Happy 12th Birthday, My Chakku and Panchu

Some journeys don’t begin with joy.

Some begin with survival.

Twelve years ago, I was not the glowing, smiling pregnant woman people love to talk about. I was tired. Scared. Restless. Carrying not just two babies, but also two worlds of fear and hope inside me.

Everyone said, “Twins! How lucky! How sweet!”

Sweet.

I smiled when they said it. But they didn’t see the nights.

Nights when I couldn’t lie down. Nights when sleep abandoned me. Nights when I sat on a chair, because my body refused to rest on a bed that once gave me comfort. For one and a half months, my chair became my world. My body ached. My mind wandered. My heart longed.

I missed my Amma. My Appa. My brother.

I, who was always running somewhere, doing something, suddenly became still. Six months inside a room. Six months inside my thoughts.

Pregnancy was not magical for me. It was endurance.

And then, after all that waiting, they arrived.

Two tiny cries. Two tiny fingers. Two tiny souls.

My Chakku and Panchu.

My pearls. My miracles. My everything.

The first year passed like a blur. I did not think. I did not pause. I simply flowed. Like a stream born suddenly after a storm—without direction, without clarity, just moving forward because it had to.

And just when life began to settle, it changed again.

Chakku was diagnosed with ASD.

Life became hospital corridors. Therapy rooms. Waiting areas filled with silent prayers. Questions with no answers. Smiles hiding fear.

But in the middle of all that was my Chakku.

My happy boy.

My loving boy.

My boy who understood hearts more than words.

And Panchu—my fierce little girl—refused to leave him behind.

She pulled his hand into her games. She spoke to him even when he didn’t respond. She insisted he belong in her world.

Sometimes she complained. Sometimes she didn’t understand. How could she? She was just a child too.

But love doesn’t need understanding. It only needs presence.

There were difficult days. Schools that promised inclusion but didn’t fully understand him. Days when fear stopped my heart. Days when I questioned everything.

I became a workaholic, not for success, but for survival. Work became my escape. My distraction. My way of staying strong when I felt weak inside.

Slowly, I stopped asking, “Why my child?”

Instead, I started saying, “My child.”

I scolded him when he was naughty. I celebrated every small word he spoke, even if he didn’t know its meaning. Every tiny step felt like a giant victory. He became my strength without even knowing it.

Today, he still wipes my tears before I wipe my own.

He still stands between me and Panchu when I scold her, protecting her like a tiny warrior.

Sometimes, he even brings the stick himself, asking to be punished.

Tell me, how can someone be this pure?

And Panchu—my strong girl. My mature little soul. She now says she wants to become a doctor for children like her brother.

(Though, between us, she is still negotiating her relationship with textbooks. Some dreams take their time. 😊)

Today, they turn twelve.

One who counts days for birthdays months in advance.

And one who doesn’t fully understand birthdays, but happily cuts cake at every celebration.

They came together.

They grew together.

They taught me how to live again.

Motherhood did not make me perfect.

It made me stronger. Softer. Braver.

It broke me.

And rebuilt me.

Happy 12th birthday, my Chakku and Panchu.

You are not just my children.

You are my courage.

You are my healing.

You are my happiness.

Always.

— Mamma ❤️

The Great Malayalam Song Hunt (and a Trip Down Memory Lane)

Are you a hardcore fan of Malayalam film songs?

I absolutely am. If you’re a child of the 80s who grew up in the 90s like me, you’ll understand exactly what I’m talking about. Back then, entertainment wasn’t an endless buffet like today. We had Doordarshan, then Asianet, Surya TV, the radio, and our precious audio cassettes. That was our world.

And because options were limited, we memorised every song. We eagerly waited for the next one to play. We played cassettes back-to-back until the tape almost wore thin. Music channels were a revolution for us — Surya TV’s music slots, MTV, SS Music — I could watch them all day just for that one favourite song.

And in between all that channel surfing came B4U.

Oh. My. God.

It was class. Pure class. Hindi album songs, Hindi film songs — all in one place. I was glued. That was our window to a bigger world.

Somewhere in that era, I desperately dreamed of owning a Walkman. It never happened. I still remember borrowing a friend’s Walkman and using it like it was some sacred treasure. Heaven, truly.

Then came my MP3 player phase. During my Chennai days, that little device was my constant companion. And the FM stations in Chennai? They changed everything. I used to listen on buses, on suburban trains — everywhere. Yes, SS Music had already introduced me to Tamil songs, but FM… FM made me fall in love with them.

Kerala got good FM stations much later, so Chennai basically spoon-fed my early Tamil-music romance.

Now, as usual, I’ve taken you all around Kerala, Chennai, Walkmans, FMs, childhood TV nostalgia… and you may be wondering,

“What was she trying to say in the first place?”

Welcome to my blog. This is my signature style. I start with a small incident and end up giving you a full documentary.

Anyway — back to the point.

Recently, I was creating a few videos for a wedding presentation. You know the new trend — those cute surprise videos about the bride and groom that play on stage. We never had such things back in our time. If anything tempts me to get married again, it's these things: save-the-dates, theme weddings, cinematic reels… everything we missed!

So, I wanted some beautiful Malayalam songs as background music for the videos.

Bride’s songs? Easy. Super easy.

There are hundreds that praise women — their beauty, their charm, their smile, their grace… Malayalam cinema has done full PhD on that.

But then came the groom’s video.

And oh my God… what a struggle.

I asked so many people for suggestions. The songs they gave were lovely — but none matched the mood I wanted. I searched high, low, and sideways. I did a deep dive into Malayalam music… and came to a shocking discovery:

There are barely any Malayalam songs that praise the beauty of a man.

Shocking, right?

We have male lyricists, male directors, male protagonists, male fantasies… and still, no one thought of praising the man?

After hours of searching, I found only TWO songs that actually appreciate male beauty:

1. A song from Valiyettan

2. A song from Vadakkan Veeragatha

Both Mammootty movies, of course — no surprise there.

Everything else?

Either praising the heroine, heartbreak, love, loss, friendship, longing…

Songs praising 'him'? Just a handful.

My friends kept suggesting songs that mentioned a man, but none were truly about appreciating him the way we appreciate women in songs.

Strange, isn’t it?

Our industry is full of handsome, charismatic, larger-than-life male leads — but somehow nobody wrote songs to describe them that way.

But for girls?

Limitless. Endlessly limitless.

Decades worth of poetry, metaphors, comparisons — from flowers to rivers to moonlight to Goddesses.

Anyway, after much juggling, editing, and slicing out the “she” parts from some songs, I finally finished the groom’s video. Not perfect, but workable. The bride’s video? Lovely — if I do say so myself.

So, dear groom,

I tried.

Honestly.

If Malayalam cinema had more songs praising men, your video would have been a masterpiece. But I managed with some neutral songs.

Hope you’ll still like it.

If not… blame the lyricists.

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..........