Birthdays: From Cakes to Chaos, and Everything in Between

Birthdays are always special, right? I mean, who doesn’t like a day that’s all about them? For me, birthdays used to be full of fun, laughter, and happiness. Back in my childhood, they were all about new dresses, chocolates, and—of course—a plum cake. Now, I have to tell you, decorated cakes weren’t really a thing in my village back then. We only had those hard-icing cakes with plum inside. Funny thing is, I hated them as a kid. But now? They’re my absolute favorite. Every Christmas, I go hunting around Kochi for one of those old-school cakes. Sadly, they’ve gone out of style, replaced by fancy cakes with names I can’t even remember.

My mom always says my very first birthday was a big deal—she made 10 liters of payasam! Can you imagine? My brother still teases me about it, saying my birthdays were always over the top while his were simple and quiet. And he’s not wrong—I always seemed to have grand celebrations, with gifts and endless wishes coming my way. Somehow, birthdays were just lucky for me.

That luck felt extra special when my nephew was born on my birthday. I can’t even explain the pride I felt—sharing the day with him made me feel so connected. We’ve only celebrated one birthday together so far, with both our names on the same cake, but that memory? Priceless. And every year, the way he wishes me makes me smile like a child again. Isn’t it the best feeling when someone close to your heart shares your big day?

But then, life being life, things changed. The last few birthdays haven’t been the same. I lost my father in August, and ever since, my birthdays have carried a kind of sadness. Last year, my husband had a bad fall and spent nearly 20 days in the hospital right around my birthday. And this year, my brother—who came to visit—ended up in the hospital after a fall too. So yeah, my so-called “lucky birthdays” have taken a different turn.

Sometimes, I feel like erasing the month of August from the calendar. But then I remind myself—maybe the luck didn’t vanish, maybe it just shifted. Nothing truly terrible happened to my loved ones despite those falls. In a strange way, maybe these traumatic birthdays are still blessings in disguise.

And you know what? Even in the middle of all this, my brother looked at me and said something that made me stop and think. He told me, “My dear sister, you got to celebrate an entire day with me. Maybe we have never celebrated our birthdays like this. We shared it right from bed coffee to dinner together.” When he said that, I realized he was right. In his own way, he turned a hospital stay into a birthday memory. Everyone around me was being positive, trying to see the brighter side of things. And yet—there I was, the only one sulking. Everyone else was spreading light, and I was the one standing in the corner with my little cloud. Sony, you need to catch up, I told myself.

Still, the pain lingers. Birthdays that were once full of joy now bring this heavy feeling I can’t really put into words. Yet, the moment my phone rings and I hear the voices of my dear ones, I light up again. Just today, while writing this, my friend Sruthy (Sruthy Mol✨) called. She’s one of those people who just gets you—She’s such a kind soul—understanding, caring, and always there when you need someone. We share similarities: both open and funny, yet sometimes hiding unspoken feelings. Friends like her make even the darkest days a little brighter.

At the end of it all, I’ve realized birthdays are what we make of them. Some people don’t celebrate at all. And here I am, still wanting to celebrate, despite the ups and downs. Because hey—life itself deserves a celebration.

So here’s me, giving myself a little cheer:

Happy Birthday, Sony dear. 🎂✨

Goodbye to this year’s birthday drama. Let’s wait and hope for a brighter one next year.

From a Borrowed Copy to a Lifelong Love: My Dan Brown Story

 

Some books simply arrive in your life. Others walk in, take a seat, and never leave. For me, Dan Brown belongs to the second category. Right now, I’m waiting for The Secret of Secrets, Dan Brown’s latest Robert Langdon novel, which I ordered way back in March. It’s due to arrive in September, and the wait feels like part of the joy.

My relationship with Dan Brown’s books began unexpectedly in 2007, during my college internship at a leading news channel in Kerala. One day, I borrowed a Malayalam copy of The Da Vinci Code from one of my seniors, Unni R. — now known to Malayalees as a Screen Writer. At that time, the book was surrounded by controversy and banned in certain countries for allegedly questioning the Catholic Church’s beliefs.

