💛 The Surprise I Never Expected (But Always Wanted)

You know those Instagram reels where people get surprised by their loved ones? The hugs, the tears, the slow-motion entries… I always watch them and think, “Wow… nice… but this never happens to me.”

Well… life decided to prove me wrong. 😄

Yesterday morning, I got a call from my bestie Shitha,  my forever person, my partner-in-crime from nursery days, through undergraduate life, and even now. She casually said, “I’m coming to Cochin in an URBANA vehicle with some people… we should meet.”

Some people? 👀

Naturally, I started my investigation. “Who all are coming?”

And she goes, “That’s a surprise.”

From that moment, my brain refused to stay calm. I kept guessing names, even directly asked if one of our common friends was coming. No reply. Suspicious silence. Very suspicious. 😄

But let me pause and say this. She’s not just a friend. She’s home. We’ve been together since nursery. We don’t talk every day now (life happened 😌), but we know we’re there for each other. No explanations needed. No judgments. Just pure, comfortable, lifelong connection. We’ve seen each other grow, fail, laugh, cry — and still stayed. That kind of bond? Rare.

So anyway, I came back from college around 4:30 and waited like a child waiting for a surprise gift. She finally called. I picked up… hesitated a bit (household duties calling 😅), but she insisted. And thankfully, I listened.

She asked me to come near Westside. I reached there… and from a distance, I saw a group sitting and chatting.

I started scanning faces…
Charls… Williams… Mimi… Shitha…

And then…

Annamma Miss. ❤️

Oh my God.

I didn’t walk,  I almost ran. I hugged her, kissed her… I was smiling like a child. Honestly, I felt like I had met my mother after years.

And maybe that’s why it felt so emotional. I won’t be able to meet my mom anymore… but in that moment, Annamma miss filled that space with so much love and warmth.

Just imagine — a professor who happily travels with our mad gang from her home to Cochin just to spend time with us. That is our Annamma miss. She is not like most professors. She is different — approachable, loving, and so real.

To me, she has been everything — a teacher, a colleague, a motherly figure, and a friend. You can talk to her about anything — your happiness, your pain, your random thoughts — and she will understand.

I had missed her so much. I had even planned to meet her last Christmas but couldn’t. Still, I think about her often. And meeting her after more than 10 years… it was just magical.

In fact, for the first few minutes, I didn’t even notice anyone else. I was completely lost in that moment with her.

Then slowly, we all started talking, laughing, catching up. Some went shopping, but Annamma miss and I just sat and talked… and talked… and talked.

We took photos, shared stories, and suddenly — we were back in our undergraduate days. Those carefree, fun-filled days!

And then came the best part —
Talking about old crushes, funny incidents, nicknames… oh my God! 🤣

At one point, Charls said,
“We all will never become mature… even at 50 or 60.”

And honestly? We proudly accepted it. 😄

We are proudly immature — still doing vaayil nokkal, still teasing each other endlessly,  still laughing at the silliest things. And the best part? Nobody gets hurt.

Because with friends, it’s different.

In family or workplaces, even small jokes can sometimes hurt. But here? It’s safe. It’s warm. It’s home.

That one hour felt like time travel.

A surprise I never expected… but always secretly wished for.

So thank you, my dear goottu, for this beautiful day. 💛

You didn’t just plan a meet-up — you gave me a memory I’ll hold on to for a long, long time.

And yes… maybe I’ll stop saying no one surprises me anymore. 😌✨

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 ❤️