Horror, Coffee & the Case of the ₹180 Filter Coffee!

Last week, my colleagues and I went for a movie. And not just any movie — a horror one. The title? Dies Irae. Even the name sounded like a ghost whispering Latin in my ear. I’m a thriller person...give me suspense, crime, or mystery, I’m all in. But horror? No, thank you. I’m dead scared.

But then there was Bindu miss, who absolutely wanted to see it. I tried to protest mildly, but you know how it goes......democracy at work. Everyone agreed, so I just smiled and went along.

Now, before you think this is going to be a movie review..... let me stop you right there. It is not. I honestly do not know how to judge a movie. After studying media, I have learned to respect the effort, money, and sleepless nights that go into making one. So, if you ask me whether I liked a film, my default answer is “Yes, I liked it.” (Safe and diplomatic!) Of course, if you ask me in private, I might quietly share what I really think... but I usually try to focus on the positives.  But publicly? Oh no, I am all positive..... just like the “all good” reviews I wrote during my college days!

Anyway, the lights went off, the ‘silence’ started, and my fear switched ON. Within five minutes, I was watching the movie through my ‘dupatta’. Sometimes my ears were covered, sometimes my eyes, depending on which sense I wanted to torture less.

My colleague, Sistu was no better. Every time something spooky happened, we looked at each other and burst into giggles. The rest of the theatre was dead serious — literally ‘dead’ serious, and there we were, half-hiding, half-laughing, trying not to disturb anyone. I am honestly surprised the theatre staff did not throw us out.

And let me tell you,  it was scary! Which means the movie did exactly what it was supposed to do. Mission accomplished. But while others were deeply immersed in the horror, I was deeply distracted by something else,  hunger and caffeine withdrawal! ☕

Right before the movie started, I had ordered a coffee for myself and sandwiches for my colleagues. They said, “That’s okay,” but later admitted the sandwiches were not worth the money. And as for my coffee.....oh, wait till you hear this.

I spotted filter coffee on the menu, and my South Indian heart did a happy dance. Finally, something familiar! Until I noticed the price tag — ₹180. For one filter coffee. I almost fainted before the ghost even appeared on screen. 👻I told myself, “Maybe it is extraordinary. Maybe it will be worth it.” Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. I’d had Costa Coffee a few times before at PVR, so I trusted the brand. But this time, I waited the entire first half of the movie dreaming about that coffee, only to finally get it midway through the second half.

One sip. That is all it took to shatter my caffeine dreams. This was not filter coffee; this was filter regret.

Honestly, I could make a better cup with a ₹5 Bru sachet, ₹13 worth of milk pouch, and ₹3 sugar. For ₹180, I could’ve bought groceries for two days or a solid lunch at a local café. I was angry, not scared anymore, just angry. The ghost on screen did not scare me; the coffee did.

And that is when a headline I’d read came to mind , “Supreme Court takes note of high food prices at multiplexes.” They warned that steep snack prices could alienate audiences and hurt the cinema business. Well, Your Honour, I second that motion. 👩‍⚖️

Let’s be honest, paying more for a coffee than for your ticket is not just absurd.  What kind of logic is that? For that price, I expect my filter coffee to come with a personal barista and background violin music.

And it is not just coffee — Everything — popcorn, sandwiches, burgers — costs a small fortune, and most of them are not even great. If we can get better, fresher, and tastier food outside for a fraction of the price, why are we paying a premium for mediocrity? (Shoutout to Super Bakers near my house, where a 20-rupee instant coffee tastes like heaven compared to this disaster.)

As a Malayali saying goes: “Pothujanam kazhuthayalla sir”( The public are not donkeys, sir,) meaning, “People are not fools, you can’t just take them for granted.”

Multiplexes are not just for the rich. It is us, the ordinary movie lovers, who fill those seats and spend our hard-earned money to keep the cinema culture alive. So please, give us good food, fair prices, and coffee that actually tastes like coffee.

Until then, I’ll stick to my homemade brew ......rich, strong, and most importantly, only ₹21! ☕😄

Otherwise, as the Supreme Court warned, the theatres will soon be empty, not because of ghosts, but because of the snacks! 🎭

From a harmonica to a “hmm” — a reminder of what truly matters

Today was one of those unexpectedly delightful days. We had our Arts Club inauguration, and the chief guest was none other than Dr. V. P. Gangadharan — yes, the Dr. Gangadharan, the veteran oncologist who has saved countless lives from the clutches of cancer. In Kerala, his name itself brings comfort. People say if you are treated by him, you are already half cured, no matter how serious your condition is.

I have attended his talks on cancer before — twice, actually. But today, I met a different Dr. Gangadharan. Not the white-coat intellectual, not the busy doctor surrounded by medical jargon, but a man so simple, so grounded, that you would forget he is one of the most respected oncologists in the country.

When requested, He walked onto the stage, smiled warmly at the students, and then — to everyone’s surprise — took out a harmonica. Before we even processed what was happening, he started playing an old Hindi melody, perfectly in tune, like a professional musician. Imagine a renowned oncologist, known for his brilliance and discipline, standing on a college stage playing his favourite tune! He told us that the harmonica was his stress-buster. When stuck in traffic, instead of getting angry, he plays it right there in the car. He even laughed and said, “My driver is my biggest critic. He will say, ‘Sir, the note wasn’t right today!’”

The entire hall was smiling. There was something so genuine about him — a kind of humility that filled the room. His speech was equally wonderful — clear, powerful, and deeply human. It reminded me that true greatness does not need to announce itself; it shines quietly.

And that reminded me of another celebrity encounter. Ah, this one is not so heartwarming.

