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...

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 ...