As someone who grew up Catholic, spending 12 years in Catechism classes, I was curious. Reading it was like reconnecting with my Church history lessons — a mix of familiarity and discovery. While I understood why some found it provocative, I saw it for what it was: a blend of creativity, research, and storytelling. My faith was never shaken; if anything, I appreciated how the book sparked questions and curiosity.

After my internship, I returned to Chennai, but Dan Brown had already taken hold of my imagination. I started searching for his earlier books. That is when Angels & Demons stole my heart, yes, even more than The Da Vinci Code. It was an incredible journey through Rome’s churches, sculptures, and secrets, blending history, art, and mystery in a way that felt like traveling without leaving my chair.

By the time I started working, Dan Brown had become more than just an author I liked — he was a habit. I set aside a small sum each month specifically for buying books. Often, I’d visit Landmark with friends like Priyanka or Ganesh. Sometimes, they’d gift me books for my birthday — and without hesitation, I’d ask for a Dan Brown title.

Eventually, I began pre-ordering almost all his releases from indiaplaza.in (I’m not even sure if it exists anymore!). Each arrival felt like opening a treasure chest. Over the years, I’ve devoured The Lost Symbol (which introduced me to the world of Freemasons), Inferno (a thrilling exploration of Dante’s Divine Comedy), and Origin (which blended science, art, and philosophy beautifully).

One of the things I love most about Dan Brown’s writing is how it transports me to European cities — Venice, Florence, Paris, and more — with vivid descriptions of their art, architecture, and history. It’s like taking a guided cultural tour while also solving a nail-biting mystery. His stories have taught me so much about religious history, symbolism, and world heritage sites.

And of course, now I’m waiting for The Secret of Secrets — and this time, it’s been a six-month wait. I’m sure it will be another wonderful adventure for me. I’ve completely fallen in love with Robert Langdon, the brilliant Harvard symbologist who anchors so many of these stories. I’ve watched almost all the movies based on Dan Brown’s novels, and I adore Tom Hanks as Langdon.

Dan Brown’s books fill me with curiosity and joy. I love the way each story begins with a mystery that slowly unravels, pulling me deeper into a world of codes, symbols, and secrets. The Mickey Mouse watch, the habit of breaking codes, the blend of history and science — they make me want to learn code-breaking myself. One day, I hope I get to meet Dan Brown in person and take a photograph with him.

So yes — this might read like a fan letter. And maybe it is.

Thank you, Dan Brown, for the worlds you’ve built, the mysteries you’ve given us, and the joy you’ve placed on my bookshelf — and in my heart.

The Healing Touch of a Twin: A Memory, A Belief, A Mother's Experience

Growing up, I often heard a curious saying passed down from my mother —"If a twin massages your aching limb, the pain will go away." It was a simple yet powerful belief, whispered with warmth and conviction. Back then, I viewed twins with fascination, almost as if they carried a touch of magic with them.

Little did I know that one day, I’d be the mother of twins myself—a daughter and a son—and that I would turn to that same belief, not just as folklore, but as comfort in a moment of pain.

A few days ago, I developed a stubborn neck sprain. The stiffness made it hard to turn my head, and despite taking medicines and applying ointments, the discomfort only seemed to worsen. The pain began to spread downward, and I started to feel anxious—worried that it might take longer than usual to heal.

Then, like a gentle whisper from the past, the memory of that old saying came to me. Half playfully and half seriously, I turned to my 11 year-old daughter and said, "You're a twin, aren’t you? Why don’t you try massaging my neck? They say it works." Her eyes lit up—children have an intuitive way of embracing stories like this, and she was more than eager to try.

She warmed some Ayurvedic oil—a traditional blend we keep at home—and gently massaged my neck. She even placed a warm water bag afterward. There was something so tender and sincere in the way she did it, pausing now and then to ask, “Amma, is it working? Do you feel better?”

To my surprise, I actually did feel better. The pain began to ease. Maybe it was the warmth of the oil. Maybe it was the effect of the compress. Or maybe—just maybe—it was her touch. A twin’s touch. My daughter’s touch.

