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...

 Nirmal was 24 years old, and he felt like life had already moved ahead without him. Not because he didn’t try. But because nothing he tried seemed to work. In college, Nirmal was a quiet boy. Not very popular, not very talkative, but sincere. He had a small group of friends, decent marks, and a simple dream — to get a government job, make his parents proud, and live a peaceful life. And in college, he also fell in love. It was not a dramatic love story. No big proposals, no long bike rides, no expensive gifts. They mostly walked around the campus, shared food, talked about the future, and laughed at small things. They used to sit on the college steps in the evening and talk about life after college — jobs, cities, maybe a small house somewhere, maybe a simple life. Nothing extraordinary. Just a life together. But life after college did not go the way they imagined. She got a job in a private company in another city. Nirmal decided to prepare for UPSC. “Just give me some time,” he ...

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...