My Story

Recently, I watched 500 Days of Summer, and it felt less like watching a movie and more like looking into a mirror. For many people, it is just a romantic drama with a unique storytelling style. But for me, it became something deeper—an uncomfortable reflection of a younger version of myself. During college, for the first time in my life, I fell in love. Or at least, I thought I did. There was a girl I used to talk with regularly. We chatted almost every day. We laughed, shared conversations, and slowly she became an important part of my routine. Without even realizing it, I started building stories inside my head. I imagined a future with her. I imagined love, companionship, and a beautiful life together. The truth is, I never truly knew her. I knew the version of her that existed in my imagination. I never had the courage to openly express my feelings. I never clearly asked what she felt. Instead, I stayed silent and let assumptions grow. Because she was warm and friendly, I convince...

Back in 2015, when I was studying in 8th standard, a movie called Premam was released. It became more than just a film—it became a phenomenon in Kerala. Everywhere I looked, people were talking about it. The songs were everywhere, the hairstyle became a trend, the dialogues were repeated by everyone, and Nivin Pauly became the face of youth culture. Everyone loved the movie. Except me. I watched it back then and honestly felt bored. I couldn’t understand why people were going crazy over it. To me, it was just a simple story—love, breakup, another love, another breakup, and finally a happy ending. I felt the hype was unnecessary. But now, in 2026, ten years later, I watched Premam again. And this time, it hit me deeply. The movie had not changed. I had. When I first watched it, I was too young to understand what the film was really saying. At that age, I only saw the plot. I watched with eyes, not with experience. I knew nothing about heartbreak, emotional growth, losing people, or how ...

  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’...