Afterwards, I did what anyone curious would do: I searched for medical or scientific explanations behind this belief. But I couldn’t find anything that directly supported it. There's no established scientific proof that being a twin gives someone a special power to heal others through touch. Still, science doesn’t always account for the full depth of human experience. Just because something isn’t explained yet doesn’t mean it has no value. There’s a certain richness in lived traditions—local knowledge passed through generations—that holds meaning far beyond research papers.

I remembered how elders in my family used to speak of this. My mother told me stories of twins being called upon during times of illness. Even my mother-in-law recalled a pair of twins in the family who were trusted with applying oils or herbal medicine. It was believed that the medicine worked better when applied by a twin, especially in traditional or Ayurvedic contexts where timing, intention, and the person administering the remedy all mattered.

Whether or not science validates this belief, I know what I felt: relief, comfort, and a deep emotional connection. And maybe that’s what matters most. Because when healing comes with love, belief, and care, it becomes something more than just physical recovery.

That day, I didn’t just feel the easing of pain. I felt the presence of tradition, the echoes of family wisdom, and the quiet magic of a child’s hands guided by love and belief.

And perhaps, that’s what healing truly is! 

Once a Potterhead, Always a Potterhead

 

How many of you like the Harry Potter franchise?

Wait, what a question, right? For people of my age, it almost feels a little inappropriate to even ask. We didn’t just like Harry Potter — we grew up with it. Okay, maybe a little late, but the magic found its way to us eventually.

My own Harry Potter journey started during my college days in Chennai. I still remember the one who introduced me to it — Priya from Bhilai, Chhattisgarh (she always introduced herself that way in our early classes). My darling Priya. A warm, bookish girl with an infectious love for fantasy. I, a girl from a remote village in Kerala, was still stuck in a world of classics, Chicken Soup for the Soul, The Diary of Anne Frank, and Tom Sawyer — the books my teachers introduced me to back in school. I knew very little about English literature beyond that.

Then came college — where everyone around me seemed to be mini literary critics. Friends who devoured books like snacks, who spoke intelligently, who always had an opinion. At first, I felt like I didn’t belong. But slowly, I found my place among them.

And then came Harry Potter.

Can you believe there was a time we pre-ordered those books and waited — not so patiently — for them to arrive? We even tried to avoid spoilers, sometimes flipping to the last pages just to ease the anxiety. I still remember how I felt when Hedwig died — crushed. And when Voldemort was finally defeated — oh, such joy! But I never quite liked that Harry married Ginny Weasley. I know, I know… funny, right? I still grumble about it sometimes. But I loved the name of Harry’s son. That felt just right.

So why this sudden burst of Harry Potter nostalgia?

Well, the other day I took my daughter to Miniso, and there it was — an entire section filled with Harry Potter merchandise. Keychains, spell books, hats, scarves, water bottles with Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw engraved on them. And oh, the diaries. There was even a miniature of the scarf Harry wore. My heart skipped a beat. That old love came rushing back. I wanted to buy everything. I really did.

But then came the voice of the grown-up inside me — You’re not a teenager anymore. So, I very cleverly suggested my daughter, Panchu, pick a diary and a water bottle. She chose a beautiful one — a diary I secretly wished to keep for myself.

Later that night, Panchu brought the diary to me.
“Mamma, you can take it. I’ll end up spoiling it like all my other books. You can use it. Maybe even write your PhD stuff in it,” she said with her usual sparkle.

I was on cloud nine.

But I said, “No need, Panchu.”

She insisted. She knew. And finally, I accepted. I couldn’t resist. The diary now sits with me. I still haven’t written anything in it — I don’t want to spoil it either. Maybe I never will. It’s just there, reminding me of who I was, who I still am deep inside.

A dreamer. A child. A girl who still lives in fantasy.

Want to know a secret? My old blog once had tons of Harry Potter images on it. Later, I removed them thinking it looked too childish. I wonder if any hidden corners still hold a few... Accio embarrassment! 😂

But now I know — that love was never childish. It was magic. And some magic, we carry with us forever.

