My Story

My mother asked me to visit my grandparent's house because one of their old colleagues was coming to meet them after 45 years. They were all teachers in the same school during the 1970s. “Lilykutty Teacher used to work with your grandparents back in their teaching days,” my mother told me. Since my mother had some work at school and couldn’t be there, she asked me to go instead. I casually said okay and went there, expecting an ordinary afternoon with tea, banana chips, and old people discussing blood pressure and pension issues. But the moment Lilykutty teacher walked in, I realized she was different. She was 73 years old, but honestly, her energy could defeat most people in their twenties. She was cheerful, talkative, sharp, and effortlessly funny. The kind of person who enters a room and immediately changes its atmosphere. Within minutes, she had already adopted me into the conversation and insisted I stay for lunch. Then the nostalgia began. My grandparents and Lilykutty teache...

  My grandmother turned 79, and I remember quietly telling myself that we would celebrate her 80th birthday in a grand way. Eighty felt special—eight decades of life, memories, struggles, and love. That milestone deserved something big, I thought. But my father didn’t wait. He brought a cake, and our family gathered around her that day. There was nothing extravagant—just familiar faces, soft laughter, and a woman who looked deeply happy in that moment. When she smiled, it felt like time had slowed down. It was one of those ordinary moments that you don’t realize is extraordinary until much later. Two months later, she was gone. That was when it hit me: that celebration had been her last birthday. Not the grand 80th I had imagined, but a simple 79th—made meaningful only because we chose not to postpone it. Even today, when I think about it, I feel relieved that we celebrated. If we hadn’t, the memory might have been replaced by regret—the kind that stays with you forever. Life ...

If my college life were a chemical equation, it would look something like this: boring lectures + confusing practicals + zero love life = a painfully average existence. That was me — Nirmal. Chemistry department, first year, specializing in nothing except avoiding viva questions. And then one random Tuesday morning, my life decided to conduct an unexpected reaction. Her name was Elza. She walked into our common language class like she owned the place — English department girl, that confident posture people in my department couldn’t even fake.  I noticed her the moment she sat two rows ahead. Noticed — as in, completely forgot what the teacher was saying, forgot my notebook, forgot that I existed. She was laughing softly at something her friend said, and in that one moment, my brain, which was supposed to handle complex reactions, turned into NaCl. Plain, useless salt. It’s funny how one person can ruin your entire academic focus with just one smile. I was from Chemistry; she was f...

  I was born into a deeply Christian family, where faith wasn’t just practiced—it was a way of life. My maternal grandparents were devoutly Orthodox, the kind of believers who lived and breathed the Church. They recited prayers throughout the day, attended Holy Mass without fail, and found comfort and strength in the pages of the Bible. Naturally, growing up in their home meant I was steeped in this spiritual environment from the very beginning. My grandmother, in particular, played a huge role in shaping my early beliefs. She would narrate Bible stories with such love and reverence that they felt more real than fairy tales. She never missed a chance to gently encourage—sometimes insist—that I attend Mass daily. Her dream was simple but powerful: she wanted me to become a priest. And for a long time, I believed that too. After school, while most kids rushed home to play or rest, I rushed to church. That sacred space felt more like home than anywhere else. I became involved in ev...

  The UPSC Mains result came. I name was not in the list... I closed my laptop and didn’t open it again for days. Something inside me just… collapsed. I had poured an entire year into this attempt — months of isolation, discipline, and blind faith that maybe, just maybe, it would all pay off. But here I was, alone in my room, the weight of failure pressing down on my chest like a rock. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just froze. For the next one week, I disappeared from the world. I binge-watched web series, scrolled endlessly, ate irregularly. I avoided calls, messages, everything. My mind was like a paused movie, looping only one thought: “What now?” That’s when Ajith , my friend, called. He asked about the result. I told him. He paused and then said gently, “Da… come out of it for a while. I’m quitting my IT job. The pay is meagre. Thought of taking a break… Want to join me for a trip to Idukki? It will be good for both of us.” Something about that call shook me awake. I hadn’...