap behind me got up to leave and his seat was taken up by an older man with a long white beard, and balding head also with white hair. We stopped at a toll booth and an ambulance passed by, the driver honked because the line didn’t move and it woke the sleeping family of three in front of me.

I hope this bus journey was the start of my travelling life, the on my own. I’m enjoying the song and wondering about what to write for my project and the writing contest.

I wrote, observed, photographed, and enjoyed an hour long bus ride, a little over 100km journey from Avani in Kolar district to Bangalore. Yes the bus driver drove like a mother fucker and I didn’t pee till I got back home, exactly an hour after we got off of the bus. So held it for two hours, my kidneys were fried for sure.


I’m not very sure what B looks like any more, pictures just make B feel like a distant dream, or a faraway memory, or a
Lol fragment of my imagination. I don’t know what B’s smile looks like, or voice sounds like. I have recordings, and pictures of B, but all of them feel funny, like they weren’t real. Maybe I just downloaded pretty pictures from Tumblr and filled gaps in my memory to make myself feel okay, then why do I miss the hugs from B or W if they were never real.

It was an exhausting but eventful day, I’d usually end up at Koshy’s with someone or the other, to grab a coffee and sober down before heading home. Over the last two months my habit of going to Koshy’s that started ten months ago came to a halt. I’d started to do a lot of new things since ten months ago, but gradually over the last two they’ve all stopped or disappeared.

I’ve been to Koshy’s enough times with a lot of people, some more often than others, but for the first time I’ll be there alone, not waiting for anybody. I walked into the warm, mellow, and not fancy section of Koshy’s Bar and Restaurant; sat down at the two seater table right next to the pillar, I would have to bend a little to see if someone walked in, but I won’t be very visible if someone walks in and looks around. I wanted a coffee and asked for a chicken puff, they don’t usually last till 8:30 pm, but wanted to gamble my chances but I lost.
The waiter in a white uniform served me my coffee and a glass of water five minutes later, with a smile. I’d read over five pages of animal farm by then and even went for pee break.

I made a list of all the people I was here with, while sipping the piping hot coffee.

The first time was with Sid and the M’s, a bazillion times with W & E, met D here for the first time, had lunch with M here, chilled with A, waited for a date here, and once or twice took a break with B. I saw memories at each table flashing by as I looked around, a cold piercing pain dug into my chest. My body was hot from the coffee, and pumped up with caffeine, but the cold grew stronger.

It physically hurts when I remember the laughs, hugs, conversations that happened here, the bonds that were built, all the happy memories were and always will be overwhelming; my eyes burned as I tried hard to hold back the tears. A rupees 99/- bill from here lies in B’s memorabilia box. I wonder sometimes, is it so easy for people to walk away from me? Weren’t they telling me how hard it was to be away from someone else they once or still loved?

Day 1: Chlorine

Today was my first day of back in a pool for practice in five years.
The smell of the chlorinated water brought back so many memories from School. Three hour training sessions, Thursdays were competitions with the team, practicing even when it rained and those rare days where the pool was just for playing around.
This pool was very clean, and yet the changing rooms were terrible like the ones in school. Broken locks, dirty floor, leaking taps and very little room. In School around 30 boys were expected to use a room that could barely fit 10 boys.
I changed in to my swim suit and walked in to the pool, because diving wasn’t allowed. My eyes were burning from the chlorine, I was thirteen again and back in school, my biggest problem in life was my bully. Things were simple, no big ass complications, no problem seemed to big, didn’t even know how to spell depression. There was bliss in being a child because of all the complexities that could be ignored and I wish it was still possible.
I swam 12 maybe 16 laps and I was exhausted. I had no stamina left and I used to swim 150 laps a day. It had been fifteen minutes since I got into the pool, I swam for the next fifteen minutes, 4 maybe 6 laps and saw myself out. I’m not getting out with out finishing 30 laps tomorrow.
I had a heart burn, arm and thigh muscles have cramps and I’m exhausted, in a weirdly pleasant way.
I don’t want to be lazy, depressed or sulk about life, instead I want to take control and get better.



It was too real to be true, the pretty smile and brown eyes. I heard you for the first time, and I wish, I hadn’t.

Does the devil really hide behind a pretty face?

The ruffled, curly locks of metallic hair, and stubbles that don’t seem sharp and pokey. Your lips full and bright and shined healthy, your tongue harsher than sandpaper.
Your pretty nose rubbing all the wrong places.
You blinked and smiled only to bite, till you ran back into the woods, wagging your tail proudly.

New Years Eve 2001

New Years Eve 2001; my parents, sister and I lived with my Uncle (Dads older brother), aunt and their son and daughter who showed up for the holidays with her three year old son. It was going to be a damn good New Years Eve because my uncle and aunt were out on a vacation because my Uncle had just won the elections as a Councillor (member of the Municipality).

The family around my uncle behaved like students when the hostel warden is running his daily rounds. It was like we had to stand up every time he walked by and it didn’t matter if we were eating, we HAD to stand. His absence was a licence to party.

The dinner was something regular, but it was special because we got a cake! A really pretty cake and we took a picture of it on our aunt’s bed because it had a fancy spread. Then my dad made terrible mango chutney that lived in the fridge for a week.

So we did, it started with dress up and then the camera came in which is when we started to pose funny. We played loud music, turned down the lights to something not very bright and danced. We jumped up and down, kicked pillows and cushions and turned the entire house upside down.

This went on till my brother got a call (I think it was his girlfriend) wishing him a happy new year, that was when we realised we danced our way in to 2001.

We then put the cake on the gigantic marble topped dining table, on which my sister, nephew and I sat on. We lit the candles, and sang happy New Year to the happy birthday tune. Yes, we did that, and I was six, so it’s all right.

We then got around preparing food and things for a little picnic we had planned for the morning. We went to a temple that morning, finished offering prayers and as we walked out I held a lotus. We walked by a water body (I’m not sure if it was a dam or a lake) and I the great man slipped and feel into it! Yup I did.

My dad pulled me out and I was soaking wet, so I sat in the car in my underwear while the rest of clothes dried on the car and my family walked in the park.  The clothes dried, I got dressed and we left to find a nice spot under a big tree.

We sat under the canopy and opened the huge boxes of lunch and till my tummy said, “Stop eating you fool” in the grumpy, grumbling, noisy sound, and I did. Then I laid back, stared in to the sky and fell asleep.


It’s difficult for me to talk about crying, feeling gloomy, moody, blue or just sad or off. To hide behind the tears or behind the mask I broke years ago.

I’m sad it’s over, but the truth is I never liked it.

I feel like I’m back on square one, and the experience isn’t helping. I wanna talk, but I am scared. Scared that I’m a burden or weight and sometimes I just don’t trust some of them.

I feel like a shadow in a dark room

and tears keep me company. Brown eyes and metallic black hair will haunt me.