I once met a very famous singer — no names, please (my trauma does not need a name tag). I was with my daughter at a restaurant in Kochi. We chose the outdoor seating, wearing our usual “home-mode” clothes. My daughter still had traces of her annual day makeup on — you know, the glitter that refuses to leave no matter how hard you scrub.

And then, I spotted him. A legend! Every Malayali millennial has at least hummed his songs once in life. I got all excited. My daughter, wise beyond her years, whispered, “Mamma, please don’t.” But of course, mothers rarely listen to their kids’ warnings, right?

So, I walked up to him. He was having a dosa, his wife eating inside the car, and another man chatting with him. I smiled and said “Hello Sir”. He looked up and said — “Hmm?”

Now, Malayalis will understand. That “hmm” can mean a hundred things — What? Who are you? Why are you here? — all packed into one syllable. My brain froze. My daughter looked horrified. I quickly blurted out, “I’m so-and-so, an assistant professor in so-and-so college, teaching media.” Immediately, his tone changed. He smiled, became suddenly “nice.” And I thought — So, now I qualify for kindness?

That moment, I remembered something my friend Sruthy mol had once said when a celebrity visited our college. She was a big fan of his but chose not to talk to him. I had teased her then — “Why didn’t you go say hi?” She laughed and said,

“Every time I talk to my screen favourites, I end up hating them. It is better not to talk — they are perfect only on screen. Let them stay there.”

Her words came true for me as well. It is strange how a single rude encounter can erase years of admiration.

That’s why today felt so refreshing. Watching Dr. Gangadharan — a man of such stature — play the harmonica for students, joke about his driver’s feedback, and speak with such grace reminded me that real heroes do not wear masks. They do not need to.

So, here is the takeaway — or as my daughter Panchu would call it, the moral of the story:
Be a proud Malayali, be your own superhero. Let the screen idols stay where they belong — on screen. In real life, find your inspiration among those who are humble, kind, and real.

If a man as great as Dr. Gangadharan can stay grounded — and even play the harmonica at a college event — the rest of us can at least manage a smile and a “hello.”

And yes, I know — my blogs are starting to sound like my lectures. I start with one story and end up somewhere completely different. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

On the Tracks of Memories: My Love for Train Journeys

 

My love for train journeys started late. Unlike many who grew up traveling by rail, I first boarded a train only when I went to Chennai for my post-graduation. Hard to imagine, right? Until then, trains were just something I watched from a distance, not something I experienced.

You see, I grew up in a village in Kerala, tucked away in a corner of Ernakulam district that borders both Idukki and Kottayam. Rail tracks had not yet reached our part of the world, so trains were almost alien to us. To understand my place better, think back to the BSNL landline days. Back then, every household had a phone. But if I wanted to call a friend just a few kilometres away—because she technically lived in another district—it counted as an STD call. At home, STD calls were strictly off-limits, too costly to be wasted on “chit-chat.” So instead, the cheaper option was to hop on a bus or even take an auto, spend a couple of rupees, and talk to my friends face-to-face for hours. Funny, isn’t it? A short distance on paper felt like a whole world apart, simply because of a telephone code. Maybe that’s why city life and trains always seemed so fascinating to us—after all, back then we thought of trains as something meant for urban people. Whenever we visited Ernakulam or Kottayam, we would literally stop by the railway tracks just to see a train passing by. Mouths wide open, eyes sparkling, we would watch the giant metal snake thunder past. That is village life in a nutshell—simple, practical, and amusingly paradoxical.

Everything changed when I went to Chennai. My first train ride—to the city where I would begin my post-graduation—was the turning point. The gentle sway of the coaches, the rhythmic sound of the wheels on the tracks, and the scenery unfolding outside the window all made me fall in love instantly. It felt almost cinematic, like Krishnagudiyil Oru Pranayakalathu, the film where the whole story beautifully revolves around a train journey.  From then on, rail became my favourite way to travel. If you gave me a choice between air, road, or rail even today, I would pick rail without a second thought.

Living in Chennai also introduced me to local trains, and oh, what an adventure they were! Running to catch a train was almost a daily sport. The laughter once you managed to board after your sprint was priceless. And then came the joy of buying snacks—peanuts, samosas, and my absolute favourite, chikku (sapota), which cost just one rupee back then. You could find quirky little things on local trains—useful, inexpensive stuff that even nearby supermarkets did not stock. Honestly, I preferred local trains to long-distance ones, even though they were not always neat and sometimes stank. But they had character.

Later, Kochi Metro brought a new chapter. When it started in 2017, I was among the first to ride it. It felt like trains had evolved, becoming sleek, comfortable, and modern. In the metro, I found solitude—I could read, watch movies in bits, or simply drift into thoughts, all without motion sickness that plagued me in buses or cars.

But what keeps my heart tied to trains, no matter the kind, is the view. No other mode of travel offers such beauty. As I write this, I am on my way to Ettimadai, heading to my PhD campus to meet my guide. Outside the window, lush forests, endless paddy fields, and vegetable farms stretch into the horizon. Birds dart across the sky, and if you are lucky, you might even catch sight of elephants. In the distance, mountain ranges rise majestically, tempting you to go trekking.

For me, trains are more than transport. They are memories, paradoxes, discoveries, and emotions—all strung together on steel tracks. There is something about watching the world roll by through a train window that is both soothing and inspiring. You lose yourself in thought, yet find yourself in the process. That, I think, is the true magic of train journeys.

From a little girl watching trains with wonder to a traveller who finds comfort in their steady rhythm, my journey with trains is one that will always keep moving forward..........

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.