Blocks: Writing

Writing for pleasure is coded language forI’m into BDSM“.

There is a lot of joy and happiness when you see a finished piece is a big fat lie, an orgasm lasts longer than that fleeting moment of joy. I’m proud of my work that has been published but I always want to do better or I see a possibility of how it could have been better. I haven’t wanted to write in the last month or so and it has been nice. There was a huge weight taken of me, this probably is the most relaxed I’ve been in the last three years.

PC: Sad Dareen

But now that this blissful ignorance has passed a month and has turned into a little fear in the corner of mental thinking space and has started collected to go full judgement day on soon and I’m defenceless.

This blissful month wasn’t fear-free all the way, there were moments of pain, anguish and desperation to write anything. I gave and wrote a line or a sentence and sounded like a bag of shit and I didn’t try writing again.

Vague memories of travel are moments of liberation. ©Vinay

I remember comparing myself to Justin Bieber, he’s 10 days younger than me and has gained the fame and fortune that I’ve wanted since the age of 9. I wasn’t exceptionally talented, I had fairly good oratory skills and a knack to write funny or impressive stuff compared to my group of peers which impressed very few people, if nobody. So the possibility never died in my head and still seems to survive somewhere deep.

Screw JB, I just want to get my degree without having to do a Sirsasana and this is when I regret bunking Yoga classes in Jain College, maybe it would have come handy. The biggest fear I’ve been nursing like my first born is of losing everything. It’s easy to say everything and not mean much, but there is a possibility of losing everything and it’s only growing stronger with every fleeting second.

Flowers, books, and incense used to be therapeutic. ©Vinay

My laptop had a bad case of the virus and I lost all the digital data I’d acquired over the last three years. I had a lot of ups and downs in recovering the data and I couldn’t carry my heavy heart anymore and decided to cry; but not a single tear drop escaped my eye. We read narrative reporting in class and the piercing coldness hit so hard it was impossible to hold back my tears.

I’m on the edge, all the freaking time and its better I take things slow rather than trying to juggle too many things because if I blow up, it ain’t going to be a pretty sight. The pain won’t go away, but I can stop acting like a pin-cushion.

Emotional numbness, disregard, contempt, hatred are growing in my heart and I don’t want to uproot them. I don’t want to talk to people, there are a few I want to talk to but a minute or two into the conversation and I want to run. There isn’t anything I believe in, pessimism is my constant state of being and the height to which I don’t care has reached peak. It’s impossible for me to do anything else on daily basis, efforts I put to get through the day are draining me of my, everything. Exhaustion has left me paralysed and with bare minimum.


It wasn’t until I looked into his heart I realised what it meant to be lost. The mess I made was neatly packed in pretty boxes with a bow, while his was scattered and burnt all over the place. My deamons were out to havoc just like his, but I never realised the chaos I lived in till he showed me his own.

The voices hurt, but I was used to it and I didn’t know the comfort I found despite the shit, then it was gone. Now I really know what my own chaos means.


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 didn’t ask for this…

I didn’t invite you in, didn’t beg you to talk to me, didn’t ask for your attention, or ask you to sing to me.
You walked in, talked to me, gave me your attention, sang to me and we kissed under the rain.
Things kept picking up atleast in my head, till you dropped, I crashed, and broke again.
I can’t do this anymore.
I’d kept to myself, happy and content, in my bubble, atleast I was telling myself that. You came in knocking and I let you in, we sang, danced and made merry, but you disappeared in the middle of the party.
Now you knocked me over and I’m fucked me up again. I don’t know if I should or could pick myself up, if all this is worth the pain.
I see you around, we talk and yet all that has happened is nothing but a dream to you. Was I just a breath of fresh that you needed before getting back to your routine ?
Or is this an elaborate scheme to bring myself sorrow, pain, and misery. I wasn’t supposed to get hurt, because I didn’t want this.
It’s midnight, I’m standing in front of a mirror, with a pair of scissors and a lock of my own hair, my face moist and I wish I never met you.
I told myself a few moments of happiness were worth the pain, even if it was temporary. I assumed you’d be far away by then, but life has a different plan.

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.

Clear Contacts and Moist lips


She looked at me with her big blue eyes, Staring through her clear contacts. Her beady eyes still haunt me, like the nightmares of a world without her. I’m miss the warmth and safety in her embrace; food, sex or alcohol, they are neither strong enough to recreate to what it felt like nor powerful enough to help me forget it.
I miss her hands running through my hair, whispering sweet nothings to each other, and the way she insisted to be on top. I miss the tingling sensation in my stomach everytime her fingers ran across my face, when she held on to my hands to tell me it’s going to be okay, and when our moist lips met.
I am slowly losing my sanity, everything hurts. Even waking up in the morning is a piss off, I just want to disappear in to oblivion. I still wake up at three am and regret everything in life and long uncertain death.

Everything dies



From flowers to emotions, everything comes to an end. But not depression, it only hides to come back bigger, stronger, holds you down longer, and eats you up but leaves you behind with just enough to start over again. It waits patiently to start over again, and devour every last drop of life and soul.
Tears are heavier, screams are louder, nights are long and arduous, and life is excruciating.
The smile that got the demons running, feeds them now.

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.


I sat in a corner crying my eyes red. My muffled cries echoed through the stone walled halls as I mourned the death of my pretty bird. The windows and walls in Satan’s den knew everything and yet turned a blind eye to my pain.

I grew up in the shadows of hell being poked, prodded and punished. I believe I didn’t know right from wrong growing up, so I took Satan by his word and assumed everything he did was always for my best.

I always thought everybody lived in a den no different from mine and were poked, prodded and punched. Reality hit me hard, when a span from a different hell broke out the truth for me.

When kids learnt to walk, talk, love, kiss and smile. I learnt to talk, walk, kiss, and shut up and not to cry. Kids grew up learning to love themselves, their lives and world. I grew up to love pain, befriended it too, and Satan made sure I grew up to be his loyal little toy.

I cribbed about life, cried and fussed about how difficult it is for me, till I noticed another living in my cell but didn’t complain.

I went back to my corner again crying , hating my face, my body, my hair, my eyes, my lips, my smile and everything that made me look like me.

I believed I was ugly, I was wrong and that I deserved to cry, to suffer and everything that came my way to break me. I believed pain was right and joy was wrong. I felt I had no right to sing, dance, laugh and smile or enjoy, I believed they were all beyond me. I felt it was right for me to be in pain and agony, to cry, and let the most sinister of all judge me and inflict pain upon me.

I cut myself believing in the need for reinforcement of pain, and please the world and universe. To let the blood wash my tears and the muffled cries echoed in my heart. I still imagine that my bird could have saved me or that it’s a phoenix that will rise from its ashes, heal my injury and carry me away. Wishful thinking I guess.