So here I am, a grown-up with a child’s heart, holding onto a diary that means more than it looks. A symbol of wonder, friendship, and dreams that once shaped me — and still do.

Because truly…
Once a Potterhead, Always a Potterhead.

Vincadium Leviosa! ✨
(May our memories rise and float like feathers in the wind.)

Tea Trails, Forest Whispers and Curvy Roads: A Journey Through the Wild Green

Some road trips exhaust you, but others stir something deep within—an old memory, a quiet joy, a sense of wonder. 

We set off on a long-awaited drive through a landscape that felt like a moving painting. The route? Athirapally – Malakkapara – Valparai – Pollachi. A much-loved trail that reels on Instagram make look like a dream—and it truly is. For almost three hours, we drove through dense, emerald-green forests. Trees arched overhead, light filtered through the leaves, and you couldn’t help but fall silent. Then came three more hours of rolling tea plantations, neatly manicured and endlessly beautiful.  

The road was narrow, twisting, full of hairpins and steep turns, but that was exactly what made it magical. It was this very route that caught the attention of Anu Miss—and sparked the idea for this trip.

Let me tell you a little about her. Anu Miss isn’t just a teacher—she’s an explorer at heart. A thoughtful, intelligent soul who’s deeply in love with forests. Maybe that’s why she chose zoology as her path. She finds joy in the wilderness, and that love is infectious. Even though we come from completely different wavelengths, we connect beautifully. Perhaps it’s the contrast that makes the bond work. She's the one who planted in me a deeper appreciation for forests, treks, and everything green.

This was our third trip together, and each time, it feels like I learn a little more—not just about the world, but about myself.

But to be honest, I think this love was already inside me—just waiting to be reawakened.

You see, I grew up in a remote, hilly village in Kerala, where nothing was flat. If you wanted to reach my mother’s house, you'd have to take a narrow, bumpy road winding through the hills. Exploring was just a part of daily life. As kids, we didn’t need a map or a plan—just a pair of chappals and a sense of curiosity.

I think this love for exploration was in my blood. As kids, we had the co-operative bank’s annual trips, and that gave us the chance to see almost all of South India before we even grew up. We were lucky.

But my first true adventures were closer to home. My uncle’s rubber plantation was like our private forest. We’d often see wild rabbits darting between trees, and our imaginations would run wild. My ammacha (uncle) was a licensed hunter and had two rifles. My brother used to tag along with him. They’d return early in the morning, rifles slung and a small animal in hand—dinner for the day. I don’t know if all those stories were real, but they fascinated me.

My first official hike? I was in fifth grade. It was a school trip as part of Scouts and Guides, to a small hill near our school. But oh, the feeling of reaching the top! That pride—it was like I had conquered Mount Everest. 😄 That emotion never really leaves you. Every time I hike now, I feel the same thrill.

Because hiking isn't just about reaching the destination. It's about the struggle, the breathless moments, the aching legs—and finally, that rewarding view. The stillness. The calm. The sense of inner peace that nothing else quite gives.

Today’s road trip brought back a flood of memories—of hills climbed, treks taken, stories shared, and childhood dreams. The forests, the tea trails, the winding roads—all of it was breathtaking. But between you and me... as much as I enjoyed the scenic ride, I still believe hiking—conquering hills with your own two feet—is far more rewarding than just sitting inside a vehicle and passing through it all. There’s a different kind of magic in the climb—a sense of achievement that no road trip can quite match.

And here’s a little confession—somewhere in the middle of all that natural beauty, I dozed off in the Tempo Traveller. That’s the thing about long drives—they can be oddly tiring. After a while, even the most beautiful views begin to blur.

So yes, while I loved the route and the company, I’ll say it out loud:

No to road trips. Yes to hikes.

If you truly want to feel the wilderness—to breathe it, live it, become part of it—walk, walk, walk.

Because in the end, it’s the climb that stays with you.

(Just don’t tell **Anu Miss** 😄)